Danny's mouth keeps moving, while nothing happens, and for one far too long second he thinks he might have broken Danny. Finally, truly, let on too much. That somehow it was fine to let on that he wanted Danny's hands on him, but that it wasn't to have accidentally spilled that he always had. Or at least nearly. So nearly when looking back that it's only a sliver of their partnership and friendship that hadn't had it somewhere in there, even buried down under the floorboards.
Then the words start rolling out and Steve doesn't know what to make of them really. Steve can't tell what he wants. No, he can. He wants to go back to kissing Danny, and not being able to think, because he wouldn't have to be thinking about whether he wants Danny to be able to talk or talk, to be talking or not.
"We could be now--" Steve stresses, trying to make it a joke, even if his voice isn't entirely playing along. "--if you weren't so busy talking about."
Danny was bound to, though, wasn't he? Have to talk. It's not even a surprise. Even when Steve fought the urge to just smother his mouth and drown him out. Put him back against the door and keep kissing him until those hands moved somewhere else and his brain just shut up. Sometimes you lived when you weren't supposed to, when there was no way out and you couldn't even explain to yourself how it worked. This was like that.
"Besides, you were busy then, too." Is a lie. A bad excuse. Even at honest, and real. Actual. He had been. There'd been other people. Rachel, at one point. Then, Gabby. Then, Amber. "And this, this--" A headroll, tilt, circle, to all of this. Them. The Door. Him. Decidely not large, solid, and definitely not female. "This was not something you were looking for."
Steve says it sharp and certain, but something in his eyes isn't anymore. It's even more unmoored. It's bobbing out there in the dark waves. Slipping through Danny's fingers with trying make sure you never had to know the whole time. When there might be worse things than not knowing. When maybe shutting Danny's head up wouldn't be the only reason to going back to melting his own out from between his ears.
Because didn't. He hadn't. Steve had watched Danny closer than anyone over these last few years. Danny didn't linger after any man they way he could get tripped up, tongue-tied, lean and look for even a second about a pretty girl. Lithe, limber, bright eyed and dark haired for the most. He'd never looked at anyone like Steve. Any man. Except he had looked at Steve.
Except Steve hadn't noticed entirely somehow. Something this big. Right under his nose. Hiding. Being avoided. (Again.)
Which just kicks a foot made of ice into his stomach as the thought spins out. If he didn't know about himself, about Danny having any interest in men. . . are there others, then? More than Rachel, and Gabby, and Amber. The occasional bartender or waitress flirted with before Steve drug him away. Were there others, he'd never known about, never seen, been kept from seeing? It lodges in his center, that iceberg, that always makes him want to cut off fingers and snap out bones, suddenly picturing him with them.
Maybe part of the newer, looser Danny that had come about even into sleeping with Amber before Grace met her.
It slides into the heat freezing it in his veins. The idea of it. Phantom hands, kisses, even --
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Danny's mouth keeps moving, while nothing happens, and for one far too long second he thinks he might have broken Danny. Finally, truly, let on too much. That somehow it was fine to let on that he wanted Danny's hands on him, but that it wasn't to have accidentally spilled that he always had. Or at least nearly. So nearly when looking back that it's only a sliver of their partnership and friendship that hadn't had it somewhere in there, even buried down under the floorboards.
Then the words start rolling out and Steve doesn't know what to make of them really. Steve can't tell what he wants. No, he can. He wants to go back to kissing Danny, and not being able to think, because he wouldn't have to be thinking about whether he wants Danny to be able to talk or talk, to be talking or not.
"We could be now--" Steve stresses, trying to make it a joke, even if his voice isn't entirely playing along. "--if you weren't so busy talking about."
Danny was bound to, though, wasn't he? Have to talk. It's not even a surprise. Even when Steve fought the urge to just smother his mouth and drown him out. Put him back against the door and keep kissing him until those hands moved somewhere else and his brain just shut up. Sometimes you lived when you weren't supposed to, when there was no way out and you couldn't even explain to yourself how it worked. This was like that.
"Besides, you were busy then, too." Is a lie. A bad excuse. Even at honest, and real. Actual. He had been. There'd been other people. Rachel, at one point. Then, Gabby. Then, Amber. "And this, this--" A headroll, tilt, circle, to all of this. Them. The Door. Him. Decidely not large, solid, and definitely not female. "This was not something you were looking for."
Steve says it sharp and certain, but something in his eyes isn't anymore. It's even more unmoored. It's bobbing out there in the dark waves. Slipping through Danny's fingers with trying make sure you never had to know the whole time. When there might be worse things than not knowing. When maybe shutting Danny's head up wouldn't be the only reason to going back to melting his own out from between his ears.
Because didn't. He hadn't. Steve had watched Danny closer than anyone over these last few years. Danny didn't linger after any man they way he could get tripped up, tongue-tied, lean and look for even a second about a pretty girl. Lithe, limber, bright eyed and dark haired for the most. He'd never looked at anyone like Steve. Any man. Except he had looked at Steve.
Except Steve hadn't noticed entirely somehow. Something this big. Right under his nose. Hiding. Being avoided. (Again.)
Which just kicks a foot made of ice into his stomach as the thought spins out. If he didn't know about himself, about Danny having any interest in men. . . are there others, then? More than Rachel, and Gabby, and Amber. The occasional bartender or waitress flirted with before Steve drug him away. Were there others, he'd never known about, never seen, been kept from seeing? It lodges in his center, that iceberg, that always makes him want to cut off fingers and snap out bones, suddenly picturing him with them.
Maybe part of the newer, looser Danny that had come about even into sleeping with Amber before Grace met her.
It slides into the heat freezing it in his veins. The idea of it. Phantom hands, kisses, even --