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Steve rolls out of bed one morning to this: linen sheets strewn haphazardly across the foot of the mattress in some nonsensical pattern understood only by previously tangled skin. His feet are cold when they touch the hardwood floors but by the time he reaches the refrigerator, the sunlight has warmed a path up his bare legs. Spinning an orange in his palm, Steve rubs a thumb over the taut pockmarked outer layer before digging a nail in and peeling back. Yellow juice fills the valleys of his knuckles, drips down over the fine veins under the skin of his hand and wraps around the bone-raised bumps of his wrist.
The orange has a sweet, tangy taste, leaving his hands and chin completely sticky when he’s done; the sunlight creeping through the kitchen curtains is just golden enough to feel like the comforter on his bed. Steve smiles. It’s going to be a good day.
And then Danny’s astoundingly tone deaf voice comes screeching down the hallway from the guest bathroom. Steve is fairly positive that, his own personal lack for appreciation of Miley Cyrus’ music aside, no party in the USA would nor should sound like that. The low hum of the shower cuts off after a few minutes; the door opens and faint wisps of steam reach through the doorway with skeletal fingers, admitting passageway to Danny’s towel-clad body.
When Danny walks by him, Steve doesn’t even attempt to hide the appreciative glance he sends towards the drops of water valiantly clinging to Danny’s skin as the muscles shift and stretch.. Danny pulls the towel off of his hips (although honestly, wishful thinking was the only thing holding it up with how low it had been riding) and places it over his face; from behind the mass of cloth, he mumbles something that sounds relatively close to, “Don’t even try anything, I just got out of the shower and my hair is fresh and clean and if you even attempt to mess it up after all the conditioning gel I just put into it I will wax the hair off of your balls with nothing but my fingers and determination.”
Relatively.
Steve gleefully ignores Danny’s muffled threats and follows the shorter man into his bedroom. After all, those droplets of water are promising to lead an exciting adventure down Danny’s legs and Steve feels it would be a terrible waste if he didn’t follow through.
The punch to Steve’s thigh comes later then expected, but Steve has managed to lick where an errant drop of water was resting on one of Danny’s ass cheeks, so it’s not a total loss.
*
“What is that?”
“What?”
“What you’re putting on your eggs.”
“It’s ketchup, Steven. It’s made from tomatoes. They’ve been mass-producing it for years.”
“No, I know what ketchup is; I meant, what are you doing with it?”
Danny’s eyebrows raise. “I’m putting it on my eggs. Can you really not see that? Because you’re sitting like ten feet away from me and this brings up entire booklets of questions about your driving that I feel we should address before I ever enter a motorized vehicle with you again.”
Steve carefully splits his biscuit into three parts before throwing each of them at Danny’s face. The resulting squawk is unequivocally satisfying. “I’m pretty sure that what you’re creating over there with ketchup and eggs is classified as a bio-weapon in at least five countries.”
“It adds,” Danny pauses, emphatically puncturing the air with his fork on the next word, “flavor.”
“The flavor of death.”
“What is this with insulting my culinary tastes? Did you buy a new brand of grumpy shampoo with extra bitchy mangoes or something?”
“I’m just trying to protect you from potential gustatory disaster,” Steve says.
Danny snorts. “Gustatory? Really?” Steve shrugs at him. “I didn’t slave over a hot stove and cook you breakfast just so you could be rude and ungrateful, you know, and quit picking at the biscuits like a vulture, Jesus,” Danny says while slapping at Steve’s questing hands.
Steve, a handful of jelly biscuit in one hand, points at Danny’s plate with the other. “I don’t know what that is, but I don’t think it qualifies as food anymore.” Smiling, Steve shovels the biscuit into his mouth and swallows audibly.
It takes Danny five seconds to dip his fingers into the ketchup on top of his eggs and reach up to smear it over Steve’s face. A part of Steve wants to take Danny’s fingers into his mouth and methodically suck them clean, but that urge is strangled to death by the one that has him systematically covering his fingers in jelly and spreading them through Danny’s bedhead.
Things quickly degenerate from there.
Within minutes, Danny has ketchup and butter adding to the jelly in his hair, yolk in his chest hair, and some ambitious jelly is crawling underneath the loose waistband of his - Steve’s - boxers. There’s ketchup all over Steve’s face, mixing with the jelly clumped into his own hair through retaliation from Danny; yolk tangling the fine hairs on his legs (really, he’s starting to regret eating his eggs over-easy) and squishing between his toes. Miraculously there isn’t a trace of butter on his body, but then Danny sees to that from one heartbeat to the next, his fingers slick with butter clawing down Steve’s chest--oh.
Danny’s fingers, newly sticky with a conglomeration of condiments, thread through Steve’s hair and guide his mouth along Danny’s. Their combined taste isn’t all that spectacular - Steve hates ketchup - but Danny curls his tongue at the same time he digs fingernails into Steve’s thighs underneath his boxers and fuck it, Steve loves ketchup, will gladly suck it off of Danny’s tongue all day long. Steve scrapes blunt fingernails over the dip in Danny’s lower back, accepts the arch of Danny’s body with his own.
Boxers become a useless idea quickly: Steve pulls at the legs of Danny’s boxers until the gate of his hips allows them release and they pool on the floor. Miles and miles of skin stretch in front of Steve in every direction, coarse hair and taut flesh and sunlight kissing the dips and valleys of bone; all of it singing to Steve’s body and he could never deny Danny anything but especially, most importantly this.
Danny lowers to his knees, tracing the dripping mess of food down Steve’s body with his hands. The waistband inches over Steve’s hips, slides easily down his thighs, falls to the finish line and-
-and Steve’s dick bobs out and smacks Danny in the eye.
“Seriously? Are you actually fucking serious right now,” yelps Danny, stumbling back and slamming into the kitchen cabinets.
“Sorry! Sorry!”
“Oh, you’re sorry? Thanks a lot, Steve, that helps - you know, you being sorry and all - that really placates my eye, which just got a lump of dick.”
“Hey! My dick isn’t lumpy.” Steve isn’t laughing. He isn’t, honestly. He swears. It’s just, you know. His dick slapped Danny in the eye.
Danny gapes at him from the floor. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” Steve chokes out. Okay, so maybe he is. A little.
“You’re laughing at me!”
“I’m sorry, but,” a gasp, “my dick stabbed you in the eye, Danny, c’mon.”
“Nope, still failing to see how hilarious this situation apparently is.” Danny roots around the floor for his boxers. “Also, you’re not getting a blowjob now.”
That isn’t nearly as funny. “What? No, look, come on man, it’s not like I intentionally thrust my dick in your eye. He just, you know--science.”
Danny stands up, boxers a wad in his palm. “Science?”
“Yeah.”
“Science stabbed your dick in my eye.”
“I’m sorry, do you need me to explain physics to you?” Steve asks.
“Explain--oh, yeah, that’s cute, you’re really cute, Steven. You know what? I’m going to get back to the delightful breakfast I was having before you interrupted me.”
Except he doesn’t, because Steve presses Danny into the edge of the island counter and outlines a delicious strip of Danny’s neck with Steve’s teeth. He sucks, releases the abused skin and laves it with his tongue before recapturing it with vigor. It’s definitely going to leave a mark, and in a few hours Danny will punch Steve in the shoulder and whine, How the fuck am I going to explain that, but right now Steve spreads Danny’s thighs with a well-placed knee and rolls upwards and a moan claws its way up from Danny’s rib cage and echoes along the kitchen walls.
Steve extricates Danny’s boxers and tosses them somewhere behind him (hopefully to the floor), pitches his weight forward until Danny compensates to keep them upright and uses a newly free hand to yank on Danny’s filthy hair, introduce Steve’s tongue into his mouth. A shift to realign them and then-
“Jesus, fuck,,” comes raggedly from Danny’s throat and Steve can corroborate that one-hundred-percent, sweet mother of god.
Danny takes to clawing at the flexing muscles in Steve’s lower back with every particularly hard thrust, breath stuttering over Steve’s neck bared in front of him as Steve uses the counter for leverage. Sweat gathers at the concave of Danny’s hips, slicks his skin bright every time the sunlight slithers in-between their bodies; the droplets catch and transfer onto Steve’s thigh, his hips, make his pubic hair matted. The heady musk of sex saturates the air around them, fills Steve’s nose every time he inhales, makes his thrusts languid, makes Danny swivel his hips slowly, slowly, slow enough to drag ripples on their joined skin.
Each push of their cocks together is gloriously painful, not enough lube and too many dried substances. Steve blindly wishes for the lube somewhere on his bedroom floor and then thinks, Fuck it,, because they’re already covered in food anyway, so he sticks his fingers in the tub of butter and presses searching fingers between their bodies.
“Sweet fuck--is that butter? Oh my god, you are not using butter as lube,” Danny pants.
“Don’t have anything else,” Steve grits out.
“I can’t believe you’re,” he pauses to arch, “actually putting butter on my dick right now,” Danny stammers out with a long shiver. His eyes are glassy, pink rising along his cheekbones like the early morning dawn.
Steve murmurs, “I’ll lick it off afterwards,” into the curve of Danny’s neck, twists his wrist on the upstroke; a shudder travels up Danny’s body starting from his toes and ending at his scalp. He flings a hand out blindly until he smashes into the jelly, collects some on his hand before pressing it into Steve’s pectorals and the hair dusting over them. Danny ducks his head and scrapes his teeth over the muscle, licks up, up, up and then sucks greedily.
Danny bites roughly at Steve’s collarbone; Steve tightens his grip and strokes once, twice, three times and catches the crash of Danny’s body when it falls from the peak. It takes one long scratch down Steve’s left ass cheek for his body to join Danny’s in a loose sprawl against the island counter.
Danny is in the middle of petting Steve’s hair when there’s a loud ringing from somewhere to the right. It’s Steve’s phone, and he goes to answer it but apparently Danny decides that isn’t a viable option and fumbles until he can hit ignore.
“That could have been Five-0.”
Danny rasps, “Yeah, well, Hawaii has a police department for a reason, you know. They can handle it.”
“But what if-”
“-Jesus, I try to enjoy the afterglow with you for a change and this is what it gets me. No wonder we never cuddle after sex.” He doesn’t remove his arm from where it’s wrapped snugly around Steve’s lower back, even though Danny is bent awkwardly over the island counter top and there’s more than likely an unholy combination of food squished underneath his back.
Steve bites a smile into the flesh of Danny’s shoulder.
They don’t cuddle; but later that night, after what Steve thinks were a handful of beers and a movie about a crossbreed between a shark and an octopus, Danny crashes while being snuggled on top of Steve’s body (“It’s not snuggling, Steven, it’s falling asleep in a loose sprawl. You just happen to be underneath or around me when it occurs.”).
It’s not a total loss.