It hurts -- or it should, but Roy's on so many drugs he can't really feel it, just folds his hands behind his head and watches as Tim climbs on and straddles him, presses the little catch on the side of the knife to let the blade spring out.

Tim rubs his thumb over it, presses firm at the tip until a thick drop of blood wells up on his skin, reaches down and smears it on Roy's chest, palms his dick with his other hand.

"What can I do?" He says, eyes more dilated than Roy's even though he's completely sober.

Roy rolls his eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" Tim clarifies and Roy swallows, squeezes Tim's thigh between his fingers.

This is the first time he's seen him in sixth months. Tim's hair is shorter, he's a little bit bulkier, and there's a scar that looks like it's from a bullet on his shoulder that makes Roy more nervous than he wants to admit.

"I dunno," he says, licking his lips. "Something permanent."