It was never long winded thoughts, about how it would happen. He spent so long trying not to think about anything happening. Which worked better in the last few years, but worked for absolute shit that first year. While Danny was a wreck, angry and sad, often at his place after Rachel left him a wreck again. Then, staying at his place, sleeping on that couch. And when Gabby happened, and Danny needed him, needed him to help him with every agonizing step forward.
Yeah. It was hell through that year. Like every time he looked at Danny was designed as his own personal superweapon.
It got better. That's another lie, isn't it? It's such a lie. When Danny folds into him, without hesitation, hands finding his skin and Danny's mouth just as responsive, even here, in this room, in the dark. Maybe not better. Maybe livable. Just as livable as his dad being dead and his mother being alive. The way certain scars tensed to a small ache right before they got a real squall in that had come across the sea. He learned to live with it, because he could, as long as he was still basically living next to Danny.
He never thought about it like this. With the door, and the stairs. With his clothes in piles on his living room floor, and Danny looking terrified or thinking he'd punch him. Never with him here, making small, dark, hot noises that, even more than those looks in that year, too close and always meaning absolutely nothing, are actually made to destroy him. Thumbs and fingers dragging down ribs with his hands curved on Danny's sides.
It's this, and not that. This that he couldn't imagine. This. Every step, and every sound.
This would kill him to have left in his head. The knowing so much worse than any hazy given into image. Feeling.
It would help if he cared. Any other day, with any other person, Danny would be the one telling him to care. To give a damn. Think about himself. Not rush into the house that's on fire, or full of gang with guns, or explosives. Not even if he was trained for just that. Danny who cares more about Steve's life on a daily basis, and his heart getting shoved in a grinder constantly, than anyone in Steve's life ever has. Including Steve.
But he can't. He can't slow down and he can't stop. Doesn't want to rethink or overthink this, or let Danny do both, that he's, also, better at doing than Steve. Danny who, also, isn't slowing down. Hasn't made him, and he could, couldn't he? Steve's hands would stop and he'd pull back entirely if Danny told him to, or got a hand flat on his chest and shoved him back. He'd go. Wouldn't he. Without thinking. Without much surprise even.
Which only makes his grip a little harder on Danny's skin as that spans through him. A spike of fear in a wave of absolute possessive necessity against the brush of reality, with Danny still kissing him back, making these noises and Danny's skin under his hands. At least until his fingers run into the top of his pants, again, and Steve, breathless and torn between a groan of the impatience and a laugh, shoved more out, baiting, biting. "I have to do everything for you, don't I?"
Hands sliding in and starting on Danny's pants, while Steve started stepping forward into him.
Pushing Danny back toward his bed, and on toward being finally totally done with these pants that could go.
no subject
It was never long winded thoughts, about how it would happen. He spent so long trying not to think about anything happening. Which worked better in the last few years, but worked for absolute shit that first year. While Danny was a wreck, angry and sad, often at his place after Rachel left him a wreck again. Then, staying at his place, sleeping on that couch. And when Gabby happened, and Danny needed him, needed him to help him with every agonizing step forward.
Yeah. It was hell through that year. Like every time he looked at Danny was designed as his own personal superweapon.
It got better. That's another lie, isn't it? It's such a lie. When Danny folds into him, without hesitation, hands finding his skin and Danny's mouth just as responsive, even here, in this room, in the dark. Maybe not better. Maybe livable. Just as livable as his dad being dead and his mother being alive. The way certain scars tensed to a small ache right before they got a real squall in that had come across the sea. He learned to live with it, because he could, as long as he was still basically living next to Danny.
He never thought about it like this. With the door, and the stairs. With his clothes in piles on his living room floor, and Danny looking terrified or thinking he'd punch him. Never with him here, making small, dark, hot noises that, even more than those looks in that year, too close and always meaning absolutely nothing, are actually made to destroy him. Thumbs and fingers dragging down ribs with his hands curved on Danny's sides.
It's this, and not that. This that he couldn't imagine. This. Every step, and every sound.
This would kill him to have left in his head. The knowing so much worse than any hazy given into image. Feeling.
It would help if he cared. Any other day, with any other person, Danny would be the one telling him to care. To give a damn. Think about himself. Not rush into the house that's on fire, or full of gang with guns, or explosives. Not even if he was trained for just that. Danny who cares more about Steve's life on a daily basis, and his heart getting shoved in a grinder constantly, than anyone in Steve's life ever has. Including Steve.
But he can't. He can't slow down and he can't stop. Doesn't want to rethink or overthink this, or let Danny do both, that he's, also, better at doing than Steve. Danny who, also, isn't slowing down. Hasn't made him, and he could, couldn't he? Steve's hands would stop and he'd pull back entirely if Danny told him to, or got a hand flat on his chest and shoved him back. He'd go. Wouldn't he. Without thinking. Without much surprise even.
Which only makes his grip a little harder on Danny's skin as that spans through him. A spike of fear in a wave of absolute possessive necessity against the brush of reality, with Danny still kissing him back, making these noises and Danny's skin under his hands. At least until his fingers run into the top of his pants, again, and Steve, breathless and torn between a groan of the impatience and a laugh, shoved more out, baiting, biting. "I have to do everything for you, don't I?"
Hands sliding in and starting on Danny's pants, while Steve started stepping forward into him.
Pushing Danny back toward his bed, and on toward being finally totally done with these pants that could go.