The thing is maybe he doesn't want to talk about everything -- everyone -- he's thought about too much.
But it's not the same thing as wanting this to stop. It's not the same thing as wanting to scare or shove Danny into running, and he does know how to do that. He knows Danny better than anyone, maybe even Danny. He could delineate it, and it would be a fight. Words, cold and biting, words, more than fists. It would require the kind of cruelty that Steve was trained to dole out without flinching, but had never once used on Danny. Had never done except in insults that were never entirely meant.
Never could, unless that cost was so much higher than this. Higher like the price of keeping Danny alive.
When he already knew there was no law or rule or promise he wouldn't break to keep that truth a part of this world. His.
It's not that he wants Danny to be anywhere other than suddenly precariously balancing all of his weight on Steve's thighs in a way where it nearly makes it hard for Danny to balance or hold on to anything that isn't him. Because that. He doesn't hate that. He doesn't hate the way Danny's eyes keep rolling up and his eyelids flicker down. He doesn't hate the roll of Danny's hips. The shudder of muscles through his back under Steve's fingers. The way he can't stop moving, never stops moving.
Never. Not in the car. In the field. On Steve's couch, or the beach. Never, never, never. Not even known, with all of it on Steve.
"So you hear," Steve scoffs that one. A laugh that sounds rich, smug, rejecting, even burned black.
Thrusting between them in what has become a powder keg of sweltering body warmth and wet, caught between skin, buffeted by movement that wants to make his eyes unfocus he just keeps going. Broke is so far from here. So far from nearby when he can still laugh into Danny's skin, ghosting breath over his just-kissed mouth, caustic as explosion. "Like you ever hear anything. You're always talking, talking, talking."
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The thing is maybe he doesn't want to talk about everything -- everyone -- he's thought about too much.
But it's not the same thing as wanting this to stop. It's not the same thing as wanting to scare or shove Danny into running, and he does know how to do that. He knows Danny better than anyone, maybe even Danny. He could delineate it, and it would be a fight. Words, cold and biting, words, more than fists. It would require the kind of cruelty that Steve was trained to dole out without flinching, but had never once used on Danny. Had never done except in insults that were never entirely meant.
Never could, unless that cost was so much higher than this. Higher like the price of keeping Danny alive.
When he already knew there was no law or rule or promise he wouldn't break to keep that truth a part of this world. His.
It's not that he wants Danny to be anywhere other than suddenly precariously balancing all of his weight on Steve's thighs in a way where it nearly makes it hard for Danny to balance or hold on to anything that isn't him. Because that. He doesn't hate that. He doesn't hate the way Danny's eyes keep rolling up and his eyelids flicker down. He doesn't hate the roll of Danny's hips. The shudder of muscles through his back under Steve's fingers. The way he can't stop moving, never stops moving.
Never. Not in the car. In the field. On Steve's couch, or the beach. Never, never, never. Not even known, with all of it on Steve.
"So you hear," Steve scoffs that one. A laugh that sounds rich, smug, rejecting, even burned black.
Thrusting between them in what has become a powder keg of sweltering body warmth and wet, caught between skin, buffeted by movement that wants to make his eyes unfocus he just keeps going. Broke is so far from here. So far from nearby when he can still laugh into Danny's skin, ghosting breath over his just-kissed mouth, caustic as explosion. "Like you ever hear anything. You're always talking, talking, talking."