There's a long space of silence when Steve isn't sure what's louder when he thinks he might have just said too much, said absolutely the wrong thing. When he can't tell if the beating of his own heart, trying to escape his chest like he'd just run a mile, or Danny's, thundering against his fingers tips curled under his jaw, half against his throat, is louder, or faster.
When he's too close not to see the shock, surprise, scrabble for denial or understanding or something.
Something he can't name before Danny's fingers are digging into him. Gripping his shirt, with the same fierceness suddenly as when he first grabbed Steve. But with something different. Desperation and fear, God, they're still in this room, but that isn't it, is it? When thy can't let go. When Danny's voice finally comes wind, thin, like it's beaten to a pulp, might crack under any more weight than it has.
And then Danny, with his million words, seems to lose them. A handful of them scattering out, stacked against each other, all pointing to him, to something about him, and Steve has to smile. Even if it's a little twisted. Pleased, but shatter-able. Right here at the cusp of admitting anything is good is still left in his life, like saying it is begging for life to round house kick his head, to leave him with dirt, blood, bits of teeth and spotted vision.
But he can't not appreciate this. Danny, with all the words to throw at those girls, to bomb Steve with, is sputtering them now. A boat motor trying. but unable to start. A hand finding his wrist, so there are fingertips against the more delicate, vulnerable inside of his wrist, where is pulse is running away with itself the way Danny's face, inability to make words, fingers just brushing him, are running away with Steve.
Making it easier to stop him, for a second, not forever. Even half torn between the impulse to pull back, pull away, anything good, nice, real obvious bound for shattering, he still feels the other side, wanting to drag him even closer. Feel every inch of him, again. Until he could blot out that he has any fears. Like the nightmares and snapping awake, that faded until the only times he might wake up for a second was the odd passing noise or when Danny snuffled and curled up into him in the dark, in his sleep.
It's so easy, too easy, which part of what makes it seems so easy to break, when he just tips his head to stop these words of Danny's he can't seem to. Stop, or make into sentences. About Steve, who know's he can be hell on people, especially Danny. That he's impossible to understand at times. Just look at tonight. He loved tonight. Every second of Danny's irate jealousy better than the beer or any passing flirtation. When he can't even admit it won't be like that every time.
But he can kiss him now. And stop the storm of words that are refusing to make even for Danny.
Slow and specific, without moving his hands, or trying to burn him down. Just with all of...this. Everywhere.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-04 12:38 pm (UTC)When he's too close not to see the shock, surprise, scrabble for denial or understanding or something.
Something he can't name before Danny's fingers are digging into him. Gripping his shirt, with the same fierceness suddenly as when he first grabbed Steve. But with something different. Desperation and fear, God, they're still in this room, but that isn't it, is it? When thy can't let go. When Danny's voice finally comes wind, thin, like it's beaten to a pulp, might crack under any more weight than it has.
And then Danny, with his million words, seems to lose them. A handful of them scattering out, stacked against each other, all pointing to him, to something about him, and Steve has to smile. Even if it's a little twisted. Pleased, but shatter-able. Right here at the cusp of admitting anything is good is still left in his life, like saying it is begging for life to round house kick his head, to leave him with dirt, blood, bits of teeth and spotted vision.
But he can't not appreciate this. Danny, with all the words to throw at those girls, to bomb Steve with, is sputtering them now. A boat motor trying. but unable to start. A hand finding his wrist, so there are fingertips against the more delicate, vulnerable inside of his wrist, where is pulse is running away with itself the way Danny's face, inability to make words, fingers just brushing him, are running away with Steve.
Making it easier to stop him, for a second, not forever. Even half torn between the impulse to pull back, pull away, anything good, nice, real obvious bound for shattering, he still feels the other side, wanting to drag him even closer. Feel every inch of him, again. Until he could blot out that he has any fears. Like the nightmares and snapping awake, that faded until the only times he might wake up for a second was the odd passing noise or when Danny snuffled and curled up into him in the dark, in his sleep.
It's so easy, too easy, which part of what makes it seems so easy to break, when he just tips his head to stop these words of Danny's he can't seem to. Stop, or make into sentences. About Steve, who know's he can be hell on people, especially Danny. That he's impossible to understand at times. Just look at tonight. He loved tonight. Every second of Danny's irate jealousy better than the beer or any passing flirtation. When he can't even admit it won't be like that every time.
But he can kiss him now. And stop the storm of words that are refusing to make even for Danny.
Slow and specific, without moving his hands, or trying to burn him down. Just with all of...this. Everywhere.