[God, he smells amazing, and Matt is trying so hard to be good. Two years of thoughtless impulse-driven hedonism meeting one awkward, blushing, probably-not-virginal-but-damn-near-close teenager's stubborn embarrassment. Like a freight train into a brick wall.

Still, it's a brick wall that he's been solemnly tasked with caring for, introducing gently to this exciting new world (key word: gently), so with only a minor whine of frustration, Matt nods. He doesn't really need to force the smile, it's genuine, indulgent if exasperated, one hand gently smoothing back Lance's hair. It's a nearly maternal gesture, which just adds another layer of weird fucked-up-ness to the whole thing, likely.] All right. It's all right, you don't need to be scared. There's nothing to be scared of.

[There's everything to be scared of, but Matt's gently disentangling himself, sitting back on his heels with a shaky exhale, carefully pulling Lance's hands free from where they're clutched in the fabric of the robe and guiding them back to freckled, overheated skin -- one to Matt's chest again, one to the chain attached to the piercing. Despite everything, he's almost laughing, visibly, tangibly enjoying himself, encouraging and so damn happy.] Go ahead. I'm not going to break, I promise.