"Jack of all trades. I like that." The choice of words makes Matt smile, his brain going not to sex but to a certain consonance of being. Gears in a clock making the whole thing go, a wheel churning water. Just imagine what he and this guy could do together, power lifting power like an ecstatic thermal.

He hears Harry laugh over the sound of the sink and turns back to face him. Matt's already shucked off his shirt, revealing a trio of tattoos on his very willowy frame: an emerald lotus on his heart; Hanuman the monkey god, curling around his right hip and disappearing below the waistband of his board shorts; and a severe anti-demonic ward over his left shoulder blade, all grays and blacks and ancient languages within a circle. No scar whatsoever in the spot where he was recently stabbed, though Harry has no reason to know that. Matt grins, a faint tinge of melancholy in his eyes.

"Receiving that trophy might be my proudest moment," he says. "Definitely my proudest one here." Taking up the soap, he starts to scrub at his hands and forearms.

"Uhh, and hang out wherever's comfortable," he adds, with a sympathetic grimace for Harry's stooped posture in the doorway. "I won't be long." He takes a look at himself in the mirror, noting that somehow, he's gotten paint spattered on his chest. Half to himself, he muses, "I should've been more worried about the colors."