Work Text:
Matt knew someday he would have to kill his brother. The Network would get tired of him always letting him slip by, always protecting him from that stake in the heart. Or maybe their worry would compound until one of the other hunters took care of Jaime themselves. It didn’t matter; he was sure Jaime thought the same thing about him.
Someday…
Today wasn’t that day.
Instead, Jaime was seated across the dinner table, smiling at the array he prepared specifically for Matt. Before some bastard turned him, he was going to be a chef, but didn’t have much of a reason to cook now besides when Matt visited. Jaime fiddled with the sleeves of his tacky Christmas sweater as Matt devoured his steak, prattling about his life— he’d finished his ninth re-watch of The Office , wasn’t sure if he’d just start it over again or begin something new; had taken up painting; and had painted a terrible portrait of Matt that he loathed to show him (but would show him anyway, Matt knew).
“Nothing too exciting,” Jaime finished. His eyes were on Matt’s fingers as he wiped a napkin across his mouth. “You? How was Romania?”
Matt crumpled up the napkin, gathered it and his plate up, and stood. “Thanks for cooking.”
“Nonsense,” said Jamie, and rushed over to take the plate from Matt. “What kind of brother would I be if I let you wash the dishes?” That was said with a smirk. As kids, dish-washing had always been Matt’s chore.
“You assumed I was going to do the dishes?”
That earned him a light cuff on the shoulder. “Go brush your teeth. You’re lucky I love you enough to stomach cooking with garlic.”
Matt grinned at his back as Jaime walked toward the apartment’s kitchen. He watched him for a moment more, letting his eyes map the inward curve of his waist (so unlike his own body, used to cheap food and hard labor). Once he vanished from his view, he went to the bathroom and freshened up. There was no need for him to bring his toiletries, not when there was a spare bottle of his favorite cologne next to his toothbrush.
Jaime was already flipping through channels when Matt plopped down next to him, the worn couch sagging underneath them. Immediately Jaime scooted over, wiggling himself under Matt’s arm and resting his head on his chest. His hair smelled of the shampoo Matt had bought him— mint and something chemical.
“What do you want to watch? Romance, comedy...I think you’ve seen enough horror in Romania.”
“You know,” Matt said, running his fingers through Jaime’s hair, “we could skip the movie.”
Jaime chuckled and pressed a kiss to the underside of Matt’s jaw. Matt’s fingers stilled on their own accord when Jaime spoke against his skin. “That takes away the fun of having you snake a hand in my pants. Of picking a movie that I know will rile you up.”
He breathed in for three, breathed out for three. His heart stopped hammering, the chill of fear in his veins warmed, and his fingers resumed twirling Jaime's hair. “You don’t need a movie to rile me up.”
That made Jaime laugh again, and he pressed a short kiss to his skin that, despite its chastity, made a flare of heat swoop through Matt’s stomach. Then he stilled, the warm breath from his sigh ghosting along his skin. His arms wrapped around Matt’s back, and he squeezed tight enough to hurt. “I’m so happy you’re home.”
Matt held him, kissed the top of his head. When the day came when it was finally time to end it all, he wondered if he’d be able to do it.
The words echoed in his head. Then he unzipped Jaime's pants, kissed him once more and said, "Me too."