It's like deciding to put his mouth against a cast iron pan, left over the stove, or a night fire out in the middle of nowhere, for hours. Every part of his skin touching it wants to peel, while he tried to breathe somehow without breathing, shove that sound down, away, like he doesn't. Isn't. This isn't. What it is.
Or isn't.
Because Danny is frozen suddenly. Rigid through an actual, physical, flinch. Shock slamming into him like Steve punched him instead. Before there's suddenly a hand on his wrist smashed between them, and then another is grasping his coat. Balled and cinched. Hard like Danny was falling and had no other way to hang on. It's not. Except. It. Except Danny has been by that coat, just as much. The fabric is straining against Danny's grip. The way he'd suddenly jerked Steve closer.
When there isn't a closer to go to. Steve having to slap one of his own hands on the door, not far from where it had been earlier. But this time it isn't a show. It isn't even a thought. He just doesn't want it between. Doesn't want anything between. When the the hell had this gotten between them. It rises only to rush away with every other thought in his head. Because Danny is touching him. Even if it is barely.
Which, of course, is when Danny lets go and shoves at him. In the opposite direction. Away. Away. Off of him.
Bubbles of something, that can't be air or sanity, popping at the top of the soup that sloshes everywhere inside his head, his veins, his skin. That Danny didn't ask for that. Which might have stayed if Danny actually kept pushing him away. If Danny wasn't out of breath, staring at him wide eyed in the slightly dark of Steve's own shadow. Words coming rapid fire, and hectic, like Danny had no hold on them. No control over them. The emphasis or the pitch.
But the words aren't what has Steve. What has Steve is the way Danny's hand is still clenched around his wrist. The red slip of his thoughts from the constriction, the ache of bones crushed close, what it means he should do that he kicks away without a look. Because Danny would never hurt him. Isn't. Not even now. Not even when his wrist is throbbing, bones complaining, Danny's fingers trembling with the force of all of his weight and strength there. Holding on like if he let go, the whole world would upend. Somehow making something pop again in Steve's head.
Scattershot, too fast for even words, thoughts. He wants to laugh, smile, but he only just realizes to take a breath.
He doesn't know when he did last. How many minutes it's been. Because it seems to hit like helium. Straight to his head, straight to his blood. Danny against him, below him, holding on to him. Danny whose hands aren't on him. Steve is blurry on where they are. Smashing into the words not able to keep my fucking hands off you, when what falls out of his own mouth is, "That isn't how you kissed me earlier."
When he kissed Steve for show. When he kissed Steve like he wanted the whole room to know he owned Steve, without the words. The lie. The black and white fool proof cover. Kissed him like he wanted everyone in that back room to know Steve to fuck him right there on the wall. Except it was a lie. It was a cover. Not a real kill but still a kiss good enough to get someone killing. But. He. There's too much. It's explodes everywhere.
Colliding with the images, merged, blended, scratched up and too bright again I wanted. All of it.
He wanted to. To have been. That they were. Hands. Mouths. Hot breath and inability to.
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It's like deciding to put his mouth against a cast iron pan, left over the stove, or a night fire out in the middle of nowhere, for hours. Every part of his skin touching it wants to peel, while he tried to breathe somehow without breathing, shove that sound down, away, like he doesn't. Isn't. This isn't. What it is.
Or isn't.
Because Danny is frozen suddenly. Rigid through an actual, physical, flinch. Shock slamming into him like Steve punched him instead. Before there's suddenly a hand on his wrist smashed between them, and then another is grasping his coat. Balled and cinched. Hard like Danny was falling and had no other way to hang on. It's not. Except. It. Except Danny has been by that coat, just as much. The fabric is straining against Danny's grip. The way he'd suddenly jerked Steve closer.
When there isn't a closer to go to. Steve having to slap one of his own hands on the door, not far from where it had been earlier. But this time it isn't a show. It isn't even a thought. He just doesn't want it between. Doesn't want anything between. When the the hell had this gotten between them. It rises only to rush away with every other thought in his head. Because Danny is touching him. Even if it is barely.
Which, of course, is when Danny lets go and shoves at him. In the opposite direction. Away. Away. Off of him.
Bubbles of something, that can't be air or sanity, popping at the top of the soup that sloshes everywhere inside his head, his veins, his skin. That Danny didn't ask for that. Which might have stayed if Danny actually kept pushing him away. If Danny wasn't out of breath, staring at him wide eyed in the slightly dark of Steve's own shadow. Words coming rapid fire, and hectic, like Danny had no hold on them. No control over them. The emphasis or the pitch.
But the words aren't what has Steve. What has Steve is the way Danny's hand is still clenched around his wrist. The red slip of his thoughts from the constriction, the ache of bones crushed close, what it means he should do that he kicks away without a look. Because Danny would never hurt him. Isn't. Not even now. Not even when his wrist is throbbing, bones complaining, Danny's fingers trembling with the force of all of his weight and strength there. Holding on like if he let go, the whole world would upend. Somehow making something pop again in Steve's head.
Scattershot, too fast for even words, thoughts. He wants to laugh, smile, but he only just realizes to take a breath.
He doesn't know when he did last. How many minutes it's been. Because it seems to hit like helium. Straight to his head, straight to his blood. Danny against him, below him, holding on to him. Danny whose hands aren't on him. Steve is blurry on where they are. Smashing into the words not able to keep my fucking hands off you, when what falls out of his own mouth is, "That isn't how you kissed me earlier."
When he kissed Steve for show. When he kissed Steve like he wanted the whole room to know he owned Steve, without the words. The lie. The black and white fool proof cover. Kissed him like he wanted everyone in that back room to know Steve to fuck him right there on the wall. Except it was a lie. It was a cover. Not a real kill but still a kiss good enough to get someone killing. But. He. There's too much. It's explodes everywhere.
Colliding with the images, merged, blended, scratched up and too bright again I wanted. All of it.
He wanted to. To have been. That they were. Hands. Mouths. Hot breath and inability to.