#71243

just thinking about. preestablished foldy who already swap clothes occasionally, since typically they wear the same size. and quinn who obviously knows how into it brock is when quinn wears his clothes. he also knows that brock talks about their hookups with matt, mainly because after the literal first time it happened, brock called him—clearly at least tipsy—to fess up to it, because he got most of the way through spilling the details before his sober brain caught up and reminded him that he might be committing a significant violation of quinn’s privacy. and honestly if it had been anyone else, quinn probably would have felt furious and humiliated but brock’s clearly deeply and genuinely apologetic about it, and on top of that, quinn’s surprised to find that he actually…doesn’t mind that much, that matt knows, for some reason. so he tells brock it’s fine, they’re fine, because it’s true—and then stews on the whole thing for at least a month, trying to figure it out, what he’s feeling about it. 

quinn likes matt, on and off the ice, and sure, he can admit he’s engaged in some passing locker room admiration. quinn’s just never let himself think beyond that, because there’s quinn and brock, and then there’s brock and matt, and it’s sort of just never occurred to him that they could close that triangle. so when the opportunity presents itself a month or so later, after quinn’s had his time to roll it over in his head…well, why not? matt likes him, he thinks—he looks at quinn the same way brock does, and that has to mean something. and apparently, matt hasn’t told brock to stop talking about their hookups, either. it’s so unlike quinn, so far from his usual hesitance about the whole thing, but when things actually come to a head, he’s already a little loose from a couple drinks earlier in the evening, and brock is looking at him like that, and so when quinn shucks off his own shirt and goes to reach for one of brock’s, he thinks, fuck it.

it’s in brock’s laundry hamper, but it’s definitely matt’s shirt—quinn saw it on him in the locker room earlier in the week. and even if things don’t pan out the way quinn’s hoping they might, at least the look on brock’s face is worth it. the way his mouth drops open and quinn can genuinely, literally see his eyes dilate—it’s a hell of a rush. quinn doesn’t think brock’s ever laid him out on the bed faster, hands and mouth everywhere like he’s determined to drive quinn insane before anything ever actually happens. brock almost manages it, too, until quinn finally manages to scrape his brain together enough to yank brock back up and in for a kiss, using it as a distraction to roll them over, because he knows brock likes this, too: quinn on top, so brock can see all of him, in all his shirt-wearing glory. 

and honestly, quinn’s half-cocked plan mostly involved brock telling matt about it, and then quinn maybe having an opening to bring it up another time, assuming matt didn’t make a move first. so he’s not really sure what possesses him to do it—quinn sort of thought post-nut clarity was supposed to make people less likely to make impulsive decisions. but brock’s still under him, flushed and catching his breath, still looking up at quinn like he can’t quite believe he’s real, and quinn’s thighs are more than worn out for the night, but he feels good, still riding the high a little, so. he manages to shift just enough to grab brock’s phone from the nightstand without completely unseating himself, uses brock’s own face to unlock it, opens the camera app, and then leans forward, braces his hand on brock’s chest, and snaps the picture.

there’s enough of both of them covered for some plausible deniability, and their faces are cropped out by the aspect ratio, but someone who knows them…matt would know. matt will know. brock doesn’t even ask what quinn’s doing, just lays there watching him—probably thinks quinn’s sending the photo to himself. and he is. he’s just also sending it to someone else, too.

(matt doesn’t get the text right when it arrives, because it’s the middle of the night, and he’s asleep, like his teammates and whatevers-with-benefits should be. but it’s the first thing he sees in the morning when he opens up his phone. the photo is faceless, but it wouldn’t matter anyway—matt knows the shape of brock, and there’s realistically only one person whose thighs those could be, pale enough for bruises to be visible even in the low light, splayed astride Brock's hips at that angle, like it would have been just enough of a stretch. only one person where it would make sense for them to be wearing a shirt oversized enough to pool over the tops of their thighs, a shirt that is definitely, holy shit, one hundred percent matt's shirt)

(a handful of minutes later, after he's come so hard he's pretty sure he went blind for a second, he finally manages to text brock back. because what the fuck, holy shit dude, warn a guy, what the fuck—)

The heat must be getting to him. It’s either that or the Stella slowly turning lukewarm in his hand, because there’s no other rational explanation for why he feels so flushed, laid out on a deck chair in the shade, trying his best to focus on—relaxing. Trying to force some semblance of mellow emptiness into his brain, trying to strong-arm his consciousness onto the other side of an afternoon nap, instead of letting it wander back down to where Brocks hauled himself up onto the dock, leaning back on his hands and dripping lake water. 

The heat is definitely why Quinn's mouth feels so dry, watching him tilt his head back, eyes closed against the sun. He's been looser and more playful here, relaxed in a way Quinn hadn't realized he wasn't, back in Minnesota. It's subtle, and maybe only something Quinn's noticed because he's been—well, looking, admittedly, but that's neither here nor there. It's normal to notice those kinds of details about a guy who's been spending the past two weeks in Quinn's house, eating Quinn's food and hanging out with Quinn’s brothers and generally just kind of being in Quinn’s space. It’s no different than the kind of familiarity involved in sharing a locker room with a bunch of other men, the kind of not-looking that yields just enough information for a chirp or two, but doesn’t linger enough to be dangerous.

Except that, here, camouflaged in the mid-afternoon shadow of the house, Quinn doesn’t have to worry about keeping his gaze to the floor or above chest-level, or counting the seconds to make sure he hasn’t been watching for too long. Half-wrapped in a beach towel, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, the surfaces of his skin prickling like the threat of sunburn, he can just look as Brock finally flops fully onto his back.

The movement makes sunlight catch over the twisting flex of his arms and chest, the solid slope of his abdomen, the cut of his hips leading down past the waistband of navy-blue swim trunks, the fucking—all of him that’s just laid out, spread out over the dock without a care in the world, like it’s not making Quinn’s brain turn in tighter and more treacherous circles to stare at the way Brock’s body is literally glistening—

Quinn's just overheated. He should be drinking more water, instead of finishing off his tepid beer and trying to find a place for his eyes to rest that isn't on his teammate's stupidly perfect muscles. In fact, maybe he needs to just give it up and go inside, see if that’s what he needs to actually cool off, because it just has to be the heat messing with his head, making his chest feel heavy and tight. Maybe he’s getting heatstroke. Maybe he’s having a heart attack. Maybe he’s—

“Enjoying the view?”

—going to jump out of his skin and die of a heart attack for real, and the only witness to his last few humiliating moments alive is going to be Matt Boldy, who doesn’t even have the decency to look that sorry about it at all.

“Jesus,” Quinn manages in a rush, feeling his pulse pound in his throat, “Fucking—Christ, dude.”

Matt’s mouth twists into that funny little shape it takes when he’s amused, something that’s not quite a smile but always seems more genuine than the one he shows to cameras. He doesn’t look any less flushed than Quinn feels, but he’s also been letting himself bake in the sun far more than Quinn’s sunscreen-related neuroses will allow. Between his tanned skin and the way that sunlight and lake water have been slowly teasing highlights into his hair, Matt could probably walk his way onto a swimwear photoshoot, no questions asked.

Summer looks good on him. It looks good on both of them.

And from the way Matt’s smile tugs up even further, a hint of sharp canines when Quinn finally forces himself to make eye contact and accept the replacement beer proffered in Matt’s giant hand—he knows it, too. It turns the lingering adrenaline in Quinn's chest distinctly towards guilt.

“Thanks,” Quinn mumbles, and does his best not to entirely fold himself back into his towel and disappear, the way he kind of wishes he could. Matt doesn’t comment on it, which is something of a relief, just stretches his unfairly long body out on the deck chair next to Quinn's, taking a pull from his beer and making a quiet noise of satisfaction.

Quinn keeps his eyes very firmly fixed on the bottle in his own hands, reading and rereading and rereading and rereading the surgeon general's warning to make sure his gaze stays where it's supposed to be. He shouldn’t be looking. He shouldn’t even be thinking about looking, really, but the problem is that Quinn is becoming entirely too conscious of Matt’s every minute shift and twitch, and every time his eye catches the movement he catches himself fucking looking again, his traitorous brain cataloguing details Quinn doesn’t want to notice. The light dusting of freckles over Matt’s shoulders, the veins prominent along his forearms, the almost delicate trail of pale hair leading down from his navel. Matt's too far away for it to be true, but it feels like the warmth of his skin could be somehow combining with the ambient heat of the day to make Quinn feel especially dizzied.

He manages to pry his eyes away, taking a sip of his beer and managing not to grimace about the taste. Some bougie lager Brock brought for himself, that up until now, no one else has been drinking—it sort of tastes like soapy bathwater, but Brock really seems to enjoy it, so Quinn’s allowed it to keep taking up space in the fridge. The flavor is a distraction from the flush in his system.

Down on the dock, Brock languidly rolls over onto his front, taking a moment to wave up at the two of them with a goofy little grin before he settles his head against the crook of his elbow, seemingly content to keep basking in the afternoon rays. The acknowledgment is unexpected, and Quinn’s not sure why it makes his cheeks burn even hotter.

“You’re allowed to look, you know.”

If he physically startles, again, Matt’s kind enough not to mention it, though the corner of his mouth pointedly quirks up. Stupid. Quinn should know better than to let his thoughts wander in these kinds of situations—his gaze tends to follow suit, and he’s definitely been staring. At Matt, at Brock, everywhere he shouldn’t be. He’s pretty sure that the guys on the team know he’s—different, in where his eyes can’t help but linger, in how he always brushes off their drunken wingman attempts, in how he never has anything to add to the conversation when it turns those kinds of directions, but that doesn’t mean it’s…okay. There’s a difference between suspecting and knowing, and Quinn needs to stop doing the kind of shit that clarifies where he stands on that divide.

When he doesn’t respond, Matt reaches across with one of his freakishly long legs and prods at Quinn’s thigh. It’s so juvenile, so—Luke, that Quinn’s mouth curves despite himself. 

“Hey,” Matt nudges again, “I know you hear me over there.” Quinn shrugs. There’s not—he’s not sure what Matt wants him to say. I wasn’t, or No, I’m really not, or I can't help it. Any reply he could have would either be a bold-faced lie or a tacit admission, and Matt’s smart enough to sniff out both.

“Quinn.” Another poke. 

“I don’t—” Quinn bites his lip, fumbling for something to say, “I mean, I’m not—” He trails off, because isn’t he, though?

“Not looking, or not interested?” Matt presses, and Quinn's gaze snaps to him. Matt's face is giving away nothing, but the lack of—judgment, disgust, does nothing to stop the anxiety that surges up behind his navel. 

Apparently oblivious to Quinn's inner turmoil, Matt shrugs. “I mean, why not. Look at him.”

Quinn’s trying very hard to not, that’s the whole—that’s the whole thing, but now Matt’s looking at him, and Quinn’s looking back, and when Matt shifts to turn over towards Quinn, the muscles in his abdomen ripple, and maybe Quinn’s sunglasses aren’t as dark as he thought, because Matt makes a thoughtful sound and levers himself fully upright.

Quinn shuts his eyes, half to avoid making more eye contact with any part of Matt that isn't his face, and half to—

The shade around him seems to shift, and then the deck chair gives a little under added weight, and his eyes fly open at the feeling of a knee against his thigh, and there's—there’s Matt, right there, leaning over him with arms braced on either side of Quinn's head, so close that the jittering in Quinn's belly shifts traitorously into a different kind of nerves.

“It's okay. I've been looking, too.”

Quinn balks. “You're—?”

Matt hums and tips his head. “I'm looking. And I'm interested.” But he's not watching Brock anymore. Quinn licks his lips reflexively and Matt's gaze snaps immediately to the movement. Oh.

Quinn really must have sunstroke, or something. There's just no other explanation for it, his head spinning around Matt's words and the span of his skin, close enough to touch.

He's got Quinn trapped, pinned in place with his bright green eyes, and Quinn can't bring himself to look away, and—maybe Matt doesn't want him to. And maybe Quinn's abruptly aware of how tired he is of pretending.

Matt wakes up to the sound of rain, and of Brock’s stifled groan as he levers himself out of bed and shuffles stiffly out of the room. It’s later than either he or Matt usually wake, but earlier than Quinn, who makes a noise of discontent at the movement. He usually sleeps between them, in spite of his insistent complaints about the lack of space and abundance of body heat, and despite the disturbance, Matt’s fully expecting him to burrow further into Brock’s side of the bed and knock out for another hour.

This morning, though, when he smooths a hand down Quinn's side, not intending to instigate anything at all, Quinn presses into the contact with a sleepy hum and rolls himself over, further into Matt. “Hey,” Matt murmurs. Quinn makes a noise that could be approximated as a similar salutation, and sticks his cold fucking nose into the crook of Matt's neck, which—he'll allow, but only because he's pretty sure their HVAC is on the way out. Brock's been pestering their landlord about it for the past month with increasing aggression, but so far there's been no movement there. That, plus the fact that it's raining—the apartment is downright chilly, but it's warm and comfortable under the covers, so Matt settles in, content to let the morning roll over them at a distance. 

It's then that Quinn surprises him with a nip to the collarbone, so unexpected that Matt jumps a little. Quinn's laughter is an amused huff against Matt's skin, followed by the hot swipe of a wet tongue. Matt shivers.

“Go–od morning,” His voice breaks over the shock at another sting of sharp teeth, and he gives the hair at the back of Quinn's hair a short tug. It's meant to be more playful reprimand than anything meaningful, except Quinn arches into it with a stuttered gasp, and Matt's mouth goes a little dry at the sudden appearance of long, pale neck on display. Oh, okay, that's—yeah.

Matt's hard, which for first thing in the morning isn't unexpected, but Quinn's getting there, too, which is. Matt's prepared to ignore it, right up until Quinn jerkily grinds his hips against Matt's. It's as good as the verbal confirmation he's unlikely to get, if he asks, so he doesn’t—just rolls over enough so that he can get his hand around Quinn's jaw and work on getting his tongue behind Quinn's teeth, an effort that's rewarded by fingers digging into his shoulders and a good fucking sound vibrating against his chest.

It's not often that Quinn actually wants sex. Most of the time when they touch him, an open-ended question, he shies away from it—a subtle retreat or a poorly-suppressed flinch, depending on where his head is. After everything, after that long, horrible week he’d spent stripped down to nothing, to the fraying fibers of his very being, it had taken them a long time to get to a point where Quinn would actually say no, and now that it's his answer more often than not, it's the response Matt and Brock have come to expect, the one they're used to accommodating.

Matt’s nothing, though, if not adaptable.

He doesn't know exactly how long spends getting progressively tangled in Quinn, but he's distracted enough for them both to startle when Brock announces his presence with a low, appreciative whistle. 

“Kind of rude to get started without me,” Brock complains, and Matt pulls away just so he can properly admire Brock's deltoids as he crawls back onto the bed. He’s a little sleep-mussed, his unruly hair and facetious little grin at odds with the calculated muscle mass he somehow still hasn't lost. The flex of Quinn's fingers against his shoulder tells Matt he doesn't mind the view, either.

Brock's eyes find his, flicking to Quinn and back in a silent question—but it's Quinn who replies, reaching out for Brock with the hand that still can't fully open, but can grip Brock's ear in a playful little tug just enough to bring him in. Brock goes easily, squeezing himself into what little space there is alongside Matt and immediately setting about rediscovering all the spaces Matt's mouth had just been.

The ease of the proximity is still novel, even a year and change later. It's still—Matt can't help but hook a finger into the waistband of Brock's sweats, keeping his other palm splayed over Quinn's ribcage. Both of them within arm's reach, right where Matt needs them to be, here with him. There'd been a time, before all of it went to shit, that he might have considered it greedy to want them so close, and then Matt's fingertips got used to feeling out the edge of scars, and it no longer felt like greed.

It's a different type of want now, though, watching the two of them wind each other up, Brock's mouth growing only more insistent at every soft sound helplessly escaping Quinn, until Matt's so full up on them he can hardly stand it—needs to be closer.

Brock takes Quinn with him when Matt prods at his side, rolling over so that Quinn’s on top, giving Matt the space to plaster himself against Quinn’s back .The position presents the opportunity for Matt to get his mouth back on him, which he exploits with mercenary advantage while Brock works on getting his hands into Quinn’s pants. It quickly kicks off a feedback loop that’s all hands and mouths and rocking hips, and for a few minutes they get lost there, the three of them moving as one, something good, something whole, until—

Matt's got a sense—he feels it before he feels it, the tremor that starts somewhere deep inside of Quinn, slowly suffusing through his body until it reaches the surface, shivering under Matt's palms.

It's nothing specific, Quinn's always insisted, just something that happens, another lingering wound that has yet to scab over. Matt knows only some of what they did to him during that week—knows more than Brock but less than whatever the hospital found, and he doesn’t know if it included—more. There's the memory that plays itself out behind his eyes every night, finding the ruin of Quinn's body and what they tried to carve from him, evidenced in blood and bone and fascia, but Matt's never asked. 

Whether it’s the where or how they’re touching him, or the why—Matt isn’t sure he wants to know, not when Quinn himself may not remember, even if his body does.

Brock feels it, too, and Matt watches him watch Quinn, watches as Brock takes in whatever's playing out on Quinn's face. It could be guilt, or disoriented panic, but most often it's just Quinn gritting his teeth, closing his eyes and locking up like he's bracing for a blow that won't come. It's why Quinn flinches when Brock reaches up to cradle his face, only to push desperately into the contact a moment later. 

“Quinn, honey, hey, hey hey hey. Look at me. You're okay.” 

Quinn nods, a frantic, jerky motion, breath coming in tight, controlled bursts, even as his pulse surges under Matt's fingertips. Their brave boy, always trying so hard. Too hard, sometimes, for what Matt and Brock probably deserve.

“Just keep breathing, you're okay. You're right here, we've got you. You're right here, you're safe. You're right here, honey. You're okay.” 

Matt lets Brock lead, because all the promises that Matt has to offer, the things he keeps buried down below his lungs, involve significantly more violence, and that won’t fucking help. It will only remind Quinn more of everything that happened, and will only make Matt feel like more of a monster, in the end—because he still resents Jared for it, for pulling him out when he only would have needed a few more days. Hours, even, after the medevac took Quinn. He only would have needed a few hours.

He’d said as much to the counselor who’d been assigned to him, after. It’s probably at least part of why none of them have been cleared to return to civilian life, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty. Here, in their apartment, Matt can keep them safe—can drown out the visceral memory of bones breaking between his hands by filling his palms with skin that’s warm and alive. The nightmares, the scars, the buried wounds that sometimes still spill open: a testament to their survival. Nothing else matters.

Slowly, the trembling subsides, ebbing away with the tension in Quinn's bones, and Matt feels the release in his own chest when Quinn's shoulders finally slump.

“I'm okay,” Quinn says, which is probably something of a lie but better than the ever-reflexive sorry. Matt chances a close-mouthed kiss to the nape of Quinn's neck and receives a shiver in response, but then Quinn curls backwards into Matt's body, pressing them flush along the entire line of his spine. It's okay.

They're okay.

“Do you still want,” Matt asks against the skin under his lips, and feels Quinn nod, shiver again. 

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes. Then, “But can we—”

They wait him out. He hates it, every time, but they have to wait him out. He has to be the one to decide, the one to want it. 

“My knee,” He finally admits, quiet, “Just—on my side, maybe,” and Brock can't not reward him, coaxing him down for a kiss that ends with Quinn breaking away to pant against Brock's mouth, hips shifting restlessly. “Yeah,” Brock agrees, pressing another kiss to the corner of Quinn's lips and making him groan, “We can. Probably better for my back, too.”

His back, and the space behind the crest of his hip, where there's still shrapnel suspended in scar tissue, and probably a little bit his shoulder, where the muscles never knitted back together in quite the same shape in the wake of a high-caliber round. 

The rain makes it worse, and for as much as Quinn's started leaning into it with some humor, complaining about his old man leg, Matt still catches Brock counting out his own pain pills sometimes, just in case. It makes Matt's stomach feel cold in a way he doesn't like to examine. Wreckage that will linger forever inside of Brock and Quinn, and the singular scar on Matt's upper arm where someone shot at him and missed. It's not good for him to dwell on it.

They're here now, still with him, and just for the moment Matt will refuse to let his thoughts win out over the satisfied sound Brock makes when Matt leans back enough for them to all roll onto their sides, the new angle making it easier for him to fit his teeth against the line of Quinn's throat, and the sound Quinn makes in reply, a shivery gasp, his good hand flying down to grip at Matt's thigh like an anchor.

“So good,” Matt murmurs against the top of his head, “Perfect for us.” Quinn trembles, digs his fingers in harder, and when Brock’s hand comes up to cover Quinn’s, to thread his fingers into the empty spaces and press in bruises of his own, mine, yours, ours—Matt lets the world narrow down to the brush of skin, the sound of rain, and the intensity of the emotions that threaten to shred him from the inside out.

Safe, here, together, whole.