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"Yeah?"
“Foggy,” Matt sighs, a tired gust of breath, once Foggy answers the phone.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” Foggy asks, voice going from normal to panicked in the space of a second.
Matt slumps against the counter and lets the razor clatter into the sink. “It’s not working,” he says plaintively. “The razor. It hurts.” He hears Foggy’s relieved sigh and thinks about feeling guilty for worrying him, but his cheek burns where the five-blade razor had dragged across his skin, and he’s tired, and he wants to feel again how he felt that day last week, when Foggy had drawn the safety razor across his skin and cut through the thick bristles of his stubble without a single sting.
“You used the soap?” Foggy asks. Matt flicks a fingernail against the coffee mug on the counter, which houses the round cake of soap that Foggy had helped him buy, badger brush tinkling against the rim, foamy and muffled.
“Yeah.”
“And you did the hot towel?”
Matt shrugs, rubbing irritably at his nose. He had patted his face with a damp towel. It hadn’t been hot, exactly. He presses the phone closer against his cheek, trying to hear Foggy’s breathing better across the connection. “Will you come?”
“Aw man, you can’t skip the towel, bud. Or if you’re gonna skip the towel just shave after your shower. Your hot shower.”
Matt bites his lips together and taps the corner of the phone against his cheekbone. Foggy sighs again. Matt smiles. “Yeah, I’ll be over in a bit. I’m bringing my good razor. Prepare to be Sweeney Todded.”
“I’d make a delicious pie,” Matt informs him.
“Nah, you’re a Matty cake,” Foggy says definitively, and hangs up.
Matt pockets his phone and sniffs, listening absently to his neighbors two floors down as they fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes. He ponders his apartment, and then goes to pick up the bloody Daredevil uniform he’d left on the floor by the couch.
Foggy arrives about half an hour later. He’s in his weekend clothes, jeans rubbing rough between his thighs, nothing like the smooth, high-quality suits he wears to work. Matt lets him in and goes still when Foggy makes a little noise and cups his jaw, angling his face until his still-stinging cheek is aimed towards the soft warmth of the entry-way light. “Yeesh,” Foggy says, and lets him go. “Super sensitive skin, huh? Makes sense. You gotta do the hot towel, otherwise you’re just gonna irritate it.”
“You do it better,” Matt tells him.
Foggy snorts, wandering further into the apartment. “Because I’m the only one that’s done it. It’s not hard.”
Matt tips his head back and sighs toward the ceiling, listening as Foggy sets a bag down on the coffee table. “What else did you bring?”
“Laptop. Got some stuff to work on that I didn’t finish yesterday, that okay?”
“Sure. I’m a little behind, too.”
“Yeah no shit, you need a better work-life-nighttime spandex balance.”
“I need a shave,” Matt says unsubtly.
“Alright, alright,” Foggy laughs, digging around in the bag on the coffee table. “To the bathroom, I guess.”
Matt smiles and follows Foggy to the bathroom, listening to him hum and flick the lights on, listening to the click of something metal being set on the counter.
“Hmm,” Foggy hums contemplatively. Matt cocks his head.
“I don’t think it’s big enough for you to sit on,” Matt realizes, thinking back to how he had been tucked between Foggy’s thighs in the office restroom, how Foggy’s breath had flickered across his face from his position on the counter by the sink the last time.
“Nah, that probably wouldn’t work anyway, not with a straight razor. I’ll just do it from behind you, I think, to keep the angle right. I’ve got my shoes on, it makes me a smidge taller. Go ahead and have a seat.”
Matt shuffles past Foggy, dropping the toilet seat lid down and settling on top of it, listening as the faucet turns on and Foggy goes about inspecting the soap, badger brush, and foam. The scent of sandalwood clouds into the air, rising on the steam from the progressively hotter water. Matt’s hand towel gets submerged, soaked and wrung out and then soaked again. Matt listens to the droplets splashing against the sink and the counter and hums, plucking at the front of his hoodie before pulling it off over his head.
“Fresh,” Foggy accuses him mildly. Matt grins. Foggy’s finger pokes at Matt’s ribs, at tender, bruised skin. “That’s new.”
“Boot,” Matt tells him, settling back against the tank of the toilet, wadding the hoodie up and shoving it behind him to cushion his sore ribs.
“Of course,” Foggy breathes, wringing out the hand towel once more. “Head back.”
Matt tips his head back, adam's apple bobbing as his throat is exposed to the humid air. The towel is soft and hot against his skin, warmth seeping into him as Foggy arranges it carefully under his nose, wrapping it firmly under his jaw, smoothing it over his cheeks.
“Okay,” Foggy says, and his voice sounds oddly far away, echoing against the tile of the small bathroom. “Chill out for a bit, huh?”
“Mm,” Matt manages. His eyes slide shut against the moisture in the air. Foggy stays with him, tinkering and humming absently as he rearranges things around the rim of the sink. Matt lets his focus drift. The couple two floors down have stopped fighting and are making up enthusiastically. He can hear the electronic sounds of several different video games from multiple different units in the building, and in the few surrounding buildings. Fran is watching a makeup tutorial on Youtube and the soft snick of knitting needles tells him she’s still working on her grandson’s blanket. She had told him it was green. It was very soft, he knew; she’d let him feel the yarn when he had helped her up the stairs with her shopping last week.
That had been the same day Foggy had helped him shave. They’d won their case for Mr. Menendez. He had been calm and happy and his face was smooth and he’d smelled like Sandalwood and Foggy and bagels. And Fran had shared her grandson’s blanket yarn with him, because he’d offered to help carry her bags.
“Matt?”
“Hmm?”
“You alright, bud? You can take the towel off now.”
“‘M fine,” Matt says through the damp terry cloth. He blinks for a moment, and then Foggy’s fingers are brushing against his neck, his jaw, lifting the towel off his face.
“Sure you are.”
“I am. I’m chilling.”
“Well first of all, if you pronounce the ‘g’ at the end you’re not actually doing it. You might not even be capable of doing it.”
“I can do it. Sh-” He cuts himself off with half a huff of laughter, “Shaving and chill,” Matt says, sitting up straight and twisting his neck from side to side to work the kinks out. “It’s a thing and I’m doing it.”
“Jesus christ.”
“What?” Matt asks, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice. The couple two floors down talked about Netflix and chilling all the time.
“Just hush and stand up.”
Matt stands up with a groan, his booted ribs protesting stiffly after a few precious minutes of stillness. The hoodie tumbles to the floor with a soft thwump sound and Matt ignores it. “Where do you want me?”
“Face me for a sec, let me get you all foamed up.”
Matt raises his eyebrows but does as he’s told, letting Foggy paint his face with sandalwood scented shave foam. The smooth, luxurious strokes of the brush are calming in an entirely different way than the hot towel had been, cool and soothing. Foggy’s fingers are delicate and sure, guiding his face around, tilting his chin up, flicking playfully at his ear when Matt wrinkles his nose instead of stretching his upper lip over his teeth.
“You asked for this,” Foggy points out, amusement coloring his tone. “You wanna keep the ‘stache?” Matt sighs and stretches his lip over his teeth, nose twitching as Foggy swipes the brush over his stubbly mustache.
“Face the mirror for me,” Foggy says, hand on his elbow guiding him around.
“Gorgeous,” Matt says, smiling when Foggy snorts at him.
“Santa,” Foggy counters. Matt frowns and pats his abs.
“Oh hush, Mr. Washboard.” Foggy pinches at Matt’s side, and Matt wriggles away, batting at his hand ineffectually. “Okay, okay, hold still,” Foggy laughs, and his hand grips at Matt’s side where he pinched it, the bulge of fat and muscle over his left hip, steadying his squirming. “Stay.”
“Woof.”
“Jesus, you are in a mood,” Foggy mutters, but he doesn’t sound mad about it, and Matt feels good, feels light and untroubled. The air moves as Foggy shuffles around behind him, and he leans back into him when Foggy hooks his chin over Matt’s shoulder and presses two fingertips under his jaw, tilting his chin up. “Alright,” Foggy says, his voice rumbling soft through Matt’s whole body, breath hot as it glances off Matt’s cheek. “Keep still now.”
Matt listens to Foggy’s heart, to the neighbors two floors below, to the rhythmic snick snick slide of Fran’s knitting needles, and feels Foggy’s chest expand, warm against Matt’s back. The first stroke of the blade is slow and neat and careful, up the side of Matt’s throat. He braces, unthinking, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t sting. Foggy leans into him, reaches around to the counter, and presses the damp towel against Matt’s chest. “Hold this,” he instructs, voice quieter than Matt expects. He grabs it, holds onto it as Foggy wipes the blade across it, once, twice. Matt lets his head fall back, until it’s resting on Foggy’s shoulder. “Okay,” Foggy says, to the soft thud of a skull against his shoulder, or to the next stroke of the razor, Matt isn’t sure.
He breathes in a lungful of sandalwood and Foggy, feels the sharp metal edge kiss his skin, slicing through the wiry hairs on the underside of his jaw, and lets the rest of the world slip away.
Foggy doesn’t stop talking to him, little instructions, telling him to turn, where to face, to tilt his head. Matt follows the instructions, doesn’t think too hard about the way he feels when Foggy says things like good, just like that, and perfect. The words shiver through Matt, vibrate into him through his back, through Foggy’s breath on his chin, on his cheek. The blade glides across his skin, curves around the jut of his jaw, dips into the hollows of his cheeks.
“Mustache time,” Foggy says, and Matt can feel the pull of Foggy’s cheek against his neck, can hear the smile in his voice.
Matt tucks his lip over his teeth and holds his breath as Foggy scrapes the blade down over his lip, short, even strokes.
"Good. Alright, mouth open."
Matt drops his jaw, and his tongue comes out automatically, swiping out over his bottom lip.
“Ready?” Foggy asks, after clearing his throat. Matt swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room, especially with his mouth so open, and makes an assenting noise. Foggy’s knuckle brushes Matt’s cheek as he swipes the razor over the delicate skin at the corner of Matt’s mouth. Then he moves his hand over, the knuckle of his thumb dragging over Matt’s wet bottom lip as he shaves the small, prickly hairs on the other side of Matt’s mouth. Matt swallows again and closes his mouth, lips brushing against Foggy’s hand as he draws it back. Foggy’s heart is quick, beating a thudding rhythm against Matt’s back.
“Okay,” Foggy says, and the steadying touch at his left hip falls away.
Matt grunts and twitches away from the click of metal against the counter, back into the solid warmth behind him. He’s still holding the damp towel, and Foggy tugs it gently from his grasp. There are cool touches on his face, on his neck, gentle and quick, and then they’re moving, and Foggy comes around to his side, to his front, and Matt makes a questioning noise.
“Chin up,” Foggy says, and Matt sticks his chin out, lets Foggy pat more sandalwood scent into his freshly shaved skin. His hands are warm where they touch Matt, sure and efficient, spreading the aftershave lotion everywhere the blade had been.
“Alright.”
Matt cocks his head, following Foggy’s warmth and noise as he moves away, eyebrows drawing together.
“C’mon.” He follows when he feels a tug on his wrist, head down and socked feet oddly heavy.
“Jesus, dude,” Foggy says. Matt tilts his head toward his voice and frowns. “No, it’s okay. It’s fine. Sit.”
Matt sits.
He’s on the couch. The cushion next to him dips, warmth moving closer. Foggy.
“Yeah, Matt?”
“What?” Matt manages, mouth thick and head swimmy.
“You are just all the way under, aren’t you?”
Under what, Matt wonders. He leans into Foggy.
“You’re fine,” Foggy tells him. “You’re okay. You can rest if you want to.”
“I’m okay,” Matt repeats, and it’s not a question, not really. He wriggles until he can shove his shoulder under Foggy’s, forcing Foggy’s arm up and around Matt’s shoulders, pressed between Matt and the back of the couch.
Foggy’s voice is a little different, next, soft in a clear way. “You’re doing really well, Matty, go ahead and rest now.”
Matt takes in a deep breath and lets it out, sinking more fully into Foggy’s heavy softness. Foggy's heart is steady and loud, so close to Matt's ear. The world slips away again.
***
“-Alright. Yeah, thanks.”
Matt wakes up to Foggy’s voice. There’s another voice, tinny and far away, and then a phone call ends.
Matt is lying on his couch, head pillowed on something warm, something familiar. It’s rough, but not unpleasantly so. He scrubs his smooth cheek against it, questioningly, and then the scent hits him, Foggy. Foggy’s sweat and Foggy’s laundry soap and these are Foggy’s jeans, he’s got his cheek on Foggy’s thigh, and the strained, wheezing laugh from above his head is Foggy’s strained, wheezing laugh, and he’s still rubbing his cheek against Foggy’s thigh.
“Hm,” Matt says, body too loose to stiffen up completely, but trying its best.
“You alright there, bud?”
“What…” Matt starts, but trails off, memories coming back to him. They don’t make a whole lot of sense. “There’s- That shave soap,” Matt settles on, pushing himself up to a seated position, grabbing the sweater that’s been draped over his torso before it can fall and shoving his arms through the sleeves to stave off the shivers threatening to wrack his frame.
“The… the shave soap?”
“It’s drugged,” Matt says, just as he realizes he hasn’t put on one of his sweaters, he’s wearing one of Foggy’s, that Foggy had been wearing. He tugs at it helplessly for a moment but can’t bring himself to take it off. Foggy is laughing at him.
“Dude,” Foggy says. And he shifts a little, muscles tensing and joints popping as he stretches. “You’ve never done that before, huh?”
Matt blinks at the question and finds himself shivering despite Foggy’s soft sweater.
“Here, can I?” Foggy asks, and he shuffles closer on the cushion. He zips up the sweater and then sits back, arm draping around Matt’s shoulders.
“Why do I feel…” Matt starts. He feels sad. He feels. He doesn’t know how he feels. “Like this?”
“You’re coming down, I think.”
“From the soap drugs.”
“From-” Foggy cuts himself off to laugh, and brings his other hand up to scrub at Matt’s far arm, putting him in a sort of sideways hug. It feels… really nice. “From subspace, I would guess. You’ve really never done that before?”
“I think we talked about subspace in statistics,” Matt says, pressing into Foggy’s warmth.
“Yeah, that’s… not this subspace.” Foggy says. He rearranges his arms around Matt’s shoulders and Matt leans his head down, until his forehead is pressed against Foggy’s temple. “You ever done any like, domination submission stuff?”
“Um,” Matt says, mind going back to Elektra, to taking turns pinning each other to mats and mattresses and countertops, to the way he would close his fingers around her slender neck and wonder what it would be like for her to do it back. “Not- no.”
“Well,” Foggy says, fingers rubbing small circles into Matt’s upper arm. “Sometimes people can get, uh, real floaty and quiet and spaced out. When they, uh, do things like that. I think, maybe you got there from like, the shaving? Like I don’t think it hurt, right?”
“Mm-mm,” Matt shakes his head.
“But, I guess maybe it was like, the fact that it could have hurt? Or maybe just that I’m kind of bossy? And you got pretty relaxed. Maybe the combo-”
“You said, uh, you kept saying like, good job? I think…” Matt trails off, trying to piece together the thoughts in his fuzzy brain.
“Oh, I bet praise helped, yeah,” Foggy says, and the word praise sends a hot curl of something through Matt’s gut.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I think, I think that had something to do with it.”
“Well,” Foggy says, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry I let it get that far, I didn’t really notice, but I should have checked in more. Last time you got a little fuzzy but I didn’t think anything of it, and you seemed good afterward.”
“I was… happy last time. Light.”
“Yeah.”
“This time…”
“You went all the way under, dude. You were gonzo. Super loopy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Foggy tells him, voice full of conviction. “And it’s not a bad thing. It’s just kinda sucky that you didn’t get the chance to talk about it beforehand. Ideally you would have had the opportunity to negotiate whatever, you know? Get what you want out of it.”
“I bullied you into it,” Matt points out, lifting his head away from Foggy’s. “I remembered how I felt last time and I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it myself. I asked you to.”
“Hm, yeah.” Foggy shakes him a little, arms warm and solid around Matt. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah, I-” Matt thinks about it. “I’m good.”
“Good,” Foggy says, but he doesn’t let go, and Matt sinks further into the embrace, grateful.
“Is it, um,” Matt starts, unsure of how to phrase his thoughts without freaking Foggy out. But Foggy hasn’t freaked out so far. “Isn’t it normally a sex thing?”
Shrugging, Foggy answers honestly, heart rate ticking up only marginally at the question. “Yeah, I mean, doesn’t have to be, obviously, but lots of time it is.”
Matt files that away for later. “What’s dom space like?”
Foggy barks out a laugh, arms tightening around Matt briefly. “Um, well, not really much like subspace. It’s mostly like, you get in the zone, you know?”
Matt doesn’t really know.
“Uh, well, like, it’s not a floaty, lose yourself thing, it’s more like you get really focused on taking care of, uh, of your person, you know? Making sure they’re good and happy and healthy.”
“Hm.”
“Hm,” Foggy agrees. “You want some water, maybe?”
Matt agrees before he realizes Foggy will be letting go of him to get it. But then he realizes something else as Foggy lets go and stands up from the couch. “You’re still doing it.”
“You’re still coming down,” Foggy tells him, and Matt blinks at that, twitches his nose and takes stock of his body.
He’s… “I’m okay.”
“You were melting into that hug, my dude.”
Matt can feel himself blushing. He takes the water Foggy offers, helpful fingernail tapping at the outside of the glass.
“I don’t mind,” Foggy says, sinking back down into the couch beside him. “It’s kind of nice knowing you’re taken care of. Lord knows you won’t do it for yourself.”
Matt takes a sip of water, thoughtful. “You’re good at it.”
“Hell yeah I am,” Foggy says, arm coming to rest behind Matt’s shoulders once more. He takes a breath, the kind where he’s about to say something. Matt stays quiet. The doorbell buzzes, and Matt makes a disappointed noise, which is drowned out by Foggy’s happy exclamation of “Pizza!”
Matt’s stomach growls, and he grins, shaking his head, as Foggy goes to buzz the pizza girl in.
Foggy pays, grabs a dozen or so paper towels and flops down next to Matt after setting the box on the table. Matt doesn’t even protest when Foggy grabs him a piece and folds it up for him, tucking it into his hand and settling down next to him with his own piece, the scent of contentment and grease filling the air. Matt shoves a third of the piece into his mouth and doesn’t even mind when the cheese burns the roof of his mouth.
“Can you do me a favor, Matt?”
Matt settles back against Foggy’s arm and nods.
“Can you let me take care of you more often? If you like it?”
“You don’t-” Matt swallows, fingers tensing around the cool glass in one hand, the hot, greasy crust in the other. “You don’t mind?”
“I fucking love it, dude. You have no idea how chill you look. I helped you get there? That’s awesome.”
Matt listens to Foggy’s heart, feels the heat of him soaking into his side, into his shoulders. He taps a fingernail against the water glass, and lifts his slice for another bite, nodding before he takes it. “I believe you.”
***