So there it is, dropped in the air between them, while Steve waits to see if Danny will bat it back, or let it drop like a hot potato.
And it will. Burn his fingers, singe the inner lining of his lungs with how true it can't be, how he'll have to deny with every breath after this the reality of it, words in his mouth, images burning onto flimsy photo paper in his head that curl in on themselves in flames. Lit on the way Steve's watching him, eyes dark and that smile playing around his mouth, like he knows he's given Danny an impossible dare, even if he doesn't know why. Filling his head with white noise, and steam. Warmth creeping up along the collar of his cool white shirt.
Except he doesn't get a chance to say anything, because the other guy manages to finally bluster his way into the conversation that he hasn't been a part of since Danny came over. It's probably for the best, because Danny's pretty sure that whatever was about to come out of his mouth, already half-open to respond, wasn't going to be anything like pretend.
Fortunately, Cialis Spokesman over there provides both the perfect distraction and the perfect punching bag on which to work out the frustration of everything he can't say, do, want. "Wrong," he says, leaning one elbow onto the bar and addressing the guy directly, head-on for the first time since he came over here, "You were busy. And, hey. The thing is, you're mistaking me for someone who has manners. I've got no reason at all to care about your rules, and, you know what? Neither does he. Hey."
Directed back to Steve, batting the back of his hand against Steve's shoulder, and tilting his head as if to say c'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand. "How about it, hotshot? You like manners? C'mon."
The last word lower, in register and volume, coaxing and intimate. The hand that had just smacked Steve's shoulder -- and that's usual, he does that all the time, it's familiar, and comfortable -- pauses, and then crooks the index finger, runs it down Steve's arm, while Danny's eyes follow it.
Mind churning a thousand rotations a second, in panic, at this touch, that's nothing like all the millions he's smacked at, pushed at, grabbed at Steve over the years.
Clutching in his chest, like teenage nerves. Cracking him open to that wide, wide wash of longing that he can normally shove down, bury with work and duty and every reminder of Catherine he could ever force on himself.
Until he reaches the edge of Steve's sleeve, and reaches to crook that same finger into the belt loop just below, which requires slipping up under the edge of his jacket, like he's allowed.
Like Steve won't mind. (He hopes Steve doesn't mind. It wouldn't be great for the cover if he got punched right now.)
Eyes finally coming back up to meet Steve's, eyebrows lifting in challenge. "You gonna make me ask you to prom?"
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-03 11:44 pm (UTC)So there it is, dropped in the air between them, while Steve waits to see if Danny will bat it back, or let it drop like a hot potato.
And it will. Burn his fingers, singe the inner lining of his lungs with how true it can't be, how he'll have to deny with every breath after this the reality of it, words in his mouth, images burning onto flimsy photo paper in his head that curl in on themselves in flames. Lit on the way Steve's watching him, eyes dark and that smile playing around his mouth, like he knows he's given Danny an impossible dare, even if he doesn't know why. Filling his head with white noise, and steam. Warmth creeping up along the collar of his cool white shirt.
Except he doesn't get a chance to say anything, because the other guy manages to finally bluster his way into the conversation that he hasn't been a part of since Danny came over. It's probably for the best, because Danny's pretty sure that whatever was about to come out of his mouth, already half-open to respond, wasn't going to be anything like pretend.
Fortunately, Cialis Spokesman over there provides both the perfect distraction and the perfect punching bag on which to work out the frustration of everything he can't say, do, want. "Wrong," he says, leaning one elbow onto the bar and addressing the guy directly, head-on for the first time since he came over here, "You were busy. And, hey. The thing is, you're mistaking me for someone who has manners. I've got no reason at all to care about your rules, and, you know what? Neither does he. Hey."
Directed back to Steve, batting the back of his hand against Steve's shoulder, and tilting his head as if to say c'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand. "How about it, hotshot? You like manners? C'mon."
The last word lower, in register and volume, coaxing and intimate. The hand that had just smacked Steve's shoulder -- and that's usual, he does that all the time, it's familiar, and comfortable -- pauses, and then crooks the index finger, runs it down Steve's arm, while Danny's eyes follow it.
Mind churning a thousand rotations a second, in panic, at this touch, that's nothing like all the millions he's smacked at, pushed at, grabbed at Steve over the years.
Clutching in his chest, like teenage nerves. Cracking him open to that wide, wide wash of longing that he can normally shove down, bury with work and duty and every reminder of Catherine he could ever force on himself.
Until he reaches the edge of Steve's sleeve, and reaches to crook that same finger into the belt loop just below, which requires slipping up under the edge of his jacket, like he's allowed.
Like Steve won't mind. (He hopes Steve doesn't mind. It wouldn't be great for the cover if he got punched right now.)
Eyes finally coming back up to meet Steve's, eyebrows lifting in challenge. "You gonna make me ask you to prom?"