Work Text:
“My place, my rules.”
Matt grits his teeth; Frank is the most infuriating person he knows. “Not your place.”
“My name’s on the door.”
“Not your name.”
“Got papers to that name.”
“Legal papers?”
Frank shrugs. “Good enough. Now, move.”
“Make me.” Feet planted, fingers curled around the knife, he waits.
The atmosphere feels charged, electric; Frank lunges and pins Matt against the counter, traps his wrists. Matt wriggles experimentally, but Frank’s hold is tight.
“All this because you don’t like how I mince garlic?”
“My place, my rules, counselor.”
And Matt lets him lay down the law, this time.