A pause, silence, and Danny takes a deep breath. There's a dull shock running through him, and even though his mind is shutting down he still manages to absorb every detail concerning the most important three seconds of his life.

They're sitting on the couch and Martin is leaning forward, feet planted on the floor, elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped right under his chin. An empty pizza box is half on the coffee table, half off, resting in the same position as it had been placed two hours prior. The Mets game is on in the background, Beltran is on second and it's a tie game, 2-2, with one out to go.

Danny's already stripped down to a thin t-shirt and boxers, but Martin's still wearing jeans, looking, in his opinion, good enough to eat, which is the only reason he hasn't tried to get him out of them. His left leg is thrown over Martin's right, and he can feel the rough demin against his skin.

Running conversation through the pauses in the game had evolved from work gossip to relationships to families, which they don't often talk about but Danny was in a good mood when Martin started asking questions, so he answered with half his attention on how good Martin smelled and the other half on the game.

And somehow, answering questions had turned into a self-pity party, which Danny hates to have, but Martin's good at listening so he thought that he might as well let everything out, just this once.

I, my friend, am unlovable.

And then Martin had spoken, said something Danny had dismissed as an off-hand comment until his brain caught up with him.

"Say it again," he says, and he's not really surprised to hear that his voice is hoarse and a little unsteady.

Martin looks right at him, holds his gaze, and says, "I love you."