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It wasn’t supposed to become a routine, this dance they did after nearly every night out. But as Frank pressed him harder into the wall, mouth closing over his in an open-mouthed kiss, Matt found he didn’t much care.
It had started as as a tentative truce: something Frank had proposed to him after too many nights of accidental meet-ups while tracking the same target. Too often, it ended with bloodied fists and faces, time and energy wasted on each other while their target got away. It made more sense, he reasoned, to be allies. Temporarily, of course.
And so began the long, nighttime hours of hunting down the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen. The fights went the same way every time: Matt barely keeping Frank from going too far; Frank swearing as yet another bullet found its mark just shy of a fatality. When their targets lay too broken to do anything but wait as wailing police sirens drew near, the pair would sneak away. They parted ways when the job was done—the only way to keep from turning guns and fists on each other, instead.
Inevitably, a fight went awry, and they crawled away nearly as broken and bloody as their criminal counterparts. On those nights, the pair would find themselves in Matt’s apartment, or, more frequently, one of Frank’s safehouses. It was a short step from bandaging their own torn flesh to wrapping bandages on each other, instead.
Stitching each other’s wounds wasn’t meant to turn into lingering touches. The feel of Frank’s fingers on his arm wasn’t supposed to make Matt’s blood heat, to quicken his pulse, to make him want . Likewise, there wasn’t meant to be a hitch in Frank’s breathing when Matt leaned in a bit too close, or let his fingers hover a bit too long when feeling for broken bones. It certainly wasn’t supposed to turn into this.
Tonight had been easy, and neither of them had received more than the odd scratch and bruise. Quiet nights might be good news for Hell’s Kitchen, but they made Matt itch. He tried not to think about it—the calm brought on by blood painting his knuckles and pain singing through his body.
It was easier to ignore with Frank’s steady presence at his side: The smell of gunpowder and leather, the strong heartbeat, the cadence of combat boots against the street. Under it all, though, he could detect the faint waft of arousal, growing stronger as they neared Matt’s apartment. They didn’t speak as they made the long trek, but they both knew what was coming.
Frank never showed it. His breathing remained steady, face impassive, even as Matt turned the key in the lock and led the way inside. At least, until the door was shut. In an instant, he had Matt’s waist gripped tight in both hands, shoving him against the wall at a speed that made him dizzy.
Matt fought down a groan as one of Frank’s hands threaded through his hair, guiding his head back and holding him in place. He sealed their mouths together with an intensity that still managed to surprise Matt, even after all this time. He pressed deeper into the kiss, into the sensation of Frank that drove him crazy. The hand in his hair gave a tug, just sharp enough to make Matt gasp and give Frank the opportunity to slip his tongue inside his mouth.
Frank let out a soft noise that made Matt nearly fly out of his skin, hands flying up to grab anywhere he could, pulling Frank impossibly closer. Craving him. Needing him. He rolled their hips together, eliciting another groan from the man.
Frank broke the kiss suddenly, pulling back. Matt couldn’t help but chase his mouth, craving his heat and his clever tongue, but the hand in his hair held him in place. He listened to Frank’s breathing, harsh and unsteady. He knew without a doubt that the man could control it, if he wanted to. If he was thinking about it. The fact that he didn’t made Matt’s chest tingle with something close to pride.
“Tell me what you want, Red.” The words left no room for argument, and Matt swallowed, hard.
This, too, was part of their routine. He knew Frank wouldn’t go further without an answer. Sometimes, Matt would purposely deny him that, just to see how many ways Frank could tease it out of him. How far he himself could go before he broke under the promise of Frank’s lingering touches and heated words.
Tonight, though, he needed this. Now . The night had been too peaceful, and with the walk back to his apartment—Frank’s arousal taunting him with every step—it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his mind completely. He was disgustingly desperate for Frank to take him apart until Matt knew nothing but the man’s name.
“Everything. All of it. Fuck me,” he said, cheeks coloring faintly as he kept from adding, please .
To his credit, Frank didn’t hesitate. In an instant, one of his knees was slotted between Matt’s legs, and they nearly buckled beneath him. Frank’s lips were on him again, targeting the sensitive spot behind his ear with practiced ease. There was the pressure of his tongue as Frank sucked, hard. Matt gave a broken cry, hands scrabbling at Frank’s back, only to be met with the fabric of his shirt.
“Off,” he demanded breathlessly, and Frank made another low sound that made Matt want to draw blood.
He broke away just long enough to bring the fabric of over his head, nearly ripping it in two, before returning to Matt’s neck. Matt’s hands found purchase against hardened muscle and warm skin. He scraped his nails across Frank’s back just hard enough to leave marks, loving the way Frank’s body rippled under his touch in a pleasurable shudder.
As if in answer, the knee between his legs ground upwards, causing him to bark a curse, nails digging deeper. He was still wearing his suit—as much as Frank liked to tease him about his costume, Matt was well aware how much the man enjoyed seeing him in leather. But now, the pressure on his groin was becoming nearly unbearable. All around him was nothing but the sound and smell and feel of Frank .
“Bed. Now,” he gasped.
Frank broke away from his neck, but made no move to release him. Instead, those strong hands once again circled his waist, grinding Matt’s body helplessly against a muscled thigh once, twice, until his head spun. He leaned until his breath was hot on Matt’s ear.
“And what if I want to fuck you right here, against the wall?”
Every thought eddied from Matt’s head.
Instead of trying to manage a coherent reply, Matt dropped to his knees, pleased when Frank inhaled sharply, surprise and approval evident. On his knees like this, the scent of him was overpowering. Matt leaned forward, resting his forehead against the v of Frank’s hip and breathing him in for a long moment.
He tilted his head back, lifting his eyes slightly as though he were staring up at Frank.
“Can I?” He couldn’t deny how wrecked his own voice sounded. Even by his standards, this was dangerously close to begging. Frank’s heartbeat spiked.
“Christ, Red,” came a strained voice above him. A firm hand once again threaded through his hair, urging him forward.
Matt made quick work of Frank’s pants, until the length of his cock sat hot and heavy before him, leaking precum. He flicked his eyes up again, pausing to appreciate the way Frank’s heart thundered in his chest, the little hitch in his breath. The hand in his hair was tight, but remained still, cradling his head instead of pulling him in.
Matt wet his lips, then circled his mouth around the head of Frank’s cock, lapping at the tip with his tongue. He held himself there for a moment, savoring it, then pushed further down. The length filled his throat in a way that made Matt wonder if this was the sort of thing one could become addicted to.
Above him, Frank barked a stream of incoherent curses. Or maybe, Matt was just so far gone that he didn’t understand the words anymore. Both seemed plausible.
Then, everything went very, very wrong.
One moment, he was drunk on the intoxicating smell of Frank, the feel of his fingers tugging at his scalp, the taste on his tongue, the sound of his voice murmuring gentle praises.
The next, the world exploded in a cacophony of sound.
It was so violently loud that Matt lurched backwards, ripping himself away from Frank. The man’s hand was still clenched in his hair, tight enough that Matt felt part of it it rip as he fought to get back, get away from the noise. His head slammed against the wall as he frantically reached to cover his ears. It didn’t help.
The sound of a thousand heartbeats, and car horns, and voices, and footsteps and scraping metal pierced through him like a knife. Was he screaming? The pain was so intense that he was sure he must be, but it was hard to tell over all the noise.
A hand closed around his wrist, and he didn’t know whose it was. He tried desperately to get away from the touch, away from this stranger— No, not a stranger. Frank. It must be Frank, but he was trying to pull Matt’s hands away from his ears, but the sound was getting louder and louder and—
All at once, the world went quiet.
. . . .
Frank didn’t have the first idea what was happening, but he knew it was bad.
He’d been so far gone, focused on the beautiful man on his knees, that at first he hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the way Red’s eyes snapped open wide. At least, not until the other yanked himself backward so forcefully Frank was sure he ripped hair from his scalp, head slamming hard into the wall behind him.
On instinct, Frank took several steps back. The man didn’t seem to notice, though. Half collapsed on the floor, he scrabbled helplessly at his ears.
“Red?” Frank managed, mind dulled on the precipice of pleasure and panic.
Then, Red began to scream.
Frank had heard him scream like that only once before. It was the night they’d been caught in an ambush, splitting up to make short work of those surrounding them. Frank had been nearly finished working his way through the onslaught when he’d heard Matt scream. All his military training couldn’t stop his mind from briefly whiting out in panic, every ounce of his focus going to Red.
He’d made short work of the remaining men, not particularly caring if his methods meant they would live to see another day or not. Red would care. But Red wasn’t stopping him, not right then, not when Frank had found him slumped against the brick wall, blood oozing at an alarming rate from beneath his outfit.
What proceeded had been the worst night of Frank’s life. He’d hauled the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen back to his apartment, nearly tearing his costume to pieces to get at the source of his injury. He’d had to fight the urge to vomit when he finally got a good look at the long, deep slash across Matt’s abdomen that threatened to spill the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
He’d been passing a hot needle through Red’s ruined stomach when the man woke up and started screaming again. The sound was gut-churningly inhuman, so unlike the carefully composed man who fought by his side. Frank had forced himself to shut down, holding Red still as he thrashed, as the needle went in and out, slowly putting him back together. After Red’s screaming had once again given way to unconsciousness, Frank really had barely made it across of the room before heaving up the contents of his stomach.
Now, it was that same scream that shocked Frank into action.
He knelt by Red’s side, scanning for injury even though he knew none existed. The man’s fingers were digging into his ears hard enough Frank worried he would draw blood. As he reached to pull Red’s hands away, the man tried desperately to wrench himself from Frank’s grasp, seeming unable to do anything but continue to thrash.
As abruptly as it had started, the screaming stopped. Frank froze, loosening his grip on Matt’s wrist and standing slowly, cautiously. His breathing was sharp, eyes alight with pain. Frank stood motionless, unable to move, to think, to know how to help. Slowly, Red removed his hands from his ears.
“Red?” Frank tried again. No response. He just continued to lay half-curled against the wall, trembling.
Red stayed motionless for a long moment. Then, Frank watched as his eyes widened a fraction, brows twisting. With his left hand, Matt slapped the floor. Gently at first—then harder, until his palm slammed against it with such a force that his hand must be bruised. He brought it up to his ear and snapped his fingers once. Twice. His breathing, already too fast, now bordered on hyperventilation.
“Goddamnit, Red, what’s happening?” he demanded, military training kicking into overdrive and assessing the situation as though it were a battlefield.
“ Matt. ” Frank didn’t bother hiding his desperation. Again, no answer. It was as if Matt didn’t hear him.
Panic attack . The phrase came unbidden to the back of his mind. He’d seen it in the military, under the cover of night when the others were asleep. But the shaking, the sharp gasps for air, the unresponsive and endless terror—it was all the same. Back then, Frank had laid still on his cot, pretending to sleep until the noises stopped or unconsciousness swallowed him. But for Matt, he had to try.
He sank down until he was kneeling mere inches from Matt, who gave no indication that he noticed him at all. As gently as he could, Frank pressed a hand to his shoulder, hating the way Matt flinched in response. His mind was still working overtime, putting the pieces in place. The more he analyzed the situation, the further the cold horror crept over him.
Matt had been on his knees with Frank’s hand fisted in his hair when it all went wrong. They’d been— had he not wanted— ? Frank passed a hand over his face, forcing himself to remember Matt’s words. “Can I?” He had asked. He had asked , that meant he must have— Still, Frank found himself sifting through every detail, looking for any sign that Matt had been forcing himself. The thought made him want to throw up.
For a long moment, Frank wondered if he should remove his hand from the Matt’s shoulder—If touching him was making it worse. Certainly, his breathing was still coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Something in Matt’s face seemed to clear, though, and he reached out a shaking hand, fingers outstretched. Frank caught it by the wrist and guided it to his face, letting Matt’s fingers trace the stubble of his jaw.
“Frank,” Matt managed between gasps, a short, stilted plea for help. The sound of his name brought relief crashing over Frank, but it was short-lived.
“Can’t hear, Frank.” His words had an odd strain to them, and for the first time Frank noticed the shimmer building in his eyes.
“Can’t hear, can’t—oh God, please, please not again.”
He turned Matt’s words over in his head. He couldn’t hear . Frank felt his own panic swell again, but he shoved it down. In front of him, Matt was still hardly breathing. His face was scrunched up, mouth moving to form silent words that Frank couldn’t make out. He thought the man might be praying. Frank needed to do something, anything, to slow Matt’s panic.
Frank grasped his wrist again, moving the hand from his face down to his chest, pressing Matt’s palm firmly over his heart. He placed his own hand atop it, holding it there. He breathed in, then out. In, then out again, exaggerating each movement to ensure Matt could feel the rise and fall of his chest.
After several agonizing minutes passed, Matt seemed to get the idea. Though it was clearly a struggle, he began to copy Frank’s breathing. His head tilted as he felt for each rise and fall of Frank’s chest, for the thump of his heartbeat, which was quicker than its usual steady rhythm.
Slowly, Matt’s breathing evened out. His trembling faded from full-body shaking to the occasional twitch. His head tilted back, resting gently against the wall. His eyes were turned to the ceiling, ignoring the tears that slid gently down his face and dripped into his lap.
A different sort of pressure was building in Frank’s chest now. Not the raw edge of panic, but the overwhelming need to comfort the man sat helplessly in front of him. To wipe his tears away with a gentle hand, to cradle Matt’s head in his shoulder, and stroke his hair. He hesitated, though. That felt too much like… something they weren’t.
They fought together—fought each other, too, on occasion. They patched each other up. They had sex, in a way that was raw and primal and fulfilled some basic need buried deep inside both of them. But they weren’t lovers. They certainly weren’t in a relationship. So why did Frank want to hold Matt, the same way he would have held Maria?
“Frank,” Matt croaked, and all his hesitation vanished.
He leaned forward on his knees and gathered Matt in his arms, wrapping around him as firmly as he could without suffocating the other man. Matt let out a choked sound, gripping him back just as tightly. His hands smoothed up and down the bare skin of Frank’s back, seeming to find comfort in the contact. Frank let his one of his hands find Matt’s hair, curling rhythmically through the dark strands.
With Matt seated against the wall, Frank had to practically straddle his lap to hold him properly. He realized that he’d been saying things, too—useless words, sweet nothings, things that a part of him was glad Matt couldn’t hear him say. But he felt the way Matt’s hand flattened on his back, feeling the vibration. He felt the way the tension eased slightly from his shoulders. So Frank leaned his head forward against Matt’s shoulder, and kept talking.
He couldn’t say how long they stayed like that, only that by the time Matt stirred beneath him, both of Frank’s legs had gone numb, and his neck was beginning to ache.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” Matt murmured as they released each other.
Frank wondered if he could hear how his relief at those words seemed to strengthen the rhythm in his chest. As if in response, Matt’s mouth curved in an faint attempt of a smile. He turned to sit beside Matt on the floor, wincing as his knees barked their protest. Matt curled towards him slightly, but didn’t move to lean against him again.
Frank took a long breath. He shouldn’t push right now—not when the other seemed so exhausted, not when he’d been reduced to a shaking ball on the floor mere minutes ago. But he had to know. He had to ask.
“What was that?” he said as softly as he could.
Matt tucked his knees to his chest, tilting his head away from Frank. He opened his mouth, paused, closed it again. Shook his head. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
“‘s not an answer, Matt.” Matt’s head twitched in his direction at the use of his name, and Frank realized with a start that he hadn’t been calling him “Red.” He wished he hadn’t realized it, because now a part of his brain was whispering how nice it sounded, how much he liked the man’s name on his tongue.
“It’s not— it’s fine. It was nothing. I can handle it.”
It was such a typical Matt response that Frank fought not to roll his eyes, but… There was something off about the way he was talking, a fragile tension that shouldn’t be there. As though he were afraid of what might be confessed if he started talking. Frank frowned and rubbed a hand over his mouth.
“That was nothing?” Frank pushed forward off the wall, turning his body to face the other man. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that, because it wasn’t nothing to me.” Matt’s body tensed, but he remained silent, listening to what Frank had to say.
“You had a panic attack, Matt, and I could barely get you to breathe. And the only thing I know is that right before you freaked out, you were— we were—” He swallowed hard, staring at his hands fisted in his lap. “Did something happen to you to make you react like that? Did I do something to–”
“Frank.” Matt’s voice was steady as he cut him off, and Frank looked up to see the man turned toward him now. His cheeks were slightly pink, but his expression was firm. “It’s not that. I wanted everything we did. I liked it. Nothing you did today made this happen.”
Relief flooded through him with such intensity that Frank sagged, barely catching himself as his body swayed toward the ground. But the question still pawed at the back of his mind.
“Then what happened?”
Matt sighed, grimacing. “Every now and then, I get these… episodes. Everything gets so loud that I think my head might split open. Then my hearing vanishes. It’s been so long since the last one, I thought time had healed it, but.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I guess not. Anyway, I don’t handle it well. Obviously.”
He tried to imagine what it would mean to Matt, a man who relied on his hearing to see. To move. To function. Without his hearing… Frank took a sharp breath.
Without his hearing, there was no Red.
“What caused it?”
Matt turned away then, but not in time to hide the odd look that flitted across his face. He stayed quiet for long enough that Frank decided to push.
“Matt. What happened? ”
“I got shot in the head.”
With that sentence, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. It felt as though a hot knife had stabbed straight into Frank’s lungs. Matt didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. The words were echoing inside Frank’s head like a bullet. You did this.
Frank wanted to leave. He wanted to get up, walk out that door, and hit something. More importantly, he wanted something to hit him. Hard. How had he never noticed? What if had happened in the middle of a fight? He could have been killed, and it would be Frank’s fault. Oh, God, what if it had been permanent?
“Stop it,” Matt said, quietly, but with enough force to temporarily halt Frank’s spiraling. “I can tell what’s going through your head right now. Just stop. What’s done is done, Frank.”
Frank wanted to argue. He wanted very much to tell Matt that he could shove all that self-sacrificing bullshit up his ass, that he had every right to be angry with Frank for what was undeniably his fault. Furthermore, who was he to tell Frank that he couldn’t be angry with himself?
But when he opened his mouth, none of that came out.
“I’m so sorry, Matty,” he whispered.
Matt regarded Frank silently for a long moment, then reached over and took his hand. He ran a thumb absentmindedly along Frank’s knuckles, tracing the man’s many scars, the map of a life of brutality that would never leave him. He tugged Frank’s hand closer, bringing it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss into his flesh.
It was answer enough.
Eventually, Frank stood, legs protesting as he helped Matt to his feet. The man swayed a step, catching himself on the wall. Frank took him gently by the waist, still half expecting Matt to shove him away. Instead, Matt leaned further into him, allowing himself to be led slowly to the bedroom.
Morning had started to bleed into the sky, painting the blue with pale streaks of pink and gold. Both would have to be up again in a few short hours. Matt stumbled into bed as soon as they reached it, shucking off the suit and tossing it haphazardly across the room. Although he’d seen the man naked so many times before, the sight of him now made Frank feel like he should avert his eyes.
This wasn’t a pleasurable, mutually fulfilling act. This was quiet. Intimate. This was seeing Matt stripped bare from his defenses. And Matt was letting him. He thought that should scare him more than anything. But he wasn’t sure if it did.
Frank lingered in the doorway for a long moment, drinking in the sight of the beautiful man before him. Although Matt’s eyes were closed, he knew he could sense him. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He should leave, before the ache in his chest turned into something he could no longer ignore.
“Goodnight, Matty,” he mumbled, forcing himself to turn and leave the room.
“Stay.”
The word was a tentative demand, and Frank paused. Again, his earlier hesitations came rushing back. This wasn’t what they were. This wasn’t what they’re supposed to be. Fighting partners, yes. Lovers, yes—in an exclusively physical sense. This, though… This came far too close to a part of Frank that had been burned until there was nothing left. But right now, Frank couldn’t think of a single place he’d rather be.
He padded across the floor, slipping under silken covers next to Matt. Instantly, the man curled against him, twining one arm around his bare waist and nuzzling into his shoulder. Frank looped an arm under his body, tugging him closer and relishing the warmth that bloomed across him. He pressed a kiss to Matt’s head, the word echoing his his head. Stay.
“Always, Matty,” Frank whispered as his eyes slip shut. “Always.”