It doesn't take long for Steve to cotton on, and start helping with his own buttons, which is maybe the only reason Danny would allow Steve to stop touching him, even if it means their fingers are bumping together when he goes for the same buttons Steve is, and he's laughing, breathless and stupid. "Seriously, you lose your shirt at the drop of a hat -- at work, in public -- weekly, sometimes daily, how, how is it not gone already, how is this taking so long, have you forgotten how to get rid of shirts with buttons, is that it?"
It's dumb. He knows it. Staying here at the front door, and stripping each other down like they're college kids on spring break, giddy on a one-night stand, but he doesn't want to stop. Doesn't want reality to assert itself. Reality is the world where this isn't even possible, let alone happening. Reality isn't anything he wants, right now, when the reality of this night involved too many reminders of how many people want Steve.
How they wanted to be here, where he is, doing what he's doing. Reaching the end of Steve's shirt buttons, tugging the fabric out of his pants, pushing it at his shoulders, like the whole get-up is personally insulting to him. Like he's allowed. Wanted.
Because it turns out he is allowed, wanted. Steve wants him to get rid of his clothes. Steve wants Danny's hands all over him. Wants to kiss him. Push him into the door. Get him naked.
Steve, who loves him. And says so, more often than Danny's ever heard him say so to anyone. Who Danny believes, and trusts, like he believes and trusts maybe no one else in the world. Steve doesn't lie to him any more than Danny lies to Steve, not about anything big. Even if it turns out they'd both been lying about this. One of the biggest.
Who is now shucking his shirt and jacket off, because he's a goddamn Boy Scout at heart, always prepared and always ready, and Danny's barely gotten to work at the buttons or free them all before his hands are chasing over bare, soft skin. Sun-gold and warm, like Steve just came in from the beach, or out of a hot shower. Velvety over hard, dense muscle. Every inch that Steve's showcased, uncaringly, over the years, that Danny has seen a million times, but never been allowed to touch like this.
He's so beautiful it's unfair. Impaling Danny on it. Making it hard to breathe for entirely different reasons than just because Steve's mouth is in the way. "Christ, Steve --"
Low and burned-out and disbelieving, while his hands can't figure out where to go, where to settle, how to learn this sudden new world to map. "Do you have any idea, the first clue, what you do to me?"
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-28 04:38 am (UTC)"How --"
It doesn't take long for Steve to cotton on, and start helping with his own buttons, which is maybe the only reason Danny would allow Steve to stop touching him, even if it means their fingers are bumping together when he goes for the same buttons Steve is, and he's laughing, breathless and stupid. "Seriously, you lose your shirt at the drop of a hat -- at work, in public -- weekly, sometimes daily, how, how is it not gone already, how is this taking so long, have you forgotten how to get rid of shirts with buttons, is that it?"
It's dumb. He knows it. Staying here at the front door, and stripping each other down like they're college kids on spring break, giddy on a one-night stand, but he doesn't want to stop. Doesn't want reality to assert itself. Reality is the world where this isn't even possible, let alone happening. Reality isn't anything he wants, right now, when the reality of this night involved too many reminders of how many people want Steve.
How they wanted to be here, where he is, doing what he's doing. Reaching the end of Steve's shirt buttons, tugging the fabric out of his pants, pushing it at his shoulders, like the whole get-up is personally insulting to him. Like he's allowed. Wanted.
Because it turns out he is allowed, wanted. Steve wants him to get rid of his clothes. Steve wants Danny's hands all over him. Wants to kiss him. Push him into the door. Get him naked.
Steve, who loves him. And says so, more often than Danny's ever heard him say so to anyone. Who Danny believes, and trusts, like he believes and trusts maybe no one else in the world. Steve doesn't lie to him any more than Danny lies to Steve, not about anything big. Even if it turns out they'd both been lying about this. One of the biggest.
Who is now shucking his shirt and jacket off, because he's a goddamn Boy Scout at heart, always prepared and always ready, and Danny's barely gotten to work at the buttons or free them all before his hands are chasing over bare, soft skin. Sun-gold and warm, like Steve just came in from the beach, or out of a hot shower. Velvety over hard, dense muscle. Every inch that Steve's showcased, uncaringly, over the years, that Danny has seen a million times, but never been allowed to touch like this.
He's so beautiful it's unfair. Impaling Danny on it. Making it hard to breathe for entirely different reasons than just because Steve's mouth is in the way. "Christ, Steve --"
Low and burned-out and disbelieving, while his hands can't figure out where to go, where to settle, how to learn this sudden new world to map. "Do you have any idea, the first clue, what you do to me?"