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One of the first things Matt truly learns about Frank is about control. Control is what Frank's all about. When they first met, it was subtle, thin, barely there, but it was there nonetheless. Frank was all about control before the incident, and, well.
Some things you can't let go of.
You could strip Frank of his guns, of his family, of hope, but he'd still have a spark of control over the situation. Not always completely, but always enough, and that meant he'd eventually gain the upper hand.
Control is not something Frank loses, not easily, and not completely. He's good with it, gets high on it, knows how to handle it.
It's in every fibre of his being, and he can't live without it.
Matt learns it later, much later, after five or ten random meetings in the late hours in Hell's Kitchen. They've worked together accidentally plenty of times, teaming up without one ever asking for the other's help. They don't ask, but Matt knows he's grateful for the times when he had been dangerously, overly outnumbered, and he wonders if Frank ever feels grateful for his presence, too.
He doubts it, but it's a nice thought.
They grow closer. Sure, they don't speak as much as normal people do, hardly interact verbally when they're out of the streets, but more and more Matt finds himself either followed home by Frank, or following the other man to one of his safehouses.
It's not as frequent as every night, but it sure is frequent enough that Matt and Frank can walk around Matt's apartment without bumping into each other, already used to each other's presence, walking around and past each other with a naturality that you only acquire after doing that more than once or twice.
They've built up trust, not a friendship, but somewhat of a partnership, and Matt didn't expect anything more than that.
All of that still doesn't explain just how he found himself in the position he’s in.
His back is against a wall, and it’s wet, and it’s cold, and a shiver runs down his spine. Frank has him backed up, and there’s barely space for him to take a full breath, he’s limited to little short breaths. It’s late, and it’s a dark corner, and Matt should be paying attention to his surroundings, but he has trouble keeping his ears out for sirens or cries for help, he has trouble acknowledging anything that isn’t Frank; anything that isn’t the man’s heartbeat and his own, loud, pounding in his ear; anything that isn’t Frank’s thigh pushed between his, and Frank’s hand tight on his hip, and Frank’s gun pressed to his temple.
“Shh.” Frank’s voice sounds like both menacing and soothing, and he moves his thigh just enough that Matt doesn’t manage to hold back a sigh. “Shh. Pay attention.” Matt’s grip onto Frank’s biceps tighten for a second, and he forces himself to relax his tense muscles, at least slightly. “If anyone comes and you don’t warn me before, if you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot them, and it’ll be your fault.”
Matt sucks in a breath, and his heartbeat skyrockets simultaneously to his arousal. And then he lets it go, and breathes in another, and he tries to mentally detach himself, check if there’s anyone else even slightly close to them, awake and moving. He struggles, but he manages, and he opens his mouth to tell Frank no, the city is as good as dead, but the words stop unsaid. Frank lets the tip of his gun brush against Matt’s cheek, down his jawline to his chin, and then the gun’s hovering over his lips. It presses onto his lower lip, and uses the chapped state of Matt’s lips to pull it down with the lightest of moves. Frank’s watching him, he can feel it, and it feels so heavy he can hardly breathe.
Frank leans, lets his gun slide down to Matt’s neck. His lips are on Matt’s in a split second, filthy, as chapped as Matt’s, wanting, demanding, taking, and Matt can’t push him away - doesn’t want to push him away.