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He didn't know what made him do it. It was just that he and Matt had done the official 'moving in together' thing nearly two months ago, and Matt still hadn't offered up so much as a spare drawer, let alone half his closet space. Frank just looked to see if there was any space in the closet while Matt was out on patrol, since it'd be pointless to have a discussion about it if there wasn't room to hang a jacket or two.
There was space. Plenty of it. There were suits on hangers taking up two thirds of the closet space… which, Matt didn't actually go to court that often. What in the hell he needed eight or nine different suits for was beyond Frank's comprehension. But what there also was, tucked behind a black garment bag, was a dark gray, silk shirt.
He frowned, reaching out to touch it before he'd even thought about it. He didn't know why, really. He'd felt silk before. Matt had silk sheets and even a pastel blue satin bathrobe that Frank had seen him wear in the mornings sometimes, before coffee, when he was all sleepy and grumpy. But he'd never seen him wear this shirt.
It felt cool when he touched it, like water against his skin. It felt… nice. Different to how Matt's sheets felt when they were soaked in sweat after sex or nightmares. Both of which were a regular occurrence. He slipped the gray silk shirt off its hanger, feeling something wicked thrill through him. It was just tempting and a little bit sneaky, the idea of trying on Matt's clothes when he wasn't here.
Frank looked guiltily over his shoulder and then did it anyway. He just wanted to know what it'd feel like against his skin. He peeled off his black t-shirt and dropped it carelessly on the floor, carefully slipping his arms through the sleeves of the silk shirt. It felt strange, and amazing, against his skin, all slippery cool against his chest as he fastened the buttons.
Matt didn't have a mirror in his room, so Frank moved to the bathroom to check his reflection. He almost didn't recognize himself when he flicked on the light. It was crazy, right? It was just a shirt, but a different kind of shirt, not rough cotton or Kevlar, but shiny, shimmering silk… he liked it.
It was maybe a bit silly, but he felt good wearing it, and he almost didn't want to take it off and return it to its hanger in the back of Matt's closet. That was when he saw it though, turning in time to see lightning lick the living room window, like a white sheet waving, and then a shadow moving across the roof opposite, like an insect flying across a tablecloth: Matt.
Frank's mouth went dry. Mostly it was the guilt of being caught snooping through Matt's closet, paired with the self consciousness of wearing something different, something new that felt and looked good, that he maybe didn't want anyone to know about yet. Definitely not Matt.
Footsteps sounded on the roof above his head and Frank turned off the bathroom light and made a mad dash for the couch, flinging himself on it just as the rooftop access door opened and Matt entered, his red Daredevil gear flecked with rain.
"Hey," Frank said casually, managing not to sound as breathless and guilty as he felt.
Matt paused, framed in the doorway, rain rushing down to meet the steps behind him. "Why are you wearing my shirt?"
"Wh…" Frank stammered as Matt came in and shut the door. "How do you even know — "
"I know," Matt said firmly, removing his red, horned Daredevil helmet. "Believe me."
"Oh, I do," Frank replied, slouching quite deliberately in his seat and spreading his legs a little wider. "Are you gonna rip it off me or what?"
"Hardly," Matt commented, his expression stern. "Do you know what a silk shirt costs these days?"
"Well, I assume you pay a small price in embarrassment," Frank retorted, annoyed to have his advances spurned. "It is fucking silk. I mean, how much of a spoiled princess —"
"This coming from the man wearing it," Matt pointed out, and that shut Frank up immediately.
It was, okay, maybe a bit of a masculinity issue that Frank had been carrying for a few years. A couple of tours with the Marines would give anyone a complex about wearing what was considered more feminine clothing. Not that he was excusing it; that was just his experience with a very regimented lifestyle, living and breathing that warrior culture. It was something that he could maybe work on, since he didn't have anyone to impress with his masculinity these days, just Matt.
Still, masculinity issues died hard, and he protested weakly, "It's laundry day."
"Liar," Matt said, shaking his head; he smiled though.
"Fine," Frank relented. "I like it. It… it feels nice. Happy? Hey, how come I never catch you wearing my shirts?"
Matt shrugged. "The cotton's itchy, and they smell like blood and sweat."
Frank gaped at him, offended. "I wash my clothes, Red!"
"I never said you didn't," Matt responded calmly. "You asked why. That's why, Frank."
"Super snobby senses. That's your reason," Frank said disbelievingly.
He didn't know why he cared. It was pretty well established that Matt liked things a certain way. In fact, he was downright fussy for someone who grew up poor and orphaned without a lot of choices. Maybe that was why. Matt had the means to be as selective as he wanted to be now. His clothes were all from high end luxury stores.
The guy didn't shop at Walmart because he didn't have to. And he definitely didn't buy up army surplus at the rate Frank did, and that was fine. They were just different, and always had been.
Lightning flashed through the window like a spotlight, illuminating the living room, and the silk shirt, making it shimmer, and making Frank admit even just to himself that it was something he liked, and maybe even something he'd want on his side of the closet.
"Do you want me to wear your clothes?" Matt asked with a teasing smile, moving a little closer.
"No. Maybe. Not if you don't like 'em," Frank mumbled, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. "I haven't decided."
"But you have decided you're keeping my shirt, huh?" Matt surmised with a cocky little smirk that Frank didn't mind seeing; it suited him.
"Just you try and take it off me, Altar Boy," Frank challenged him, something rumbling through his chest that wasn't a growl, but a low chuckle as Matt moved, leaping over the coffee table like a frog, propelling himself onto Frank's lap, and kissing him soundly.
His hands gripped Frank's arms and the sleeves of the silk shirt, his gloved fingers stretching out and back, like a tiger unsheathing its claws. Matt liked it, the silk shirt, and Frank in it… maybe it was something he wouldn't mind wearing again, that being the case. A man could change, after all.