There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

[blindfighter]

It's around 630 when Matt stops pretending to be asleep.

Though that's a lie, just a tad--Matt has slept. On and off, on his silk sheets and curled up naked with another man in what feels like forever. It's nice, and for a few hours it lasts. It really and truly lasts, and Matt can hear the steady beating of Tim's heart. He can hear every creak as his bones adjust, can still smell scotch and bourbon as he exhales in his sleep. It's not the kind that's overwhelming, it's natural and in a way comforting.

But it's still another person and Matt Murdock is used to being alone. He's used to not getting close.

He's used to one night stands and relationships that barely last a month, if that. He's used to Foggy clapping him on the shoulder and telling him there'll be more.

He's used to going to their place. This is the first time he's brought someone home.

Someone here.

He's brought people over, but not for a one night stand. This is a different circumstance in many ways--mostly that they're going to see each other again. They're going to pass each other in the courtrooms even if they're not going to actively see each other although, if Matt's being honest, he does want to. It had been one of the best lays in a while.

And that's how, at exactly 6:40 in the morning, Matt Murdock decides he can't get used to it just yet. So instead, he gets to work. Turns the alarm off to let Tim sleep in, gets half-dressed (socks, slacks and a dress shirt, the first few buttons undone and the collar a little rumpled), and is in the kitchen. He gets to work.

If this is a one-night stand with special circumstances, he may as well make breakfast. That includes half a grapefruit for each of them, fresh fruit, and Matt himself is in the middle of cooking up some of the bacon and eggs. Simple and scrambled, but if there's one thing Matt can do better than most thanks to his olfactory senses being heightened, it's cook.

Comments

[blindfighter]

"Tim," And Matt chooses his words very, very carefully. "Your voice. It's...Quicker."

And he wants to be more detailed than that--wants to tell Tim that he knows his heart is racing, and that he had a knee-jerk reaction, and that Matt has a suspicion as to what it is. Because it would make sense, especially with the army. Especially with the bourbon.

He licks his lips, inhaling. He's calm now because he can focus on something else. He can focus on Tim, and his grip on Tim's arm, and the pulse under his skin and the odd pull back. He can practically taste Tim's discomfort as he breathes in.

And to other people, it would be like Tim was absolutely normal.

"I--I, uh, I hear it. In the courtroom, but also depositions. The way witness' breath picks up and their words, they suddenly get quicker. Are you..." No. Tim doesn't want anyone to ask if he's okay. Even if he needs it.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be prying. But if it's--it's something that only started happening when we, um. Exited the courthouse. I'm assuming it's not case related."

I'm assuming it's something I've done.

[comfortablyerect]

Honestly, Tim doesn't know what to fucking say to that.

Of course Matt would pick up on it somehow, all of his other senses a little more keen to make up for his lack of sight. Tim shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He's always had such a great poker face. He's always been so good at pretending he's okay when he's not. He's never had somebody call him out on it before.

But here Matt is, sounding less angry and more concerned, gently trying to find out what's wrong. Like he actually cares. Shit, maybe he does. But they're only fuck buddies — he's not worth Matt's concern.

At the very least, Matt seems calmer. Which as been the goal from the start. But this is delicate. Tim could say the wrong thing and make him angry again. He could lie and maybe Matt would see through it, or maybe he won't. He could be vague, which might end up being even more frustrating. But he is not telling the truth. He's not going to talk about his father.

"It's not," he says carefully, slowly, like he's testing the waters. Its true, at least. It's not case related. "But it's nothin' to worry about. I'm fine."

Also true. Mostly. Sort of. True enough because this isn't an unfamiliar situation. It isn't anything he hasn't dealt with before, so he's fine. As fine as he can be.

[blindfighter]

It is something to worry about. That reaction was exactly what Matt is worried about, what Matt fears--the small tiniest touch has opened up so much more understanding from Matt to Tim. More, Matt suspects, than Tim will ever know.

But Matt is caring too much about someone that's supposed to be just a casual fuckbuddy. Tim is not Foggy, always loyal. Tim is not Karen, always understanding. Tim has these qualities, yes, but he's still an outsider. Still someone Matt shouldn't get close to.

Matt shouldn't get close to anyone, is the problem. And yet here they are.

So he touches Tim's arm again, gentler, and moves so their shoulders are touching. "I didn't mean to pry," He says gently. Apologetically. "But since you have the rest of the day off... Why don't we pick up a bottle of wine and head back to my place? We can go out with Foggy and Karen, later."

Maybe that'll get Tim's mind off of it. The prospect of fucking.

Maybe that'll get his mind off of it. The case, the way Tim jumped. Everything.

[comfortablyerect]

Matt's not going to hit him. It's a mantra Tim repeats, over and over, just so maybe he'll believe it. Matt won't hit him because he's not a violent person, and the only time the other has ever been rough with him is when Tim specifically asked for it. He's panicking over nothing. It's nothing.

Tim just needs to get his shit together. He wonders if this is like his PTSD. Only it's trauma from his childhood he's battling instead of trauma from the war.

Jesus. He thinks he prefers the latter.

The touch on his arm is gentle this time, and Matt's shoulder rests against his in an affectionate way. Tim relaxes. He makes himself relax. This is fine. They're fine. He's fine. He can go home with Matt and they can be alone and everything will still be fine. Wine isn't his style but he won't argue. He doesn't plan on getting drunk tonight anyway. He needs to make sure Matt's okay.

"It's fine," he assures, even if he doesn't quite mean it. "That sounds great."

And that part he does mean.

[blindfighter]

It's not fine. But it does sound great to Tim, and Matt decides he needs to pick and choose his battles. Another great quality in him that makes him very, very good at what he does for a living. It makes him pretty okay in terms of fighting on the streets, too.

So Matt gives directions. They don't pick up anything fancy, but it's wine Matt likes and it'll get them relaxed, at least. The grocery store clerk's known Matt since he was a kid--knew his father--and tells him to stay safe from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Matt smiles thinly, but politely.

They even stop in to order Thai food--Pad Thai for Tim and Phat Si-io for Matt. He feels a little bad that he ordered for him but he could feel how lost Tim was in the small takeout place.

But they have wine, and they have food, and there's always an abundant amount of scotch at Matt's place. It's for his stitches, but no one has to know that. He's also started keeping bourbon there, though he tells himself it's not for Tim and just that he's acquired the taste.

It is Tim, though. It's the entire reason it sits in one of the shelves with the rest of his alcohol.

He opens the door with only a little effort thanks to Tim carrying most of it, and almost immediately sets his cane by the wall. He's tired of feeling helpless today. He's tired of today, period.

"Are you really sure it's alright for you to do this with me on a work day?"

[comfortablyerect]

It's basically the middle of the fucking day and they have wine and a late lunch or an early dinner (or an on-time dinner, Tim thinks, if this were Kentucky), and by the time they get back to Matt's apartment, Tim feels significantly better. Enough that he's actually looking forward to an evening in.

An evening in with some liquor and good company. And no work tomorrow, which means an evening in might very well turn into a night in. Even if it doesn't, though, he'll enjoy this. He always enjoys the times it's just the two of them.

Although he knows for sure now that he's attached. He's very attached to Matt Murdock. If he weren't, he wouldn't have tried so hard to sooth Matt's temper. He would've left. He would've left for good instead of sticking around. Hell, he would've left after that first night. But he's invested, and he's realized that he's been invested from the start.

But that's okay, probably. It's okay if this is one sided. It can keep being one sided. Matt will never feel the same way, and that's probably for the best. Maybe he will end up getting hurt, but at least Matt won't. Tim can handle a little heartbreak. All he wants to avoid is Matt getting hurt, too.

They get into Matt's apartment, and Tim flicks the light on because he knows Matt will forget to, and moves to set the bags down on the counter, already grabbing a couple of glasses and some dinnerware from the cabinets that have become familiar to him.

"Positive," he says. "They'll call me if they need me."

[blindfighter]

Matt laughs, half embarrassed, and he can hear the clink of Tim getting the plates from one of the shelves like he's perfectly at home. It's nice, it's--it allows Matt, for a moment, to think this is going to work.

He wants it to work. He wants to slide in bed and have Tim there at night, wants to curl up with a cup of bourbon or sit on the couch as they go through their assigned paperwork. Wants to hear Tim talk about his day as he walks in the door.

...But he can't. He can't because Tim doesn't deserve Matt. Tim deserves something better. So Matt will wait, and when it goes up in flames he will accept it. Now, though? Now he can just pretend. Matt's good at pretending.

"So what you're saying is that we should pace ourselves in drink," Matt states, and he's teasing, a bit--sure they've had dates where there's no alcohol. Lunch ones, mostly--but this? This is how he's comfortable. It's wrong, too, that he knows that Tim is more comfortable when he's drunk.

Matt just wants to forget.

"I'd just hate to keep you from anything," he murmurs. Goes to grab a fork that Tim's pulled down, purposely brushing his arm against the other's hip as he does so.

[comfortablyerect]

"What I'm sayin' is that we should get drunk as quickly as possible so I have an excuse to stay here if they do call." Tim's teasing too, mostly. Logically, he knows that he probably should make himself unavailable the rest of the night. But really, he'd like to do just that. He'd like to stay holed up with Matt all night long. Just them and some liquor and some thai food.

Beggars can't be choosers, though, and Tim will take what he can get. Whatever Matt's willing to give him before this entire thing crashes and burns. Before Matt finds somebody prettier and more interesting and less broken.

It's only a matter of time, honestly.

"You're not," Tim says, like he's making a promise. He turns his head to kiss the corner of Matt's jaw, then the side of his neck. Honestly, he wouldn't mind if the night just turned into sex against the kitchen counter. But this is about Matt, about keeping him occupied and helping him forget the shitty day he's had. It's not about what Tim wants.

"I'm all yours tonight."

[blindfighter]

"That sounds promising," Matt says surprisingly smoothly, and he leans over to kiss the top of the other's head. He could definitely do with food and sex and maybe a movie, if Tim didn't mind listening to the hearing impaired versions of things.

Tim doesn't seem to mind anything with Matt, and Matt likes that.

He grabs what he needs from the kitchen and winds up sighing as he sits down--it takes him a brief pause, just because he feels stiff from all of the adventures the previous night, but the couch is comfortable and he doesn't even think twice about leaning into Tim once he's situated, too.

"Does it bother you, sometimes? That you might be chasing after someone who's been falsely accused?"

[comfortablyerect]

Tim hums agreeably, and for a moment, he stops what he's doing and turns his head to look at Matt. To watch him as he moves, graceful in a way that even seeing people don't usually possess. It's probably awful, all things considered, but he likes being able to watch Matt without being watched in turn. He takes comforting knowing he can't be caught staring.

God. It's going to blow when this has to end.

He pours the wine — not really his style, but probably better for soothing and setting a relaxing tone than hard liquor would be. And anyway, he's not really picky about anything when he's spending time with Matt. He pushes Matt's glass towards him until it touches the other's hand, then settles back into the couch and Matt's side.

"No," he says, and it's an automatic answer, mostly. He frowns. "I guess I don't really think about it. It gets messy when you start doubtin' the system like that. I gotta trust that the cops are doin' their job. And if they don't, then I gotta trust that you're gonna do yours."

[blindfighter]

He notices, the way Tim pushes the glass towards him. Until it touches his fingers, so very lightly, and that's the reason why he smiles wide as he does when he picks up the glass.

Carefully, with one hand still holding the wine glass, Matt loosens the knot on his tie and sighs heavily.

"There's a lot of corruption, no matter what side you're on," He states ambiguously. "It would be easier if everything was just black and white like that." He envies Tim, he realizes. Matt envies that Tim can't afford to think like he does.

"Do you consider yourself a religious person?"

[comfortablyerect]

Tim, on the other hand, doesn't notice that he does it. (Though he definitely notices the way Matt smiles. That's hard to miss.) It's a habit from spending so many nights at Matt's and having so many drinks and breakfasts together. As second nature as turning on the light when he walks in the room.

He's watching Matt again, watching the fingers on his tie and the hand around his wine class, before picking up his own, taking a sip. Wine isn't likely to chase away the bad dreams — he'll just have to have a glass or two of bourbon before bed.

His lips press together briefly. He wants to explain that you can't second guess your orders when you're with the military. You can't see the gray areas, it has to be black and white, because you can't live with yourself if it's not. But there is not enough wine in existence to prompt him to talk about that, so he stays quiet.

"Not particularly," he murmurs, taking another drink of wine. "You know they say there's no atheists in the foxhole? I think that's true. But I ain't in a foxhole anymore."

[blindfighter]

"I've always wondered how many people deal with that," he states, and there's a note of truth. He can't pretend to know that Tim's been through, can't even imagine. He knows it's hell and he knows he can't really do anything to assuage anything. Any guilt, anything like that.

He's not in a foxhole anymore.

Matt takes a few moments to sip at his wine, and wonders if he should keep these thoughts to himself. Wonders if, maybe, he shouldn't ruin anything because this is good. He was just fantasizing about all of this being casual and low-key.

Instead, Matt Murdock ruins it by letting himself say it:

"Is that why you drink?"

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's heart skips a beat. Other than that, nothing betrays the startle and unease he feels at that question. His breathing remains remarkably even, and he doesn't allow himself to shift uncomfortably like he'd want to.

He's very good at keeping up appearances, at hiding his problems, but Matt's noticed anyway. Of course he has.

They're not dating. They're not even exclusive, and the fading hickeys on his neck that weren't made by Matt's mouth says as much. Hell, they've known each other for a month and a half. He doesn't owe Matt an explanation or an answer. But he's relatively certain that if he chose not to answer, Matt would accept that, drop the subject, because that's the kind of person he is. And it's possibly the only thing that keeps Tim from ignoring the question outright.

It's a good thing they're not dating. Tim doesn't deserve to date someone like Matt Murdock.

"I'm from Kentucky," he says, looking into the wine glass. Now he really wishes it were bourbon. "Everybody has a glass before bed. Everybody takes their coffee with liquor."

[blindfighter]

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.

[comfortablyerect]

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.

[blindfighter]

He can smell the wine, smell Tim, from his laundry detergent to the no-name brand of aftershave to the fact that he's sure Tim has emptied a clip at a range a few days ago. It's heightened, too, and he can feel Tim pulling at his shirt.

He considers that an invitation. Matt's careful not to spill a single drop of Tim's wine as he moves his hands down Tim's frame, feeling every inch of him before swinging his leg over, nearly straddling him. One foot is between the back of the couch and Tim's side, his other leg is dangling off of the couch, and he's still trailing his fingers down Tim's sides, stopping only to pull the tucked in shirt out of his slacks and begin to slowly undo it.

This is much better.

[comfortablyerect]

Little by little, Tim begins to relax. Stops feeling less caged, less trapped, and more at ease beneath Matt's lips and touch. He's found that Matt's extraordinarily good at soothing his nerves and making him feel wholly safe even before he realizes he felt unsafe.

He manages to set his wine glass and food out of the way before he can get too distracted. Maybe he didn't expect things to shift to sex right away, but he's not complaining. He's definitely not complaining. This is so much better than talking about Tim's problems or how shitty Matt's day was.

There's nothing rushed about this. Nothing desperate or too rough yet, and Tim doesn't mind it. Matt's going slow, fingers sliding deftly over shirt buttons, and Tim takes his time sliding his hands up Matt's chest and shoulders and neck, fingers pausing on the rims of his glasses

It's a silent question. He likes being able to see Matt's face, see his eyes. He's never seen anything prettier than Matt without his glasses.

[blindfighter]

Matt swallows heavily, not because he's nervous but because it's an intimate gesture. He knows what Tim wants based on feel alone and he nods the slightest of nods, allowing him to slip them off.

"It normally freaks people out," He murmurs. He probably said something along the same lines before, when they were too drunk and too sloppy, and sightless eyes fall on where he guesses Tim is in his own world on fire.

His smile is boyish, almost nervous, and he gets like that every time when he's with Tim and doesn't have the sunglasses. It's a trait that's uniquely Gutterson.

Bruised knuckles brush against the other's jaw for a moment before he undoes the last button of Tim's shirt and he pushes it back not with haste, but at a decent pace, and his hands go for his own tie next, sliding the knot and undoing it completely.

"We'll eat later."

[comfortablyerect]

It's not the first time Matt has said something like that, or the second, but it doesn't matter. Those sightless eyes are as much of a part of Matt as his boyish smile or bruised knuckles or soft voice, and Tim loves every bit of it. The eyes and the smile and the knuckles and the voice. He loves every big of Matt Murdock.

God. He is so royally screwed. But all he can focus on is Matt's hands, the touch to his jaw and the fingers that finish unbuttoning his shirt.

"Not me," he murmurs, and it's an assurance, turning his head to kiss the back of Matt's hand briefly before he pulls it away. His heart skips uneasily at his chest, just at the sight of Matt kneeling over him, glasses off and eyes wide, so devastatingly pretty and open. So fucking gorgeous and so fucking unfair.

His hands find Matt's hips, fingers tugging at his shirt until it's untucked, slipping beneath just to touch the skin at his waist. His hands trail around the other's back, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of the back of his pants.

If there's one thing he's absolutely certain of, it's that Matt Murdock has the best ass in the entirety of Hell's Kitchen.

[blindfighter]

The glasses come off and Matt can't help the smile that spreads across his face. He can bury it, though, by pressing his face into Tim's neck and kissing at the sensitive skin, moving over old and fading bruises he can feel are there.

Of course they're not exclusive, but Matt doesn't want to start any potential drama. Not rock the boat--he wants Tim on his back on his couch with the smell of coconut curry and pinot noir. He wants Tim.

There's a hitch, though--Tim moves his hands up Matt's shirt, a place dangerously near a broken rib courtesy of the Russians, and he flinches. Just until the other puts a hand near his ass and he lets out a very small, breathy half-moan.

Fuck it, he thinks, he wants to give all of himself to Tim so that maybe he'll give back. It's something Matt can hope for, and he sits up, shifts his weight, and slowly begins unbuttoning his own shirt.

He's cut, of course, thanks to his rigorous training regime and running around Hell's Kitchen, and there's a few blossoming bruises, some older than the others, the largest one being where his rib is broken. He doesn't say anything, doesn't comment--he'll have an excuse ready if Tim asks, but for now, he's letting his shirt fall next to the couch and already going for Tim's pants.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's head tilts back and he groans low in his throat at the feeling of Matt's mouth on his neck. It took him awhile to learn that Matt knew when he had bruises, on his throat or otherwise, even if he can't see them. Maybe he can feel their warmth, feel the heat of the blood pooling beneath skin. He never thought Matt's other senses were that heightened, but sometimes, like when Matt's fingers find the blossoming bruises above his collarbone, he thinks otherwise.

Matt's never taken his shirt off during sex, and Tim's never questioned it. Honestly, he's never thought much of it, because their sexual encounters are usually desperate and frantic and in some sort of half-dressed state anyway.

But things are slow now, and he still doesn't think much of Matt unbuttoning his shirt. He's too occupied with the other's belt, getting it undone and pulling it through the loops. He only looks up once Matt's abandoned his shirt, and when he does, the first thing he notices is abs.

He already knew Matt was ripped. He could feel the muscles through his shirt when they were close, whether it was fucking or leaning against each other when they were too drunk to stand upright. But there's a difference between feeling and seeing. Especially since he couldn't ever feel the god-awful bruises that litter Matt's abdomen.

"Wait--" Of course he has questions. Who wouldn't have questions about their blind lawyer not!boyfriend looking like he lost a bad fist fight? He puts a hand on Matt's shoulder, pushes him back just a little so he can get a better look at the bruising. It's not all fresh, he realizes. Some are recent, but some are old and fading like the marks on Tim's throat. Though, he reckons Matt didn't get these from fucking someone else.

He wants to ask. He's concerned. But Matt didn't pry when Tim didn't want to pursue the potential alcoholism line of questioning, and it's pretty clear Matt doesn't want to discuss this, otherwise they would have already. Matt didn't push about Tim's abuse of liquor, so Tim won't pry about Matt's Fight Club status.

Not yet, anyway.

Instead, what he ends up doing is pushing Matt away further, back against the back of the couch, and straddling his lap carefully. This way, Matt doesn't have to exert as much energy, and Tim can do most of the work. His hands find the other's shoulders and he rocks his hips down slowly, cock already hard through his pants, gaze locked on Matt's face.

[blindfighter]

It's not that Tim never takes control--they switch, and nicely, Matt thinks--but this is a different kind and for the first time in a while Matt feels like he's vulnerable, his red tinted shades off and his shirt off and someone else guiding him, someone else moving on top of him.

Hands curl across his own shoulders and Matt gives a very slight wince, but it's just from the way Tim settles and it's gone almost immediately once Tim grinds against him. It's hard to focus on much of anything other than his own dick getting hard.

Amazing, how fast Tim can turn him on. All it takes is a few kisses and he's good to go.

His gaze is unfocused but not uninterested, staring blankly at the ceiling while he exhales sharply and his hands move. They start at Tim's chest and slowly move their way up, touching, feeling, stopping only to press his thumbnail gently over Tim's nipple. His hands stop only when they're in Tim's hair, pulling him as close as Tim will allow, and he pleased smile flits across his face for a brief moment.

"Let me touch your face," he asks, thumbs hovering over his jaw.

[comfortablyerect]

This isn't how they normally are. Normally, it's fast and rough and desperate, no matter who's on top. Teeth and fingers leave bruises on each other's bodies, hands gripping hair and loud moans wringing from throats as they beg for more. Normally, by now, they'd already be fucking. They'd already be so close to coming.

But this is different. They're sober, tasting of wine. Matt's shirtless and without his glasses and Tim can see the bruises along his rib cage, and he's careful to avoid jostling them. He wonders, suddenly, how many times Matt held him down and fucked him hard when his bones had to be aching.

This time, it's slow. It's slow and they're vulnerable and Tim can feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, not from arousal, but just from Matt's gentle touch. He's sure the other can feel it, and for once he doesn't care.

He doesn't reply out loud, but he puts his hands over Matt's, pressing them closer to his own face, a very definite yes. He never feels more exposed and raw than when Matt's fingers are tracing his face. He feels like this way, Matt can see him better than anybody else has ever been to. He doesn't have the hands of a lawyer, but a fighter, and that slight roughness to his palms makes a little more sense in relation to the bruising.

[blindfighter]

He's tired, if he's being honest. He's tired and worn out and no longer wound up from being angry. Now he's left with that feeling of numbness when he looses and it can't be worked out in the gym, now it's Tim that's comforting him.

Matt can't slow down, he's never slowed down, and Tim being somewhat gentle with him is the encouragement he finally needs.

He takes his time, and his hands roam around Tim's face. He's touching the other's cheek bones, feather-light, and he rolls his hips up as he does so, gaze still bland and looking at the ceiling. He can see Tim like this better, and even as they're fucking around, even though Matt's hips rise and fall, he speaks and feels like he sounds like a child.

"You have the best jawline I have ever encountered."