He does register some things, quietly, a sense of them drifting to him on the casual ebb and flow, of water and air. In himself, in everything all around him, slowly losing cohesion. When his arguments why this shouldn't happen are getting thinner and thinner, from brick walls to tissue paper to a fine mist, fading further and further away.
Against Danny's fingers, still moving, still moving and somehow the only solid, foundational thing somewhere under the weight of his head, of everything, as it's thinning away. Danny's fingers and the roll of night, thick and warm, both of them seeming to say the same thing. It's okay. Just breathe. Just let go. Stop fighting. Stop trying. Stop holding on to whatever it was he'd been holding on to. Whatever those things were. They were important, so important. But they're somewhere right outside of his grasp.
To get them he'd have to let go, and his fingers don't want to let go. He doesn't want to let go.
He has to keep letting go of so much. So he isn't stuck, frozen, walled in, slowed down, stopped, no matter what slams him.
But he doesn't want to let go of this. Danny's skin under his fingers. Somewhere not far from his nose. Not his pillows. Danny, himself. Real. Warm. Sex and sweat, and something deeply calming that he won't bury his head into with the same abandon of restraint and control shown his pillow case. But he still shifts in, settling down, and down, and down.
Forehead against a cheek and nose brushing against the top of his shoulder, juncture of his neck, with a breath.
Feeling the whole world, the solidness of everything, even Danny's shoulder beneath him, fingers, slipping from him.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-16 05:51 pm (UTC)Against Danny's fingers, still moving, still moving and somehow the only solid, foundational thing somewhere under the weight of his head, of everything, as it's thinning away. Danny's fingers and the roll of night, thick and warm, both of them seeming to say the same thing. It's okay. Just breathe. Just let go. Stop fighting. Stop trying. Stop holding on to whatever it was he'd been holding on to. Whatever those things were. They were important, so important. But they're somewhere right outside of his grasp.
To get them he'd have to let go, and his fingers don't want to let go. He doesn't want to let go.
He has to keep letting go of so much. So he isn't stuck, frozen, walled in, slowed down, stopped, no matter what slams him.
But he doesn't want to let go of this. Danny's skin under his fingers. Somewhere not far from his nose. Not his pillows. Danny, himself. Real. Warm. Sex and sweat, and something deeply calming that he won't bury his head into with the same abandon of restraint and control shown his pillow case. But he still shifts in, settling down, and down, and down.
Forehead against a cheek and nose brushing against the top of his shoulder, juncture of his neck, with a breath.
Feeling the whole world, the solidness of everything, even Danny's shoulder beneath him, fingers, slipping from him.