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Frank knows what his hands do.
He learned it early. Learned it the hard way. Learned it in blood and fists and bodies hitting the ground hard enough to stay down.
You get close to him, something breaks. Bones if you’re lucky. Trust if you’re not. He’s built heavy. Built sharp. Built to end things, not hold them.
He and Matt began in blood.
Blood in Frank’s mouth, blood on Matt’s knuckles, the two of them circling each other like it was a fight even when it wasn’t. They learned each other through violence. Hurt each other on purpose. Frank didn’t mind then. Pain was the only language they shared.
But Frank stopped wanting to hurt him long before touch was ever an option.
Matt is cut from something cleaner than Frank ever was. Something wrong and right all at once. An angel dressed up like the devil, all red suit and sharp smiles, throwing himself headfirst into hell and calling it justice.
There’s something beautiful about him that Frank doesn’t have words for. Something precious. The last good thing Frank has, and the least deserved.
For a while, Frank thought love might teach him mercy. Thought maybe wanting something this badly, something this good, would sand him down around the edges. Make him gentler. Quieter. Less like a gun with the safety off.
It’s only made him worse.
The sins are bigger now. Heavier. Harder to justify. Violence doesn’t stop at the edges of his life anymore—it leaks. Spreads. Gets its hands on things it shouldn’t. On Matt.
Matt knows who Frank is. Frank’s never hidden it. Never dressed himself up softer than he is. Matt knows the blood, the aftermath, the way Frank carries violence like a second spine. And still—still he steps in close. Still reaches for Frank like he isn’t something that hurts.
Frank’s watched people stay before. Watched them tell themselves they could handle it. That love would dull his sharpness, the angle of his edges. It never does. It just gives him more chances to fuck it up.
Matt stays anyway.
Holds him like he’s worth the cost. Like pain is already accounted for. Like Frank isn’t a loaded gun sitting between them every time they touch.
Frank doesn’t believe in monsters. He believes in cause and effect. In men who are made for certain things and ruined for others. Men who shouldn’t be within reach.
But Matt—God help him—keeps stepping close enough to get cut.
–
It starts with words.
An argument in the kitchen, late, nothing big. No guns, no masks. Just Frank tired and done with pretending this is easy. Matt pushes. Asks why Frank won’t even try to believe things can be different. Frank fires back without aiming. Says something ugly about faith, about hope, about dead fathers and the sons who keep believing anyway.
He sees it hit. Sees Matt’s face go tight before he turns away, shoulders tight, breath off.
“Frank,” he says, like he’s steady. Like his voice isn’t breaking. “That’s not fair.”
Frank stands there, fists clenched, knowing he just broke something he can’t put back together. He doesn’t apologize fast enough. He never does. By the time he gets the words out, Matt’s already wiping at his eyes like it’s just another mess to clean.
Then there’s the nights they don’t argue.
Matt wants him. Wants him close, wants him hard, wants him honest in the way only bodies can be. Frank wants him back just as bad. Always has.
The line between violence and desire has never been clean with them—heat, teeth, hands grabbing harder than they should. Frank likes it. Likes the intensity. Likes the way Matt meets him there, unafraid.
Until Matt tenses, makes a sound that’s wrong. Not loud. Just sharp. Pain cutting through pleasure for half a second.
Frank freezes. Pulls back like he’s been burned. Breath gone. Heart slamming. He replays the moment over and over, looking for where he crossed the line. Matt reaches for him immediately, grounding, steady, murmuring that he’s okay, that Frank didn’t do anything wrong.
He nods. Pretends he believes it. Later, awake in the dark, he can still hear that sound. Can’t tell himself it won’t happen again.
Then it’s a bruise.
A stupid one. Frank grabs Matt’s arm during another fight, not even hard, just enough to stop him from walking away. Fingers sink in. Matt jerks free, pissed more than anything.
The next morning, Frank sees it. Dark and blooming. Finger-shaped.
Matt catches him staring. Rolls his eyes. “Relax. I bruise easy.”
Frank doesn’t say a word. He never forgets it.
And then there’s the work. The places where Frank’s life bleeds into Matt’s whether either of them wants it to or not. Frank does what he does. Ends a guy fast and clean. Finds out afterward Matt needed him alive for a case. Watches Nelson tear into Matt for it, watches Matt take the hit without deflecting, without explaining.
Frank doesn’t regret the kill. Not for a second. But he hates the way Matt pays for it.
It keeps stacking up. Little things. Manageable things. Nothing dramatic enough to justify walking away. That’s the problem. There’s no single moment Frank can point to and say that’s it, that’s when I ruined it.
It’s just repetition. Blunt force. The same lesson hammered in over and over.
Every time Frank gets close, something breaks. Every time Frank reaches for him, Matt bleeds.
Frank stops calling it bad luck. Stops pretending he’ll learn how to love without drawing blood. Some men aren’t built for gentle. Some men only know how to love like they know how to fight—hard, bruising, and with consequences.
Matt keeps choosing him anyway. And Frank starts believing in monsters.
–
Frank trusts Matt when things turn sharp.
That was true before they knew each other’s names. Before anything else. Matt hits hard. He doesn’t hesitate. Frank learned it up close, face-first into concrete, tasting blood and knowing he’d come back for it.
Matt doesn’t need a shadow. Frank casts one anyway.
They move clean. Efficient. Frank takes the outside. Matt cuts through the center, fast and precise. Frank clears space. Leaves lanes open where Matt needs them. This is the one place Frank doesn’t second-guess himself. Distance. Timing. Pressure. His body knows what to do.
Then he slips. Half a step. A shoulder turned wrong. A gap that shouldn’t be there. It’s nothing until it’s everything.
The hit catches Matt across the ribs and takes him off his feet. Matt goes down hard and stays there, air ripped clean out of him, the sound short and raw before he can swallow it.
Frank’s on him instantly. Too close. His fingers dig in, checking, counting. Matt’s breath stutters, then comes back shallow and angry.
“I’m fine,” Matt says, already trying to get up. “Move—”
Frank is already turning to finish the job. There’s nothing left between his hands and what they do.
He closes in without slowing. He finds a throat and squeezes until cartilage gives under his palms. Another man goes down choking, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. Frank steps over him without looking.
A jaw breaks under his fist. Teeth scatter across the floor. Frank follows the body down and drives an elbow into the side of the neck until the shaking stops. He keeps moving.
Joints tear loose. A skull gives with a hard, final crack. Someone tries to crawl; Frank plants a boot between shoulder blades and pushes until the spine gives out beneath it. The room fills with the smell of blood and sweat and something coppery and final.
Bodies go down and stay there. He keeps himself between Matt and everything else without thinking about it, stepping into angles that don’t exist anymore, blocking threats that are already dead.
Frank knows Matt hears it—the wet thuds, the choking ends, the way Frank’s own breathing goes harsh and animal. Knows Matt hates what crawls out of him when he loses control.
He doesn’t slow for that either.
When it’s done, the room is cut open, edges still raw. Frank’s hands are shaking. Blood slicks his fingers, cooling fast.
Matt’s already on his feet when Frank turns. He crosses the room fast, one hand locked to his ribs. Anger set hard, worry right under it.
“What the hell was that?” Matt snaps. His jaw is set tight. There’s blood on him that isn’t his. He looks sickened—by the room, by Frank, by how fast it all grew teeth.
Frank doesn’t answer. He feels his own fury come up slow and hard. His hands flex at his sides. He keeps them there.
Matt waits for him to say something. A beat stretches. Then another. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, mouth twisted like he’s tasted something bad.
He shakes his head once, sharp and done, and turns for the door. He swears under his breath as he goes. The door bangs open. Cold air cuts in.
Frank follows, but not close.
Half a step back. Then more. Near enough to track. Far enough not to touch. Matt doesn’t say anything. He moves fast, shoulders tight, ribs guarded.
Frank stares at his hands the whole way out. How easily they want to reach. How certain they are they’d make it worse.
They don’t speak until they’re back inside the safehouse.
Matt paces, fast and tight. His shoulders are up around his ears. Anger sits in him like a live wire.
Frank sets his gear down on the table and immediately hates the sound it makes—metal ringing, too sharp, too clean. His hands are still trembling. Not fear. Not regret. Just the leftover electricity of what he did, what he’s built for, refusing to drain.
“You went too far,” Matt says.
It comes out controlled, like anger is something that can still be handled if you don’t let it bite. Like if he says it calmly enough, Frank will hear it.
“They deserved it,” Frank answers.
Simple. True. He waits for that to be the end of it.
Matt stops pacing and turns on him fully. “That’s not—” He drags in a breath, anger bending it out of shape. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Frank’s shoulders tense. He looks away to keep from looking at Matt’s ribs, because his mind will go there and he’ll lose whatever ground he has. He busies himself with nothing—wipes at his hands, straightens his guns, makes the table neat like neatness has ever saved him from anything.
“You lost control,” Matt says, careful like the words might snap back at him. “You hear me? You lost control.”
Frank’s jaw tightens. “I ended it.”
“You just kept going like you couldn’t stop,” Matt’s voice spikes. He steps in closer, crowding him. “You didn’t need to do that.”
Frank feels the anger rise hot, the reflex to defend himself, to defend the one thing he understands. “I kept you alive.”
That should be enough. It’s the only thing that matters. But Matt’s face twists like Frank just slapped him.
“That’s the problem,” Matt snaps. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Frank’s stomach drops. “What the hell does that mean?”
Matt drags a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe something off that won’t come clean. When he speaks again, his voice shakes.
“When you do that—when you lose it like that because of me—”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” Matt cuts him off hard. “You do. You always do. You think you have to—” He makes a frustrated, helpless motion, like he’s trying to shove the memory back into Frank’s chest where it belongs.
Frank steps closer without meaning to. “I did what needed doing.”
“I hear everything, ” Matt says. “I hear when you stop being…you.”
Frank’s chest goes tight, pressure building under his ribs. “You know who I am,” he says, voice low. “You knew what you were getting.”
Matt’s breath goes sharp, clipped. “I don’t get to react when it gets worse?”
“It’s not worse,” Frank snaps. “It’s the same.”
“No.” Matt’s voice cracks, just a fraction. “It’s not the same. Not when it’s for me.”
Frank lets out a sharp breath. “You wanted me there.”
“I wanted you there,” Matt spits back, “Not—” He stops, breath hitching. His fingers curl into a fist. “Not that.”
“So what, you’re ashamed?”
Matt’s mouth twists, something raw slipping through. “I’m terrified.”
It hangs there between them. Frank feels something in his chest go tight and cold at the same time, like a scar pulling wrong.
“That’s what this is,” he says. His voice comes out sharp, already mean, cutting first so it won’t hurt as bad when it comes back at him. “That’s what you've been dancing around.”
Matt’s head snaps up. “Frank—”
Frank doesn’t give him room to finish. He never does when it matters. “You finally saying it out loud?”
Matt shoves him. Not hard, just frustration breaking through his hands. Frank barely rocks back before he shoves him right back.
Because that’s how it works. Because pressure demands an answer. Because standing there and letting it sit feels like letting it win.
Their hands catch shoulders, fabric, skin. The space between them collapses fast, turns ugly and close.
Matt grabs the front of Frank’s shirt and yanks him forward, hard enough to wrinkle the collar under his fists. “I’m saying you disappear,” he shouts. “I’m saying you don’t even hear yourself when you—”
Frank cuts him off with another shove. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Matt slams a hand into his chest again, harder now. “Listen to me!”
The words crack. They sound wrong in Matt’s mouth — too loud, too desperate.
Frank laughs once, short and vicious. “I fucking heard you. You just told me you’re scared.”
“I told you—” Matt’s voice rises, sharp with fury. “Goddamn it, Frank—”
They crash back into each other. Breath turns hot and uneven between them, anger crowding everything else out. It feels like the room has shrunk down to just this — hands and heat and too much history packed into too little space.
“You’re saying I hurt you,” Frank says.
“I’m saying you’re hurting,” Matt fires back. “And yeah, it hurts me too.”
Something in him snaps. Frank doesn’t think. He just moves. He pushes Matt again — to get distance, to keep from falling apart right in front of him.
Matt shoves back just as hard. They stumble, catch themselves, go at it again. Elbows, hands, bodies colliding with no aim except away and back all at once.
It’s stupid. It’s ugly. It feels like before. Like fists and blood and nothing else between them. It’s wrong and right all at once. Wrong in the way things have changed. Right in the way the memory still lives in his hands.
He shoves again. Just a little too hard.
Matt’s ribs are already sore. The angle’s wrong. His back hits the wall with a sharp, involuntary sound, breath knocked loose. Matt’s face tightens. He winces before he can stop it.
Frank freezes. The anger drains out of him so fast it leaves him hollow, like somebody pulled the plug and everything inside just spilled out onto the floor.
“I didn’t—” he starts, because that’s what you say when you’ve already crossed the line.
“I’m fine,” Matt snaps immediately, straightening like the pain is something he can out-stubborn. His jaw locks down hard, pride sliding into place like armor.
Frank reaches for him. Slow. Careful. Measured.
Not grabbing. Not force. Just touch — the kind he has to think about, the kind that never comes naturally. He wants Matt’s face under his palm. Wants to smooth the pain away. Wants to press down and stop the bleeding.
Matt flinches. Barely. A reflex. A split-second brace his body doesn’t ask permission for.
Frank sees it anyway. He jerks his hand back.
It settles in his chest, cold and heavy. He knew this was coming. And there it is.
Matt swears under his breath. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, like he’s trying to shake the feeling off and can’t. He doesn’t face Frank.
“Jesus Christ,” Matt says, bitter now. “I can’t do this.”
He turns for the door.
“Matt,” Frank calls out. The name breaks in his throat.
Matt doesn’t turn around. The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.
Frank stands there in the sudden quiet. He doesn’t move for a long time. He can’t. If he moves, he’ll shatter into something he won’t be able to put back together.
Then something in him turns, ugly and frantic.
He breaks the chair first. Wood splits under his grip with a sound that feels satisfying for half a second and then feels like nothing. He shoves the table into the wall. The lamp goes down next, glass cracking and spilling itself across the floor like glittering teeth.
It doesn’t fix anything.
He slides down the wall and sits hard on the floor, back against the plaster, knees up. His breathing is loud in the quiet, too animal, too much. He presses his palms together like prayer, like restraint, like he can make his hands into something harmless if he holds them tight enough.
Frank knows what his hands do. He’s known it longer than he’s known how to be anything else.
He’s lost everyone because he touched them. But Frank had thought, stupidly, that this was a second chance. That maybe he could learn how to hold something without breaking it.
Matt saw the worst of him and stayed anyway. He saw the sharpness and didn’t pull back. He was the only one who could take Frank’s ugly truths in both hands and still call him worth keeping.
And Frank still scared him away.
His love cuts. It carves. Doors close. People leave. Or they die before they get the chance. He earns it every time.
It still guts him. Matt wasn’t supposed to be one more ghost.
Frank doesn’t realize he’s crying until his vision blurs, until something hot slides down his cheek and he wipes at it angrily and his hand comes away wet.
He leans his head back against the wall and stares up at the harsh light. The ceiling swims. He tries to breathe through it. Tries to make himself smaller. Less dangerous. Like that’s ever worked.
The door opens.
Frank doesn’t look up. He can’t.
Matt’s steps slow as he crosses the room. Frank can hear him take it in—the broken chair, the table shoved out of place, the glass underfoot. All the things Frank handled without mercy.
Matt stops in front of him. The silence stretches.
He waits for judgment. For distance. For Matt to turn back around and stay gone.
Then Matt crouches and settles into Frank’s lap like it’s the only place he belongs. Frank’s breath catches.
Matt’s hands come up, gentle, thumbs wiping at Frank’s cheeks. It’s careful in a way Frank has never been with anyone.
“Hey,” Matt murmurs. There’s no fear on his face. No hatred, no disgust. Just worry. Just grief.
Frank leans into the touch before he can stop himself. It’s instinct. Hunger. Relief so sharp it hurts.
“I’m sorry,” Frank says, the words breaking apart between his teeth.
Matt’s arms tighten around him. “I know.”
Frank swallows, voice rough. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Matt repeats, softer, thumb brushing along Frank’s jaw.
Frank presses his forehead to Matt’s shoulder. He can smell him—cold air, soap, something clean under all the blood. He closes his eyes and breathes him in.
“I love you,” he says, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t.
Matt kisses the side of his head. “I love you too.”
Frank’s hands hover for a second, uncertain. Then they settle carefully at Matt’s waist, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard. Like he’s waiting for it to hurt.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Matt says, quiet but firm.
Frank doesn’t answer. Because the relief is immediate and violent and the dread comes right behind it, precise and unavoidable.
Matt isn’t going to leave. And Frank knows himself. He knows how little space there is between holding and hurting.
But he holds Matt anyway. Holds him like he can make it gentle if he tries hard enough. Like wanting it bad enough counts for something.
In the bright, ugly light of the safehouse, with Matt’s mouth against his temple and Frank’s tears drying cold on his skin, Frank stares over Matt’s shoulder at the broken chair, the shattered glass on the floor, the wreckage he made just to prove he was wreckage.
And he keeps his hands as still as he can.