Chapter Text
You in the dark
You in the pain
You on the run
Living a hell
Living your ghost
Living your end
Never seem to get in the place that I belong
Don't wanna lose the time, lose the time to come
Whatever you say, it's alright
Whatever you do, it's all good
Whatever you say, it's alright
Bush - Letting the cables sleep
Sometimes, Frank shuts down. It’s like he exists in two distinct planes: the Punisher in one, the shell of who he used to be in the other. It’s like he’s made of parallel lines, and you know what they say about those.
They never meet.
Matt knows, of course he knows. He feels him, bathed in yellow lamp light, skin damp from the rain, smell of coffee and blood on his hands, and thinks about the stame thing: he’s beautiful and merciless. Resolute and desperate. And that shit?
Doesn’t meet.
Ever.
“Frank”
He calls, head tilted to the side in that way of his, the way he uses to check his surroundings. Matt can hear Frank sigh, feel the warmth escaping his lips, almost taste it in the humid hair, over the smell of the traffic.
“What, Red”
The other man exhales.
He’s sitting on the roof in front of Matt’s apartment. He does that, sometimes. When he turns into parallel lines.
The official excuse is that the pink neon monstrosity they put in front of Matt’s home doesn’t let him sleep, but Matt knows it’s bullshit: the man slept in war zones, for fuck’s sake. He never calls him out on it, anyway.
“You’re cold, Frank”
Frank just turns his head in Matt’s direction and tuts, taking him in: still in his sleep clothes, uh. Black sweatpants, a black t-shirt that used to belong to Frank, so Matt must have stolen it from his stuff, and Frank is ok with that. Matt looks soft, and Frank wonders if he’ll ever feel human enough again, if he’ll ever stop being afraid to soil Matt’s light with the darkness he carries inside.
It’s stupid, he knows it is. Red’s got just as much darkness inside as him. But there’s still something, in him. He still believes in something.
Frank doesn’t.
He looks at Matt, up and down, hands limp between his knees, then looks up to the sky. Exhales again. It’s a bit more shakier.
“That a question, Red?”
He asks. He knows it isn’t. Glances at Red again, sees him shake his head.
Matt’s hair looks orange with the yellow light, raindrops make it shine and get caught in his eyelashes. Make him look like he’s crying.
Frank never wants to see him cry again, never wants to be the cause of his pain again. Doesn’t want Matt to feel like crying, ever.
He hears Red walk towards him, steps so, so silent. He’s like a damn cat. Then there’s one hand hovering close to his hair, not touching, waiting for permission.
He grants it, of course he does, pushing his head against cold fingers. He could never deny him anything.
“You’re cold” Red repeats, soft “You feel like ice, Frank”.
Inside or outside? He’d like to ask, but doesn’t. It’d spur a conversation he’s not ready for, at the moment. So he just lets Red caress his head, nails scraping lightly at his scalp, hair in disarray.
“Bad dreams?”
Matt asks. He shakes his head, looking at the black shirt covering Matt’s abdomen. Matt arches one eyebrow.
“Can’t sleep?”
He asks, again, and Frank goes still, stops breathing. Matt sighs, angling down his face, just a bit too to the left, unfocussed eyes worried and lips downturned.
“Bad night?”
Frank huffs and Red’s fingers grip his hair, tug a bit.
You’re here, those fingers say. You’re with me. Don’t get lost in that head of yours.
“I know” It’s what Matt says instead.
Matt’s hand moves, fingertips caressing Frank’s brow, his closed eyes, his damp forehead.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Frank's breath hitches, Matt can hear it clear as the day, and his heart does a weird thing. It’s pain. It hurts. His hand stills, fingers brushing Frank’s cheekbone.
“No” Frank rasps, tongue darting to lick his lips “No. Please”.
Frank looks up: Matt’s face looks carved in yellow light, shadows so dark they seem black on his cheeks. Matt’s eyebrow do that thing he does when he’s worried, coming together in the middle of his brow and staying there.
Matt wants to bring him home. Wants Frank in his bed, in his arms. Safe.
He’s so scared to find him gone, one morning. Afraid he’ll disappear, lost in blood and grief. Afraid he’ll die. Afraid he’ll let himself die out there, in that city that Frank sees as a battlefield.
“It’s ok” He reassures, cradling the other man’s face in one hand, feeling the stubble scratch his palm “You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s fine”.
Frank nods and swallow, shoulders easing a bit.
“What do you need?” Matt asks, soft like the rain that keeps on falling on them both “Frank, what do you need?”
And Frank can just shake his head, letting his head fall against Matt’s abdomen and resting it there, because fuck if he knows. Matt’s hand is on his nape, now, keeping him steady. He can feel Matt’s cold fingers on his skin, his thumb going back and forth, drawing small circles. He can feel Matt’s breathing through his t-shirt.
It’s soothing, just a bit.
He hears Matt hum, pensive.
“Bad night, then” Matt states.
It’s not a question anymore. Frank just stays there.
Matt lets his fingers card through Frank hair, breezing the shaved sides of his head, tangling in the curls on top. He can feel the tension in his muscles, in his shoulders, in his back.
Knows how it feels.
It’s like having a huge knot in your chest, and you can’t find the right thread to pull. You know that pulling that thread could unravel it all, let you breathe a bit better. Until it all knots all over again, at least.
But you can’t find that fucking thread, and that knot stays there, on your lungs, like a rock.
Frank’s neck feels so tense, Matt lets his left hand roam through his hair again, moves it down, starts putting pressure on hard tendons and muscles with his right one.
“Ever told you I fell from this roof?”
He asks, and can feel it when Frank’s eyes fly open, a puff of surprised breath leaving those lips of his.
“You what?”
He huffs against the black cotton of his stolen shirt. Frank’s eyelashes tickle his stomach. Matt smiles, fingers massaging Frank’s neck.
“Wanna know?”
Matt asks, and Frank closes his eyes again and shrugs. But he’s curious, Matt can feel it in the microscopic changes in his posture, in the quickening of a single heartbeat. It’s a bit better, but still not good at all. He’s still tense. Still desperately keeping himself from feeling what he feels.
Frank would crumble, if he 'd let himself. Matt knows how it feels.
He exhales, a small cloud forming from his lips, and crouches in front of Frank, hands on his cheeks.
He’s loosing weight. Matt’ll have to treat him to some pizza as soon as possible.
He caresses those sharp cheekbones and tilts his head to the side.
“I was drunk”
He starts, and Frank snorts. His eyes still closed, lips still too thin, shoulders still too tense. Matt aches to drag him back to bed, dig his fingers in those muscles, ease the pain.
A bit of it, at least.
He presses his forehead against Frank’s, fingers cradling his face, and lets his eyes close breathing him in.
“I tripped and fell, right onto the fire escape. Hellish noise, let me tell you”
Frank frowns and mouths something akin to “ouch”. Matt would have missed it if he wasn’t Matt. He kisses Frank’s nose, smiles when he scrunches it.
“Nah, was so out of it I went down without even noticing”.
Frank snorts again, eyes opening a sliver and looking down at his own hands. He opens his mouth, closes it, closes his eyes again.
“I’m just so tired, Matt”
He exhales and alarm bells start going off in Matt’s head, because Frank called him Matt, and it’s never a good sign. His hands move from Frank’s cheeks to the back of his head, pulling him forward until his forehead is resting against his clavicle. He kisses his damp hair.
Frank smells like smoke, New York and sleepless nights. A siren goes off in the distance, gets lost in the rain.
“I know”
He repeats against dark curls, because he knows, he really does.
Frank looks up, then, head moving and eyes squinting at the street lights. Tightens his lips, nods. Matt would like nothing more than bundle him up and carry him back inside. Instead he thumbs at his bottom lip, finding a scabbing cut there, caresses the abused skin.
“You’re cold”
He says.
“Come back inside”
He says, like a prayer.
Frank looks at him, and feels like Matt can read him, see what’s inside his head, and wants to ask him about it. He doesn’t know, what’s in there. He can’t seem to be able to follow his own thoughts, in nights like these. Matt can. Matt understands.
“Ok” He whispers, watching Matt’s lips form a sad smile.
He’s not fine, will never be.
He tells him that.
Matt frowns a bit, still crouched in front of him, still haloed by yellow lamp light, still shining from water droplets falling on his hair.
“I know” He answers “It’s ok”.
And oh, God, he’s been looking for this for ages, since his family died. For someone to look at him, to listen to him and not try to fix him. To accept that there will always be a part of him that will never heal, that will always hurt, and bleed. Someone that won’t try to put a band aid on this particular wound.
“Fuck” He mutters, launching himself at Matt and hiding his face in his shirt. Matt sniffles and circles his shoulders with both arms, falling backwards on his ass with a small jump. If he’s surprised he doesn’t let it show, cradling Frank's form and hugging him back, hard. He can feel him forcing himself to breathe in, breathe out, keep it regular.
“It’s ok, Frank” He whispers, letting his words find their way through dark, damp curls “It hurts. I know it does”.
Frank just stays still, unmoving, arms strong around his middle. Matt starts caressing his back. He’s shaking. He’s cold.
He wants to bring him home.
“You’re cold” He says for the third time “Let me take care of you. Please?”
There’s a sniffle coming from the man that’s currently hiding against his clothes, he can feel him biting the inside of his his bottom lips, jaw working. Then the softest “ok” he’s ever heard comes from that bundle of humanity, pain and cold, wet skin. Matt finds his footing, hooks his arms under Frank’s and helps him to stand.
Frank sways, a bit. He doesn’t look up, ashamed and transfixed by his own boots, and it just won’t do. Matt hooks one finger under Frank’s chin and lifts his head, kissing his lips, swallowing his small gasp.
“It’s ok” He repeats. He’ll say it as many times as Frank will need him to “It’s fine. You’re cold. Let’s go home”.