Matt doesn't pry. He doesn't push or badger, doesn't pursue further questioning. Here, now, he's not Matt Murdock: attorney at law. He's just Matt, with that soft voice and a tendency to drip over his words, and a smile that never fails to brighten the whole damn room. A better person than Tim could ever hope to deserve.
He lets out a slow breath, a sigh of relief. His problems are not something he's entirely ready to talk about. Hell, he doesn't know if he'll ever be ready to talk about them. He can think about the nightmares and PTSD and potential alcoholism all day long, but the moment he says it out loud--
If he talks about it, it's real. It's actually happening. And he'd rather cope the best he can on his own than admit something's wrong.
Matt's hand touches his shoulder, then his neck. His pulse is thumping hard in his throat, feeling not unlike a cornered animal, and he's sure Matt can feel it in his fingertips. The bruises don't ache so much anymore, but the pressure makes his eyes close anyway, his lips part. Briefly, he wonders if Matt cares. They've never discussed it, but he wonders if Matt's bothered by Tim sleeping with other people. Or, if maybe, Matt just sees him as convenient and easy and doesn't care who else has their hands on him.
That would probably be better, anyway. Less messy than getting attached. Matt's never said anything to the contrary, so it's probably safe to assume.
He doesn't realize his jaw is tense until Matt touches it, and he relaxes immediately. It's easy to lean in, to kiss Matt back. To pretend like the earlier conversation didn't ever happen. This is easier, the way Tim prefers it, and with his wine glass still in one hand, the other finds Matt's waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-01-12 08:10 am (UTC)He lets out a slow breath, a sigh of relief. His problems are not something he's entirely ready to talk about. Hell, he doesn't know if he'll ever be ready to talk about them. He can think about the nightmares and PTSD and potential alcoholism all day long, but the moment he says it out loud--
If he talks about it, it's real. It's actually happening. And he'd rather cope the best he can on his own than admit something's wrong.
Matt's hand touches his shoulder, then his neck. His pulse is thumping hard in his throat, feeling not unlike a cornered animal, and he's sure Matt can feel it in his fingertips. The bruises don't ache so much anymore, but the pressure makes his eyes close anyway, his lips part. Briefly, he wonders if Matt cares. They've never discussed it, but he wonders if Matt's bothered by Tim sleeping with other people. Or, if maybe, Matt just sees him as convenient and easy and doesn't care who else has their hands on him.
That would probably be better, anyway. Less messy than getting attached. Matt's never said anything to the contrary, so it's probably safe to assume.
He doesn't realize his jaw is tense until Matt touches it, and he relaxes immediately. It's easy to lean in, to kiss Matt back. To pretend like the earlier conversation didn't ever happen. This is easier, the way Tim prefers it, and with his wine glass still in one hand, the other finds Matt's waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.