That, too, is demonstrably untrue, okay, he has plenty to be sorry for. Every day he hadn't said or done something since the first day he had even the slightest idea, he can be sorry for each one of those. For every time Steve felt like he had to push Danny towards anyone but himself. For every time he dismissed any one of those moments as just a fluke, another instance of their friendship taking on a form nearly unrecognizable as simply friendship to anyone else.
He has a lot to be sorry for, but he'd be more sorry if any of them kept pushing at Steve, prodding at him, pushing him to snap and punch back. Again.
Even if Danny knows he did plenty wrong, because he's supposed to know better, right, he's supposed to be better. Be the person who knows Steve better than anyone. Who always has his back. Who will think of Steve when no one else, including Steve, will.
And he didn't. Hasn't. Let Steve down, more sharply than he had any idea. Got it so wrong, while he was patting himself on the back for being the only one to get it right, and getting righteously furious with the never-ending list of people who said they cared about Steve, only to leave him or lie to him or betray him, when he was doing the exact same thing.
Maybe worse. Maybe he's been the worst culprit, simply because he'd thought he was in the right.
But Steve's leaning into his touch, and huffing out that heavy breath, and his eyes are sliding closed, and Danny doesn't want to shatter it, okay, wants the tension in Steve's neck to slip away, not tie itself tighter, not thread itself through Steve's body and this whole room and around Danny's throat like garrote wire.
He's done plenty wrong. But he can start trying to get it right.
Sliding his fingers with the motion of Steve's head, to run them firmly over Steve's scalp, followed by the long sweep of his thumb. His other hand settling at the side of Steve's neck, before smoothing slowly down his shoulder. "Okay."
It's not. But he can work with it, for now. To wind it down. To get it right. "I don't want to think about anyone else, okay? I want to think about you."
Here. In bed. Naked against him. Beautiful in the dark. "I just want you."
It's been so long. And there have been others, but they weren't Steve. They were never Steve. "So do me a favor, huh? Do me a favor, kiss me."
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That, too, is demonstrably untrue, okay, he has plenty to be sorry for. Every day he hadn't said or done something since the first day he had even the slightest idea, he can be sorry for each one of those. For every time Steve felt like he had to push Danny towards anyone but himself. For every time he dismissed any one of those moments as just a fluke, another instance of their friendship taking on a form nearly unrecognizable as simply friendship to anyone else.
He has a lot to be sorry for, but he'd be more sorry if any of them kept pushing at Steve, prodding at him, pushing him to snap and punch back. Again.
Even if Danny knows he did plenty wrong, because he's supposed to know better, right, he's supposed to be better. Be the person who knows Steve better than anyone. Who always has his back. Who will think of Steve when no one else, including Steve, will.
And he didn't. Hasn't. Let Steve down, more sharply than he had any idea. Got it so wrong, while he was patting himself on the back for being the only one to get it right, and getting righteously furious with the never-ending list of people who said they cared about Steve, only to leave him or lie to him or betray him, when he was doing the exact same thing.
Maybe worse. Maybe he's been the worst culprit, simply because he'd thought he was in the right.
But Steve's leaning into his touch, and huffing out that heavy breath, and his eyes are sliding closed, and Danny doesn't want to shatter it, okay, wants the tension in Steve's neck to slip away, not tie itself tighter, not thread itself through Steve's body and this whole room and around Danny's throat like garrote wire.
He's done plenty wrong. But he can start trying to get it right.
Sliding his fingers with the motion of Steve's head, to run them firmly over Steve's scalp, followed by the long sweep of his thumb. His other hand settling at the side of Steve's neck, before smoothing slowly down his shoulder. "Okay."
It's not. But he can work with it, for now. To wind it down. To get it right. "I don't want to think about anyone else, okay? I want to think about you."
Here. In bed. Naked against him. Beautiful in the dark. "I just want you."
It's been so long. And there have been others, but they weren't Steve. They were never Steve. "So do me a favor, huh? Do me a favor, kiss me."