"Like there was a script," he says, but he can hear the defensiveness in his own voice. Even like this, with Steve naked and pressed against him and every wild dream he'd ever entertained suddenly looking like it might come true.
There hadn't been a script, but he had gone off it. What Steve expected. What they loosely planned. When they probably should have had a script, precisely for that sort of situation, if for no other reason than to make sure Danny didn't lose his cool, make too large a scene.
Not that they would have planned for that. He was never supposed to say anything about that. They're so far off script now that the things he would say sound strange and clunky and ferociously untrue.
He had gone off script, and it was because he was jealous, but it wasn't only jealousy. It was something like this, too. Wanting Steve to pick him, even if Steve had no other real choice. Wanting to be chosen. Wanting to be the one Steve wanted to go home with, even if going home meant only a friendly argument in the car and then a couple of hours either sitting out in the chairs watching the water, or sitting in here watching a dumb movie.
He wanted Steve to pick him anyway. Which was stupid. Pointless. A hollow victory he added to the pile he keeps like a magpie's nest, possessive of each moment, each time Steve called him instead of someone else, spent the weekend with him and Grace, trusted him with another secret or confession.
Everything that meant he'd pick Danny first, at least for almost everything else. Which helped, but never quite unsoured, the fact that he wasn't going to be picking Danny for this.
Except he is. Except he's here, stripped down and forging ahead, because Steve's been wanting all those things, too. Except he has Steve in his hand and Steve shuddering against him and Steve's taste on his lips and Steve staring at him through a haze of pure want, and Danny keeps expecting to wake up, but it just keeps not happening.
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"Like there was a script," he says, but he can hear the defensiveness in his own voice. Even like this, with Steve naked and pressed against him and every wild dream he'd ever entertained suddenly looking like it might come true.
There hadn't been a script, but he had gone off it. What Steve expected. What they loosely planned. When they probably should have had a script, precisely for that sort of situation, if for no other reason than to make sure Danny didn't lose his cool, make too large a scene.
Not that they would have planned for that. He was never supposed to say anything about that. They're so far off script now that the things he would say sound strange and clunky and ferociously untrue.
He had gone off script, and it was because he was jealous, but it wasn't only jealousy. It was something like this, too. Wanting Steve to pick him, even if Steve had no other real choice. Wanting to be chosen. Wanting to be the one Steve wanted to go home with, even if going home meant only a friendly argument in the car and then a couple of hours either sitting out in the chairs watching the water, or sitting in here watching a dumb movie.
He wanted Steve to pick him anyway. Which was stupid. Pointless. A hollow victory he added to the pile he keeps like a magpie's nest, possessive of each moment, each time Steve called him instead of someone else, spent the weekend with him and Grace, trusted him with another secret or confession.
Everything that meant he'd pick Danny first, at least for almost everything else. Which helped, but never quite unsoured, the fact that he wasn't going to be picking Danny for this.
Except he is. Except he's here, stripped down and forging ahead, because Steve's been wanting all those things, too. Except he has Steve in his hand and Steve shuddering against him and Steve's taste on his lips and Steve staring at him through a haze of pure want, and Danny keeps expecting to wake up, but it just keeps not happening.