He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's there.
The way he knows how many millimeters to shift his aim hundreds of feet out.
Danny's fingers press in more. Harder. Tighter. Something in him snapping, mercilessly, at his heels or his hands.
When he isn't stopping Steve. Pushes out, against Steve, only for a stab of confused fear to spike in Steve's chest, before Danny pulls him back in. Hands on his jacket, pulling and pushing at his lapels, scrabbling too far from him even now. When at least a good starting portion of Danny is laid out entirely beneath his hands, and he is suddenly beyond sure he needs Danny's hands on him. Not the lapels, jacket, shirt.
Wishes with a momentarily feverish annoyance, that might even brushing into this kiss, that it won't just burn off his limbs and be gone. Not even a scorch on the floor. Lit on fire and gone into the wind, ashes fallen apart entirely between them. But he's not twenty and he knows they have to go. Can go. He can handle another crazy fast minute of divesting more clothes. Dragging his hands off Danny reluctant in his head if not showing in his touch.
Just lifting his hands and pulling at the button on his jacket, and then the ones under it on his shirt. Not caring what condition his goes down in, if it will just get out of his way. Get his hands back on Danny and Danny's back on him -- no, not back, actually there, for once, for the first time, like this. Steve's head washing in and out. Like blinking lights in his vision. The kind that smack of concussion and blood loss. It's not. But it feels like it. Everything sideways, spotty, snapping, crackling, popping in his veins hungry and demanding. He was nearly going to ask Danny something a second ago.
Or was it a minute. Or five. He can't tell anymore. Time is as broken as thinking. Danny is here.
Hands on him. Letting Steve push him around. Undress him. Kiss him. It's amazing Steve can still think at all.
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He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's there.
The way he knows how many millimeters to shift his aim hundreds of feet out.
Danny's fingers press in more. Harder. Tighter. Something in him snapping, mercilessly, at his heels or his hands.
When he isn't stopping Steve. Pushes out, against Steve, only for a stab of confused fear to spike in Steve's chest, before Danny pulls him back in. Hands on his jacket, pulling and pushing at his lapels, scrabbling too far from him even now. When at least a good starting portion of Danny is laid out entirely beneath his hands, and he is suddenly beyond sure he needs Danny's hands on him. Not the lapels, jacket, shirt.
Wishes with a momentarily feverish annoyance, that might even brushing into this kiss, that it won't just burn off his limbs and be gone. Not even a scorch on the floor. Lit on fire and gone into the wind, ashes fallen apart entirely between them. But he's not twenty and he knows they have to go. Can go. He can handle another crazy fast minute of divesting more clothes. Dragging his hands off Danny reluctant in his head if not showing in his touch.
Just lifting his hands and pulling at the button on his jacket, and then the ones under it on his shirt. Not caring what condition his goes down in, if it will just get out of his way. Get his hands back on Danny and Danny's back on him -- no, not back, actually there, for once, for the first time, like this. Steve's head washing in and out. Like blinking lights in his vision. The kind that smack of concussion and blood loss. It's not. But it feels like it. Everything sideways, spotty, snapping, crackling, popping in his veins hungry and demanding. He was nearly going to ask Danny something a second ago.
Or was it a minute. Or five. He can't tell anymore. Time is as broken as thinking. Danny is here.
Hands on him. Letting Steve push him around. Undress him. Kiss him. It's amazing Steve can still think at all.