Work Text:
Foggy nonchalantly hands him the card after Christmas break.
“My parents got you—and maybe every single person they have ever met—a Christmas card. Here you go, bud.” Foggy says, holding an envelope in front of Matt so he can grab it. Matt's hand meets his and he takes it unthinkingly.
He finds himself fighting down anger. Sometimes Foggy forgets that he can't see, and in this case in particular can't read. It's not a big deal when it happens and it means that Foggy really does view him as “just a guy”. Which he is. But he's also a blind guy. Who can feel ink well enough to read it, sure, but Foggy doesn't know that.
“Uh, do you mind reading it for me?” he asks stiltedly, trying not to show irritation. You should be happy you even got a card, he thinks to himself.
“Would if I could, dude. I'm pretty sure it's just bumps, no ink. Open it up, have a feel.”
Matt feels his jaw drop. A Braille greeting card? He's never felt one in his life. The nuns gave out cards at Christmas holidays, and Matt got a few for his confirmation, but they all had to be read to him, not by him.
He numbly unsticks the envelope flap, pulling the card out and running his fingers over it. On its front it has the silhouette of a Christmas tree, raised so Matt can feel it. It's finely detailed enough that he can feel the individual needles on the tips of the branches and the texture of the garlands on it. Beneath the tree, Merry Christmas is written in contracted Braille.
He opens it and feels the inside. There's an entire paragraph of Braille, taking up most of the space on the right side of the paper. Half-convinced he's having some sort of tactile hallucination, he starts flitting his hands over the text. It's a thank you note, a thinking of you card, and a slightly belated Christmas card all wrapped together, sentence after sentence singing his praises and wishing him well.
He's sure they must have commissioned a professional for it—and the thought of them going to the trouble of hunting down someone to write a custom card in Braille just for him makes his heart pound—but the card smells like Mrs. Nelson's perfume and sawdust from the family store and he can feel both of their signatures where they very purposefully pressed down hard enough to make indentations. He feels so stupid but his glasses are gathering warmth from how badly his tears are fogging up the lenses.
"Mattie, are you... Are you crying?"
He hurriedly thumbs the tears from under his eyes, as if that will make Foggy forget having seen them. He'd forgotten that Foggy was even there he'd gotten so caught up in tracing over phrases like thank you for being such a good friend to our son and we're so proud of you two.
He stalls for a moment, carefully putting the card back in its envelope before placing it into his bedside drawer and getting up to grab his gym bag.
"Tell your parents I said thank you." If he doesn't keep it short he knows his voice will break. "I'm gonna go work out for awhile. Don't wait up."
He ignores Foggy's muttered "Jesus Christ" as the door snicks shut and tries not to think about how much time and energy and thoughtfulness must have gone into getting that card because all he knows is that it's more than he could ever deserve.