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It’s their first year rooming together and Foggy has decided that Matt is his best friend forever.
“What was the case that voted against cruel and unusual punishment for minors?” Matt asks from the other side of the room. It was late. Late enough that Foggy was starting to feel a little delirious. They sit on opposite sides of their shared room, Matt’s neat and tidy, Foggy’s a warzone. There’s a beat where Foggy doesn’t answer and then suddenly he starts giggling.
“I cannot do this right now,” Foggy says between fits of his own laughter. “I’m going to fail this exam, but I can at least fail it with a full…” he checks his watch, “five hours of sleep.”
Matt sighs. “No, no, you told me to make you study, even if it meant staying up all night.” (He did. And he very well meant it, but now it’s 2AM and Foggy’s having second thoughts).
Despite this, or maybe in spite of it, Foggy still laughs when he answers. “I know I did, but Matt,” and then with sudden sobriety “ this is cruel and unusual punishment.”
A moment.
“Roper vs. Simmons,” is all Matt says in response. “And you’re not a minor anyway.”
Foggy guffaws as he throws himself back on his small twin-size bed. (He thought briefly about stealing a bed from some poor sod without a roommate, to combine with his, but the effort would be enormous).
“I hate you so much.”
This time Matt laughs, or at least Foggy is pretty sure he can hear a smile in his voice. The guy isn’t super emotive. “No, you don’t. Come over here so you won’t fall asleep. I’ll quiz you again.”
“This is torture, Matt,” Foggy says, even as he gets up and drags himself over to Matt’s bed.
Matt’s side is tidier than Foggy’s. He always keeps the sheets freshly laundered, washed only with unscented fabric softener and odorless detergent, always folded crisp in the morning. Matt is one of the cleanest people Foggy’s ever met, though that might not be saying much. (He likes that about him anyway though).
Long story short, he likes Matt’s bed. In a weird way, it’s comforting, and it smells like their dorm and Matt’s shampoo. Not that he would tell Matt this.
Foggy all but throws himself onto the side not occupied, bumping into Matt as he does. (There really is no unoccupied side of a twin bed).
Matt starts anew, skimming his fingers over a stapled braille stack of papers. Foggy, as always, watches him read with interest. There’s something endearing about the way Matt reads when he’s really focused. He always silently mouths the words as he goes. Foggy’s never sure if he would rather look at his mouth or at his hands.
He thinks he would do anything Matt says if he asked with his hands. (He doesn’t want to read too much into that).
“What case deemed that segregation in schools-”
Foggy knocks his shoulder. “Brown v. Board. I’m tired, not stupid.”
Matt huffs a breath of laughter, “Okay. Fine.” Foggy can’t help but watch one corner of his mouth tilt up when he says it. Mouth it is then.
“What case decided that school administration could edit student newspapers?”
But to be honest, Foggy isn’t listening anymore. Not when Matt is this close and this warm. Not when all he can smell is the unscented fabric softener that still has a scent… or maybe that’s all Matt. Maybe it’s always been Matt. He feels giddy on it, delighted and nervous all at once.
Matt still doesn’t take his glasses off all that much while Foggy’s around. He hasn’t asked about it, and he figures that whenever Matt feels comfortable to do so, he will. In the meantime, Foggy is graced with the presence of half-moon shadows on Matt’s cheekbones, cast by the lamp next to him.
They were so young in college that Foggy can blame it now on misdirected energy, the product of being awake for too long, or the copious amounts of caffeine he’d consumed in the last 48 hours. Really though, it was this feeling that did it. This draw that he can’t explain to himself or anyone else. Something that makes him want Matt to hold his arm just a little bit longer on the way to class.
He couldn’t name it then, but he thinks he can now.
“Fogs?”
Matt breaks the silence, and Foggy realizes that he has tilted treacherously close to him. It’s all he can see: Matt and his high cheekbones and his dumb square glasses. His perpetually chapped lips. His fingers skimming over raised paper. The way their shoulders are touching.
Now Foggy’s leaning in, and he knows what he wants to do, can feel it in the hammering of his heart. They’re close enough that Foggy can feel Matt’s small exhale, more of a sigh than a breath.
“Foggy?” Matt asks again, but he isn’t pulling away. Isn’t denying him. He can almost feel the movement of Matt’s lips as he speaks and wonders again what it would feel like to kiss him.
He can’t though. He can’t ruin this.
He pulls back. Stands up.
The space where he once was is suddenly empty and cold. For once, as Matt’s brow furrows and looks up toward Foggy’s direction, he’s glad that he can’t see Matt’s eyes.
Instead of explaining himself, or doing anything at all, Foggy forces a laugh.
It hurts. And it’s not a sharp or quick pain either, it’s prolonged and it sits in the bottom of his stomach like he’s going to be sick. Something is wrong. Something is wrong and there’s no way to fix it.
“I really should go to bed. I’ll, uh, shower and then see you tomorrow morning for the exam.”
Then he leaves, quickly and quietly, before Matt can say anything at all.
Sometimes being near Matt is like quicksand, and he knows that getting pulled in would be fatal.
__
The court’s restrooms are not the place for a falling out, but then again, neither are the court halls. So, here they are, standing toe to toe again. Foggy goes to the sink as Matt locks the door, wanting to get at least one moment to collect himself before it all goes to shit.
“Foggy. Foggy ,” Matt is saying. Words tripping over themselves, excuses and explanations so loud Foggy can’t hear anything else. He used to think that Matt wasn’t very emotive, but lately he’s gotten very familiar with “defensive” as a primary emotion.
It’s been said that two linear lines will never meet if they’re traveling at the same angle. Foggy thinks this might not be true, or worse, they were never going the same direction to begin with. (Foggy wonders if they used to though. Wonders what happened to make them change).
“She’s my new client,” Matt is saying now. Hands on his hips, a defensive move Foggy knows well. “The rich one? The private one?”
Now this, this Foggy wasn’t expecting. His ex-girlfriend? The Yakuza? Foggy doesn’t think Matt is even hearing himself. This is crazy. Beyond crazy, it’s insane. He thought they were over the lies, the sneaking around one another in the office. They were finally, maybe for the first time in their entire friendship, on the same page.
Foggy supposes he’s been wrong about a lot of things.
He recoils back. “You lied again,” and this time it’s an admission of defeat.
They’re in each other’s faces now, as if getting closer will make the words sink in better. Foggy thinks it’s more like yelling out a window, letting the words go nowhere except out.
“But, Foggy, I would never-”
He can’t take it anymore. Everything has gone out of focus.
Foggy snaps. “Stop acting like these things just happen to you! No one makes you lie to your friends again and again .”
Then a pause.
“Elektra isn’t the problem, Matt. It’s you.”
Foggy knows this is the truest thing that he’s said in a while. Matt’s jaw clenches and he knows it’s cruel, knows that it will have Matt awake all night with bloody fists, but maybe he deserves it. He knows, too, that he loves Matt and there isn’t anything he can do about it.
He needs to leave. Matt’s quicksand, he remembers, and he will not be dragged into it.
Matt doesn’t protest, not a first. “Foggy,” he says instead, like it’s a plea and he’s begging for innocence, grabbing for his arm like it will make him understand.
It won’t.
They grab at each other like children for a moment, somehow pulling each other closer and also shoving themselves away. “No! No, don’t touch me. Going forward I will count on you for nothing.”
He leaves Matt in the restroom. He pauses outside the door, wondering if maybe it will all be okay once Matt walks out. He doesn’t wait to find out.
__
“Foggy?”
Foggy’s in Matt’s apartment when he hears the latch on the window open and watches as Matt crawls in. After shit hit the fan, Foggy started dropping by Matt’s apartment every now and then. Only sometimes. Only briefly. He had a key, after all, and he might as well use it. He’s always worried he’ll let himself in one day and Matt won’t be there, that he won’t come back.
The first thing Foggy notices is not the blood on his face or his hands, it’s not even really the Daredevil suit, it’s that his glasses are off and he just looks so tired. Things are better… mostly. They still fight with each other and sometimes it feels like they have to tiptoe to keep everything from falling apart. It’s better though, mostly.
“Geez, what happened to you?” Foggy says instead of answering, getting up to grab a washcloth from the kitchen and a bowl of warm soapy water.
Foggy didn't always do this. He wanted to though. He’ll always want to.
“Uh,” Matt starts, bringing a hand to scrub his face. It only irritates the cuts more, from the kitchen Foggy tsks at him. “Do you want it alphabetized or chronological?”
Foggy doesn’t answer except for a low whistle. “Sit down, let me see.”
It had become something of a routine. Foggy would drop by Matt’s apartment a couple times a week and when Matt inevitably came home tired and bloody, Foggy would clean him up. Tonight Matt walks toward Foggy to sit on the barstool, still clad in his Daredevil suit, and waits patiently. He can hear the soft swishing of water as Foggy dampens the washcloth and then wrings it out.
The washcloth is warm as Foggy presses it into the cuts on Matt’s face. He tilts Matt’s chin up to get the side of his jaw. He can’t help but sigh into it.
There’s a bruise blooming on Matt’s right eye and Foggy drags the washcloth over that too, even though it won’t do anything. Sometimes Foggy thinks this is more about comforting than it is helping - the only thing is he doesn’t know who it's supposed to be comforting. Foggy supposes that it does bring him a certain amount of solace, knowing at the very least someone will be here to confirm that Matt’s not dead.
Foggy finishes his ministrations with a final brush over Matt’s forehead, sticky with sweat and blood. He isn’t sure whose it is.
“Okay. Go shower and go to bed. I’ll put the suit up.”
Matt nods and then stands, quiet and reserved. Foggy goes on, “And remember, we have court tomorrow, so please don’t be late. You know Karen worries.”
Foggy rinses the bowl out and wrings the washcloth into the sink. (He always cleans up afterward. Makes sure to put everything back.) When he’s done he realizes that Matt hasn’t moved very far at all, just standing by the counter looking (listening?) blankly forward.
When they were in college, Matt did this all the time. It was just something Foggy took for granted as a quirk of Matt’s, something he only really ever did when he was stressed or had pushed himself too hard.
“Matt. Buddy. You gotta go shower. You can’t sleep in the suit, even though I know you want to.” The last part is a joke, but Foggy does wonder sometimes. (How often does Matt pass out where he’s standing? Does he always make it to the bed? Who makes sure he sleeps?)
Matt shakes his head.
Foggy sighs, coming around the counter to maneuver them to Matt’s couch.
“What’s wrong? Other than the usual,” he asks as they sit down.
Matt clears his throat and shakes his head again. Not necessarily like he’s saying no, but like he’s trying to clear his head. “Will you stay?”
Foggy stares at him. Notes the shadows under his eyes and the slight tremble in his hands. “Yeah, buddy. Of course. Whatever you want.”
Suddenly, it’s like all the fight in Matt goes out, and he leans into Foggy's shoulder. For a moment Foggy just lets himself sit there, taking in the smell of sweat and blood, partnered with that always there smell of odorless fabric detergent and Matt’s shampoo.
Some things just never change.
Foggy sighs. Somehow both resigned and exhausted all at once. “Okay,” he says, bringing Matt closer to him, “Come here.”
It’s that feeling again, that something is deeply wrong, but Foggy knows better than to think he can fix it. He thinks it will always be there.
He wraps an arm around Matt’s torso, bringing his other hand to smooth the still sweat-damp hair on the nape of his neck.
“It’s okay,” he shushes. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Matt nods into his neck.
He continues. “You did everything you could and that’s all you can do. It’s gonna be okay, Matty.”
Because it is going to be okay.
Foggy knows it will be. It just takes time.