Spoilers: Short oneshot.
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Author's Note: Frank Sinatra equals awesome!
He'd never actually spoken to the kid, didn't know his name, thought that maybe he had been in the year below him, and maybe "known" wasn't the right word. But he'd noticed the boy one day in the corridor; had noticed because the kid was staring at him intently as if Danny were the answer to all life's mysteries.
When they'd made eye contact, though, the boy had blushed and walked way with less than a little bit of calm. Danny had smirked, fairly certain as to why he'd been staring, and not at all about to complain. Hell, any attention at all was fine by him, and the boy had been cute, if in an innocent sort of way.
Six more times Danny had noticed the boy staring at him: each time the kid had blushed a brilliant shade of red, his intense curiosity turning into guilt and embarrassment. Each time Danny had smirked at his retreating back – surprisingly muscular for such a seemingly pathetic kid – and each time, his own curiosity had grown.
The seventh, Danny had been at school later than usual – avoiding his foster parents – studying in the library. As he wandered through the stacks, trying to recall exactly which book he was supposed to be looking for, he'd spotted the kid; back facing Danny, head cocked to the side to read the book spines more easily. Danny had been taken aback by how very muck he had wanted to kiss that neck.
He hadn't, though, instead opting for leering at the kid's back. Yanking a book that must have been half his own weight off the shelf, the boy had turned around.
There was a loud thud as he dropped the book, his eyes never leaving Danny's, emotions plain in them, flicking through like a rolodex. Danny couldn't help it: he had smirked his best smirk, knowing what the boy was thing. Wondering whether he was going to act on that was what had kept Danny from speaking.
Well, that and the boy's eyes. Such a magnificent colour, such a severe expression, and the kid couldn't have been older than sixteen. But Danny had been only seventeen and known that age and wisdom were seldom connected.
An expression had finally settled on the pretty face, and it was one Danny knew; probably too well for a kid his age.
The boy's eyes had shone with desire in the light of the stacks, and he took two fast steps, extending a hand to Danny chest and shoving him with surprising force against the shelves behind him. He would have yelped as a half-dozen book spines jabbed his shoulder blades had the boy not smashed his mouth against Danny's at that moment.
He had kissed him with much more intensity than skill, pushing Danny further into the books, pressing himself against him like perhaps he had found the answer to all life's mysteries. And this had been the thing that turned this kiss into something else for Danny.
The boy had wanted him in a way no one else ever had; not for money, not for sex, though that probably hadn't been too far off the kid's mind if the panting were anything to go by. There was something underlying in the kiss that Danny couldn't name; only knew he'd never felt it before.
And Danny hadn't even realized that the boy had pulled away until that moment. He'd opened his eyes as he'd realized, too, that the weight and warmth was now gone. As was the boy, and Danny had almost blushed when he had recognized the panting as his own.
He had been too disconcerted, too aroused, head reeling far too much from a simple anonymous kiss to even smirk.
He had been sent to New York the next day.
But Danny often found himself thinking about that boy. About that kiss, and with increasing frequency since Martin had joined MPU. He wasn't sure why; knew that the boy wasn't Martin, despite the odd resemblance. Even if Martin had grown up in Florida, his eyes were the wrong colour – blue not green – his hair a shade too dark, features too strong, and it was beyond Danny when he had actually made these comparisons.
Because he hadn't even been aware of them until now, until he really thought about it, but there they were. He didn't know, either, why it was so important to him. After all, as significant as that kiss had been – he still remembered the feeling after twenty-odd years – it hadn't necessarily been the best kiss he'd ever had.
He wondered if that was why. Perfection within imperfection.
Then there was the question of why he compared Martin to some kid who'd molested him in a high school library twenty years ago. No one else; not one other lover he'd ever had; only Martin.
Danny wondered whether Martin would kiss him with the same ferocity, whether that same look of absolute resolution would cross over his face, whether he'd freak out and leave afterwards. The weirdest part was that the comparisons weren't necessarily deliberate, first appearing more as idle curiosity than anything.
But Danny soon learned that the boy and Martin did indeed have a lot more in common than their looks. The ferocity, the resolution, the determination on Martin's face, and Danny knew. Knew exactly what Martin was about to do, knew exactly what to expect, knew that this time, he would react in kind.
He wouldn't let this go like last time, because he knew, now, that moments were impermanent.
It wasn't until Martin pushed him hard against the wall of the parking garage, though, that Danny could name that other feeling; the one he'd been trying and failing to name since he was seventeen.
Need.