Simple

No.

“Stop it,” Matt hisses - and, God, he hates the way his voice waivers. He hates the shake of it. The weakness. “Don’t you dare. Don’t.”

“Red,” Frank breathes.

Matt knows the sound of pity. He knows how it grates.

“Don’t,” he whispers again.

But Frank’s already reaching for him. Matt flinches: he’s ready for a punch, he wants a punch, but what Frank gives him is so much worse.

There’s the rough grabbing of Frank’s hands, but it’s not followed up with an attack. With a grunt Frank pulls him tight against his chest - Frank ignores the tightening of Matt’s fists and the brief, pointless struggle, and Matt finds himself held before he can stand it. He could stop this, he knows. He could launch an attack of his own and leave blood and pain behind, and nothing else.

But his cold nose brushes against the warmth of Frank’s neck. Frank’s hand rests against the back of Matt’s head, big and firm; there’s something about the way it demands everything and nothing all at once that makes Matt feel like something new is breaking inside him all over again - it’s worse than broken ribs, worse than a collapsed lung.

“Easy,” Frank breathes by his ear. It’s pitched so low that it’s for him, only for him. A puff of warm air and nothing else. “Easy, Red. I got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He hates him for it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Frank repeats again like a promise like that means nothing. Like it means everything.

“Stop it.” His lips are cracked. His hands are shaking.

He isn’t trying to break away from Frank any more. Frank’s fingers thread gently through his hair and it works; it’s soft, it’s soothing, it’s everything he needs and can’t have. Matt can feel himself breaking even as he scrambles to hold his own pieces together.