Christ. He hates his body sometimes, the way it betrays him when he least wants it to, because here it is, sending a shiver down his shoulder, muscles tensing, at the brush or warm breath and lips against the sensitive shell of his ear, and those words. Those words, in that voice, that could undo him completely, he's sure of it, knows it like he knows the kick of his gun and the acceleration of the Camaro.
"You are incorrect," he says, anyway, but it's too late, that shiver gives him away as clearly as any agreement, and he hates it, but it's true.
Not wanting lines. That's not it. But wanting to be the one they're aimed at. Wanting Steve's attention, selfish of it, jealous of it, craving it. Wanting, what. Something normal? The ability to go to a bar with the person he's seeing, and not have to pretend like they aren't, in some way, together?
But are they?
Seeing someone is as close as he's ever edged towards anything like that, and he's not sure Steve even heard at the time, and it hasn't come up again, so he's had the better part of a month to get the panic out of his system every time he thinks about using those words. Having no idea how long they might be true. He could be in Vegas this time next year, if he loses this case, and even if he's not, how long can he realistically expect this to last? Even if neither of them has been showing any signs of wanting to pull away, cut it all off, end things where they are.
But he's getting confused between what's normal and what's them, whether there's a line at all, whether it is just blurred past recognition or is still there, drawn between what they were before and what they are now.
"Quit lying to yourself, it's pathetic."
Lacking needles or claws. Made a lie by the way his head tips to expose more skin, pushing his forehead close to Steve's shoulder, close enough to breathe in, smell him, bizarrely calming after the assault on the senses of being in a bar, even with dim lighting.
no subject
"You are incorrect," he says, anyway, but it's too late, that shiver gives him away as clearly as any agreement, and he hates it, but it's true.
Not wanting lines. That's not it. But wanting to be the one they're aimed at. Wanting Steve's attention, selfish of it, jealous of it, craving it. Wanting, what. Something normal? The ability to go to a bar with the person he's seeing, and not have to pretend like they aren't, in some way, together?
But are they?
Seeing someone is as close as he's ever edged towards anything like that, and he's not sure Steve even heard at the time, and it hasn't come up again, so he's had the better part of a month to get the panic out of his system every time he thinks about using those words. Having no idea how long they might be true. He could be in Vegas this time next year, if he loses this case, and even if he's not, how long can he realistically expect this to last? Even if neither of them has been showing any signs of wanting to pull away, cut it all off, end things where they are.
But he's getting confused between what's normal and what's them, whether there's a line at all, whether it is just blurred past recognition or is still there, drawn between what they were before and what they are now.
"Quit lying to yourself, it's pathetic."
Lacking needles or claws. Made a lie by the way his head tips to expose more skin, pushing his forehead close to Steve's shoulder, close enough to breathe in, smell him, bizarrely calming after the assault on the senses of being in a bar, even with dim lighting.