Matt can see Tim. Not physically, but see him. The real Tim, the one he's hiding. The broken and the battered fighter desperately trying to forget. Trying to drink, trying to pick up boys. Trying to distract himself with his work.

Matt's own heart flutters. It's not out of pity, but of admiration. Tim has held on so long, clinging to everything that's good because there's not a whole lot left in this world. That's something Matt can see--that's something he relates to. And Tim deals with it in the way he knows how: drinking and probably fighting, too. Matt does less drinking but more fighting, he's pretty sure.

"Sure," He says, and that's all that needs to be said--because he has set his wine down and his food down and Matt's hand has found Tim's shoulder, running up the other's neck, pressing softly against the bruises that weren't made by him. He's listening, now, far more than he usually does.

He's broached enough, he thinks, it's time to make sure Tim doesn't panic or run away. Matt couldn't take that tonight.

His hand reaches Tim's jaw, and he spends time moving his thumb over that jawline he's found far more attractive than any other guy. He leans forward, and the kiss he gives Tim is slow and soft and light. He tastes like wine and pad thai, and Matt loves it.