And it only seems to go crashing through every wall and window, dragging all of his humor and joking with it. Lodging at his center. Detonating on impact. Shoving everything that is anything, is everything, else, out. Like a bomb leveling a house. When he can push for it, and he can joke about it, and he can pull it from tantrums that would stand out like sore thumbs to anyone who knew. But nobody knows.
Making Steve hold steady for half a second, maybe a second, before lifting. Pulling back, without dislodging the fingers rethreaded in his hair. Not thinking about them. Not thinking at all about the other words. Or even the slow, heavy-lidded way Danny has to come to moe attention. When Steve doesn't pull away, far. Not away really at all, so much as only back up.
When he's staring at Danny's face, the span of his hand sliding down to Danny's jaw, thumb and the flat of his palm finding skin, chasing what feels like an endless chain of explosions detonating one after another, slamming thought those walls and windows, like it's everything less than smoke and mirrors. When Danny sounds so certain. Raw and real, even against breathing a little hard.
Not kidding. Not just another thing tossed between them, making it go higher and higher. Not words dragged out of the breaking shards of every edge of enjoyment or someone's newest attempted destruction. Not just yelling and shoving in. Not something he cobbled together, or was forced to come up with on the spot. When he knows, somehow, somewhere, he knows.
Even if it's a little. Especially tonight. When proofs are laid out like debris around the places they've been. But it's not. When everything goes so silent, and so lacking in any silence, and the only thing he can do is question it against the ache.
no subject
It's only three letters long.
And it only seems to go crashing through every wall and window, dragging all of his humor and joking with it. Lodging at his center. Detonating on impact. Shoving everything that is anything, is everything, else, out. Like a bomb leveling a house. When he can push for it, and he can joke about it, and he can pull it from tantrums that would stand out like sore thumbs to anyone who knew. But nobody knows.
Making Steve hold steady for half a second, maybe a second, before lifting. Pulling back, without dislodging the fingers rethreaded in his hair. Not thinking about them. Not thinking at all about the other words. Or even the slow, heavy-lidded way Danny has to come to moe attention. When Steve doesn't pull away, far. Not away really at all, so much as only back up.
When he's staring at Danny's face, the span of his hand sliding down to Danny's jaw, thumb and the flat of his palm finding skin, chasing what feels like an endless chain of explosions detonating one after another, slamming thought those walls and windows, like it's everything less than smoke and mirrors. When Danny sounds so certain. Raw and real, even against breathing a little hard.
Not kidding. Not just another thing tossed between them, making it go higher and higher. Not words dragged out of the breaking shards of every edge of enjoyment or someone's newest attempted destruction. Not just yelling and shoving in. Not something he cobbled together, or was forced to come up with on the spot. When he knows, somehow, somewhere, he knows.
Even if it's a little. Especially tonight. When proofs are laid out like debris around the places they've been. But it's not.
When everything goes so silent, and so lacking in any silence, and the only thing he can do is question it against the ache.