It's wrong but he knows, better than he should, how to kiss someone to just shut them the hell up. Girls in places that weren't here, and maybe one or two who were. People he didn't want here, who he could overpower with a direct dedication that made them forget anything else he didn't want to talk about or wasn't going to do with them once this all ended. But that isn't Danny. They weren't.
If there are words he doesn't want Danny to say, it's not about filling the space until he'll leave. Knocking him out with this all.
It's about the way that crack inside his chest intensifies when Danny's mouth parts under his, just as ready and just as responsive as every other time he kissed Danny tonight. The way Danny kissed him back downstairs before he even gathered his wits enough to ask how, why, wha, when Steve kissed him instead of talking. Which maybe is the wiser move all over this. Even if he doesn't want the same moves to mean the same things here. Because they can't.
Kissing Danny pulls at him. Cracking the center of his chest wide open. It's like how he can't just stand two or three feet inside the ocean waves without feeling it there. A magnet tug so strong there is nothing he wants -- not even helping Grace with her board, or talking to another surfer, or anything with his friends -- as diving into that blue and pushing for the deep blue, black that will come if he holds his breath and kicks strong and sure.
That's what kissing Danny is like. A tide tugging his feet under. A light to the blind. Something he doesn't want to fight, and isn't even positive he could. That it was cultivated like his own person super weapon. Pushing words and worries aside. Making him want to find every corner of Danny's mouth all over, again. To touch every part of him one more time, like it might be the very last time. The only. Danny will come to his senses about Steve being too much trouble.
The way, maybe, Cath did over everything he didn't know how to give her.
Maybe couldn't give Danny, who he seemed to give almost everything, everything but this, and her, who he did.
None of it is right and none of it fair. It hurts somewhere too deep for bones and muscle to exist. Down where his mother was dead and his father didn't need him, and then his father was dead and his mother wasn't but didn't want him, and where Cath chose her, and chose another country. Even with her fingerprints on more of him than anyone else had ever gotten. And this. This, where Danny inhabited what felt like everything but the last five or ten cells in his body, and he was taking those now.
The danger of it, and in it. How badly it would hurt when this ripped away from his hands, too. When he wasn't like them. Tiny and malleable. With glossy hair and brilliant smiles. Graceful or sassy. Someone Danny could spoil and tease and do god knows what else did with his bevy of tiny, slim girls that Steve was never going to be even five percent like. That ripped at his center, prying his ribs open against that crack.
That long, cold time of watching so many hands, on Danny, on them. Arms around their shoulders, pulled in close, under Danny's, against him. Kisses that were delicate and worshipful, and something Steve had to look away from, because he was a good friend and not a creep. Because he didn't want to see it and hate them, or Danny, even more, even if it was only for a few seconds. When it was too intimate and it was inappropriate and he had to remind himself hard to be happy for Danny. Not just happy to get drink a little more and numb it out before Danny returned, all smiles and effusive brilliance to nudge at him in the wake of it.
Which maybe is what shifts this kiss. Makes it something harder. Hungry, and helpless at fighting, and more exacting, almost punishing, for anything so profane as being made helpless and unable to burn Danny out, and so achingly old. Four. Years. Old. That was four years ago and I do know how to count. Because maybe he never did as well as he was supposed to at that. At any of this. Maybe on the top. Skin deep. Danny couldn't tell. He did that right. But everything under it had burned and boiled, roiling muddy and messed up. Always wanting this so badly he couldn't escape it even in his dreams and delusions.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-11-18 01:15 pm (UTC)It's wrong but he knows, better than he should, how to kiss someone to just shut them the hell up. Girls in places that weren't here, and maybe one or two who were. People he didn't want here, who he could overpower with a direct dedication that made them forget anything else he didn't want to talk about or wasn't going to do with them once this all ended. But that isn't Danny. They weren't.
If there are words he doesn't want Danny to say, it's not about filling the space until he'll leave. Knocking him out with this all.
It's about the way that crack inside his chest intensifies when Danny's mouth parts under his, just as ready and just as responsive as every other time he kissed Danny tonight. The way Danny kissed him back downstairs before he even gathered his wits enough to ask how, why, wha, when Steve kissed him instead of talking. Which maybe is the wiser move all over this. Even if he doesn't want the same moves to mean the same things here. Because they can't.
Kissing Danny pulls at him. Cracking the center of his chest wide open. It's like how he can't just stand two or three feet inside the ocean waves without feeling it there. A magnet tug so strong there is nothing he wants -- not even helping Grace with her board, or talking to another surfer, or anything with his friends -- as diving into that blue and pushing for the deep blue, black that will come if he holds his breath and kicks strong and sure.
That's what kissing Danny is like. A tide tugging his feet under. A light to the blind. Something he doesn't want to fight, and isn't even positive he could. That it was cultivated like his own person super weapon. Pushing words and worries aside. Making him want to find every corner of Danny's mouth all over, again. To touch every part of him one more time, like it might be the very last time. The only. Danny will come to his senses about Steve being too much trouble.
The way, maybe, Cath did over everything he didn't know how to give her.
Maybe couldn't give Danny, who he seemed to give almost everything, everything but this, and her, who he did.
None of it is right and none of it fair. It hurts somewhere too deep for bones and muscle to exist. Down where his mother was dead and his father didn't need him, and then his father was dead and his mother wasn't but didn't want him, and where Cath chose her, and chose another country. Even with her fingerprints on more of him than anyone else had ever gotten. And this. This, where Danny inhabited what felt like everything but the last five or ten cells in his body, and he was taking those now.
The danger of it, and in it. How badly it would hurt when this ripped away from his hands, too. When he wasn't like them. Tiny and malleable. With glossy hair and brilliant smiles. Graceful or sassy. Someone Danny could spoil and tease and do god knows what else did with his bevy of tiny, slim girls that Steve was never going to be even five percent like. That ripped at his center, prying his ribs open against that crack.
That long, cold time of watching so many hands, on Danny, on them. Arms around their shoulders, pulled in close, under Danny's, against him. Kisses that were delicate and worshipful, and something Steve had to look away from, because he was a good friend and not a creep. Because he didn't want to see it and hate them, or Danny, even more, even if it was only for a few seconds. When it was too intimate and it was inappropriate and he had to remind himself hard to be happy for Danny. Not just happy to get drink a little more and numb it out before Danny returned, all smiles and effusive brilliance to nudge at him in the wake of it.
Which maybe is what shifts this kiss. Makes it something harder. Hungry, and helpless at fighting, and more exacting, almost punishing, for anything so profane as being made helpless and unable to burn Danny out, and so achingly old. Four. Years. Old. That was four years ago and I do know how to count. Because maybe he never did as well as he was supposed to at that. At any of this. Maybe on the top. Skin deep. Danny couldn't tell. He did that right. But everything under it had burned and boiled, roiling muddy and messed up. Always wanting this so badly he couldn't escape it even in his dreams and delusions.