There's a part of him — and it's a part that Tim has become very familiar with — that is doing this, saying all of this out loud, finally, for the first time, because he's hoping it'll make Matt push him away faster. This part of him is the self-destructive part, the same part that picks bar fights just so he can taste blood in his mouth. This is the thing that kept any other potential relationship from working. The baggage they couldn't carry, even though Tim never asked them to.

It will be the same, he reckons, with Matt. He'll talk about it and there will be nightmares, and afterwards he'll drink and become just a little more distant as he tries to stop seeing the ghosts. And soon, Matt will realize he doesn't want to deal with these issues either, and he'll leave.

It'll hurt, but it'll be a familiar hurt. And the sooner it happens, the sooner Tim can make it happen, the less painful it'll be. The sooner he can remember why second dates are a bad idea, the better.

He'll make Matt let go because Matt deserves to be with someone who isn't quite so damaged.

Matt's lips find his jaw, and Tim's eyes slip shut, his grip on his glass of bourbon tightening slightly. Matt will assure him like this until assuring him becomes too much work. And it will, eventually. It always does. He turns his head, pressing his cheek against the palm of Matt's hand.

"You don't want to hear about it. It's not pretty."