It is seriously like being washed away. The panicking power of a riptide, looped around an ankle and dragging him out to sea, and he doesn't care, because it's Steve and he trusts Steve with his life even if he doesn't trust the girls around him as far as he can throw them. Because Steve is still here, came back with him, didn't stay, didn't even want to stay, or think twice about it. Let Danny get angry and jealous and isn't fighting with him about it, saying he's got no right, that they never defined this, that he can't, shouldn't.
And maybe they should. Lancing into his stomach and sliding up under his heart, cold panic scaling the rungs of his ribs, but maybe they should, because panic is better than the over-whelming horror of losing any of this. Losing Steve. His back, muscles flexing under Danny's hand, skin still surprisingly soft when he runs the tip of his thumb along the waistline of those cargo pants, where the shirt is rucked up into folds. The clash of this, the force of it, nothing like before and still the only thing he wants now that he's had it, now that he knows it exists.
Lighting like a bonfire under his skin, too fierce to be happiness, that he doesn't have to give up yet, that this is still his, still happening, still a miracle he can question and question but which hasn't disappeared yet. He wants to chase kisses all over Steve's skin, find every detail of his tattoos, shove him into a wall, the couch, the bed, and burn out any idea that anyone else might be taking his spot any time soon.
This stupid, fluttering, fragile as glass thing, threatening to shatter and ruin him, that beats harder when Steve is nearby, leaping into life from where it had been tipping at the edge, earlier, that Danny can't protect any more than he can stop a bullet. Not from this.
Hauling himself back from the brink long enough to keep from splitting a lip, chipping a tooth, turning this into an actual fight, because he doesn't want to argue it, okay. He just wants to know. That this is what Steve wants. Unable to ignore the madcap sparkler cartwheeling across the inside of his skull that it is.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2012-12-02 06:55 pm (UTC)And maybe they should. Lancing into his stomach and sliding up under his heart, cold panic scaling the rungs of his ribs, but maybe they should, because panic is better than the over-whelming horror of losing any of this. Losing Steve. His back, muscles flexing under Danny's hand, skin still surprisingly soft when he runs the tip of his thumb along the waistline of those cargo pants, where the shirt is rucked up into folds. The clash of this, the force of it, nothing like before and still the only thing he wants now that he's had it, now that he knows it exists.
Lighting like a bonfire under his skin, too fierce to be happiness, that he doesn't have to give up yet, that this is still his, still happening, still a miracle he can question and question but which hasn't disappeared yet. He wants to chase kisses all over Steve's skin, find every detail of his tattoos, shove him into a wall, the couch, the bed, and burn out any idea that anyone else might be taking his spot any time soon.
This stupid, fluttering, fragile as glass thing, threatening to shatter and ruin him, that beats harder when Steve is nearby, leaping into life from where it had been tipping at the edge, earlier, that Danny can't protect any more than he can stop a bullet. Not from this.
Hauling himself back from the brink long enough to keep from splitting a lip, chipping a tooth, turning this into an actual fight, because he doesn't want to argue it, okay. He just wants to know. That this is what Steve wants. Unable to ignore the madcap sparkler cartwheeling across the inside of his skull that it is.