Steve couldn't honestly say one way or another what it really is. The strangled, wanting noise that claws its way out so close to his ears, stabbing into his stomach and his heart at once. The sudden grip of his hands, almost like an undeniable command as much as the sudden desperate attempt to hold on, as Danny goes. Shaking under him. His fingers suddenly warm and wet.
Who knows which it really is, where or when. Maybe it's all of them. Danny's voice, and Danny's hands, and Danny going. Dragging him down under with him. The way Danny does everything else. Dragging him along, on an invisible cord he could no more cut than want to. God. He'd follow him straight through the jaws of hell if needed.
Which isn't where he's headed. When he's losing in against the not quite death grip, desperate on his skin, demanding his everything. Not coaxing him off, but shoving him straight through plate glass and the seven walls of bricks that feel like he successively slams through and feels fall, all of them, on his head, at once. When his body slips from him entirely, slamming over and over.
Against fingers, against Danny's thigh so close to him like this. Skin so feverishly warm, it's almost all he can feel, aside from the fact somehow his fingers have moved, found the side of Danny's body, trying, trying beyond the ability to remember when or how, he'd gotten a hand off, sensitive skin. Before he needed it. His fingers, gripping into something, like ship capsizing under.
The blankets being inches too far, when he finds a shoulder. Danny's hair. When it's silent, but so completely. Shaking his body with such violent precision, shattering all of everything, shifting the bed a little against the floor. Taking from him the wind and the waves, Danny's shaking breath and the feel of the blanket as much as Danny, with an obliterating tumble toward whiteness.
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Who knows which it really is, where or when. Maybe it's all of them. Danny's voice, and Danny's hands, and Danny going. Dragging him down under with him. The way Danny does everything else. Dragging him along, on an invisible cord he could no more cut than want to. God. He'd follow him straight through the jaws of hell if needed.
Which isn't where he's headed. When he's losing in against the not quite death grip, desperate on his skin, demanding his everything. Not coaxing him off, but shoving him straight through plate glass and the seven walls of bricks that feel like he successively slams through and feels fall, all of them, on his head, at once. When his body slips from him entirely, slamming over and over.
Against fingers, against Danny's thigh so close to him like this. Skin so feverishly warm, it's almost all he can feel, aside from the fact somehow his fingers have moved, found the side of Danny's body, trying, trying beyond the ability to remember when or how, he'd gotten a hand off, sensitive skin. Before he needed it. His fingers, gripping into something, like ship capsizing under.
The blankets being inches too far, when he finds a shoulder. Danny's hair. When it's silent, but so completely. Shaking his body with such violent precision, shattering all of everything, shifting the bed a little against the floor. Taking from him the wind and the waves, Danny's shaking breath and the feel of the blanket as much as Danny, with an obliterating tumble toward whiteness.