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It sometimes took Danny fewer than five minutes to grab Arthur backstage after a show and push him against the wall, pressing his body against Arthur's and kissing him, opened-mouth and ignoring anything else going on around them. It took him fewer than ten to get them to their hotel room/van/whatever and into some reclining, half-naked state.
Danny's fingers were on Arthur instantly, his lips kissing every bit skin he could reach, and Arthur's quiet sounds of protest were lost on Danny's ears. It wasn't as if Arthur minded. Except for...
And Arthur's brain would sometimes stop when Danny sank to his knees, his mouth around Arthur's cock and his fingers digging in Arthur's hips, which was a little ticklish but a little hot, and so... so Arthur forgot.
Danny never said anything when they were finished, when they were sticky and sweaty and quiet. He never asked questions and he never gave an explanation. This was okay, Arthur thought, maybe, before he fell asleep. Maybe one day he would ask Danny.
They once did it sitting in some random hotel room, Arthur straddled on Danny's lap, holding on to him, scared and turned on and just... Danny watched him with those eyes, and Arthur didn't last very long that night. But they did it again later, Arthur's legs aching but his hands clawing at Danny's back.
"My Arthur," Danny would sometimes whisper against the back of Arthur's neck. "Mineminemine." And Arthur would turn around and kiss Danny, and it would start all over again.
Arthur would masturbate in the shower, the water scalding against his skin, and think of Danny. Always Danny. No wonder he had so much fucking trouble with girls. And he would wash it all away, and avoid his gaze in the mirror, wrapping a towel around himself.
Only Danny could see him naked, and watch him undress, and Arthur would still turn bright red, turning his body half-away from Danny's gaze, and Danny would come behind him and touch him and Arthur would stammer out something stupid, and Danny would grin and kiss him and Arthur would forget again.
They had this bond, this really weird bond. Danny would sit near Arthur, and they wouldn't even have to kiss, and Arthur would just imagine what they could be doing, and then his brain would melt out of his ear and he would stare stupidly at whoever was talking to them, which he did anyway. Conversation wasn't Arthur's bag; he was much better singing words than speaking them.
Arthur would get frustrated sometimes, because Danny was perfect, and then he would feel guilty that he thought these horrible things about Danny, and then he would go find Danny and kiss him out of the blue. And Danny would smile and say something funny or sexy or just say, "This is nice," and Arthur would forget all his frustrations, because Danny was good about that.
Arthur woke up one morning, at two, his face in Danny's hair and his arm around Danny's waist (ohgod how he loved Danny's waist), and suddenly he remembered. "You've never said 'I love you'," he whispered against Danny's hair, but Danny was asleep and he slept like the dead, anyway.
Arthur tried to remember later, to tell Danny what he said that morning at two, but Danny would kiss him, and touch him and fuck him and Arthur would forget. And it wasn't all that important anyway, just words.
Sometimes Danny would claw at Arthur, and want to be fucked, and Arthur shook so badly and held Danny so delicately and closed his eyes while he did it. But Danny loved it, but never said so, just asked every once and a while, just to see Arthur stammer out "R-r-really," and touch his face.
Danny's fingers had calluses, just like his really, but Danny's hands still felt so differently on his cock, on his hips, holding his hand. Arthur would blush when Danny's fingers slipped into his, but it was a happy 'he's holding my hand' sort of blush, so he didn't mind so much, when Danny held his hand.
Their being together every night didn't change anything. That's what surprised Arthur the most. Their being together didn't make a difference to anyone else but themselves. And it made their lives better. He felt better than he had in a long while, with Danny. Because Danny knew him, and he thought that he knew Danny.
Simple, simple, simple, and happy. Arthur didn't even think of the implications of sleeping with Danny every night. Didn't think of the implications of being fucked by Danny, because Danny was so beautiful.
Danny had stopped seeing other people after they had slept together two or three times. Arthur had asked him once, out of jest, and Danny had looked at him, his brow creased. "You think I would do that," he asked, and left the room. They didn't talk for a week afterwards, but Danny slid into Arthur's bed one night, and kissed his face over and over and over. And Arthur had wanted to apologise, but Danny shook his head. So Arthur never did.
Danny curled around Arthur, one morning at two-twenty-five, and kissed his neck. "You always look like you want to say something to me," he murmured. "Tell me, tell me now."
"Why do you never say 'I love you'," Arthur asked, because he remembered.
"Didn't ever think I had to," Danny replied. "Always thought you knew."
Danny's fingers were on Arthur instantly, his lips kissing every bit skin he could reach, and Arthur's quiet sounds of protest were lost on Danny's ears. It wasn't as if Arthur minded. Except for...
And Arthur's brain would sometimes stop when Danny sank to his knees, his mouth around Arthur's cock and his fingers digging in Arthur's hips, which was a little ticklish but a little hot, and so... so Arthur forgot.
Danny never said anything when they were finished, when they were sticky and sweaty and quiet. He never asked questions and he never gave an explanation. This was okay, Arthur thought, maybe, before he fell asleep. Maybe one day he would ask Danny.
They once did it sitting in some random hotel room, Arthur straddled on Danny's lap, holding on to him, scared and turned on and just... Danny watched him with those eyes, and Arthur didn't last very long that night. But they did it again later, Arthur's legs aching but his hands clawing at Danny's back.
"My Arthur," Danny would sometimes whisper against the back of Arthur's neck. "Mineminemine." And Arthur would turn around and kiss Danny, and it would start all over again.
Arthur would masturbate in the shower, the water scalding against his skin, and think of Danny. Always Danny. No wonder he had so much fucking trouble with girls. And he would wash it all away, and avoid his gaze in the mirror, wrapping a towel around himself.
Only Danny could see him naked, and watch him undress, and Arthur would still turn bright red, turning his body half-away from Danny's gaze, and Danny would come behind him and touch him and Arthur would stammer out something stupid, and Danny would grin and kiss him and Arthur would forget again.
They had this bond, this really weird bond. Danny would sit near Arthur, and they wouldn't even have to kiss, and Arthur would just imagine what they could be doing, and then his brain would melt out of his ear and he would stare stupidly at whoever was talking to them, which he did anyway. Conversation wasn't Arthur's bag; he was much better singing words than speaking them.
Arthur would get frustrated sometimes, because Danny was perfect, and then he would feel guilty that he thought these horrible things about Danny, and then he would go find Danny and kiss him out of the blue. And Danny would smile and say something funny or sexy or just say, "This is nice," and Arthur would forget all his frustrations, because Danny was good about that.
Arthur woke up one morning, at two, his face in Danny's hair and his arm around Danny's waist (ohgod how he loved Danny's waist), and suddenly he remembered. "You've never said 'I love you'," he whispered against Danny's hair, but Danny was asleep and he slept like the dead, anyway.
Arthur tried to remember later, to tell Danny what he said that morning at two, but Danny would kiss him, and touch him and fuck him and Arthur would forget. And it wasn't all that important anyway, just words.
Sometimes Danny would claw at Arthur, and want to be fucked, and Arthur shook so badly and held Danny so delicately and closed his eyes while he did it. But Danny loved it, but never said so, just asked every once and a while, just to see Arthur stammer out "R-r-really," and touch his face.
Danny's fingers had calluses, just like his really, but Danny's hands still felt so differently on his cock, on his hips, holding his hand. Arthur would blush when Danny's fingers slipped into his, but it was a happy 'he's holding my hand' sort of blush, so he didn't mind so much, when Danny held his hand.
Their being together every night didn't change anything. That's what surprised Arthur the most. Their being together didn't make a difference to anyone else but themselves. And it made their lives better. He felt better than he had in a long while, with Danny. Because Danny knew him, and he thought that he knew Danny.
Simple, simple, simple, and happy. Arthur didn't even think of the implications of sleeping with Danny every night. Didn't think of the implications of being fucked by Danny, because Danny was so beautiful.
Danny had stopped seeing other people after they had slept together two or three times. Arthur had asked him once, out of jest, and Danny had looked at him, his brow creased. "You think I would do that," he asked, and left the room. They didn't talk for a week afterwards, but Danny slid into Arthur's bed one night, and kissed his face over and over and over. And Arthur had wanted to apologise, but Danny shook his head. So Arthur never did.
Danny curled around Arthur, one morning at two-twenty-five, and kissed his neck. "You always look like you want to say something to me," he murmured. "Tell me, tell me now."
"Why do you never say 'I love you'," Arthur asked, because he remembered.
"Didn't ever think I had to," Danny replied. "Always thought you knew."
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