a/n: title from the song "We Don't Have to Dance" by Andy Black.
It wasn't right.
He knew it, but it didn't stop him from pressing the other man into a wall, from winding his fingers through long, tawny brown hair, from crashing into full lips desperately. His needy fingers grappled with buttons and zippers, burning, starving for the sensation of skin touching skin.
As the liquor burned through his veins, he dared open his eyes to see the man in front of him, flushed with alcohol and something else. His lips tingled when he tore himself away long enough to pull the shirt over his partner's head. Restless hands snaked over a toned torso before settling on the line where jeans met hips.
With his thoughts fuzzy as the alcohol hazed over him, he could allow himself this, just once. He could allow himself the feeling of a strong, able-bodied man in his arms, assuring him everything would be okay as the world fell apart around him, as his own mind fell apart around him.
He felt his brows knit together as he met chapped lips once again, a burning desire in the pit of his stomach that had little to do with the amber liquid coursing inside him. Coarse hair brushed over him, trailing over his body as the other man began pressing open-mouthed kisses down his throat, his stomach, branching off at the arms to kiss each elbow crook and palm before steadily inching further down his body.
Daryl welcomed the fog that drifted over his conscious mind, welcomed the cloud that silenced the wailing, begging, pleading of his memories. He welcomed the deft fingers that pushed him down onto the bed before working at his jeans. He welcomed the sweaty tresses that tickled his face as he kissed leathery skin.
It wasn't right to use Jesus to ease his sorrows - but God, if it wasn't perfect.