ugh, i’ve been feeling really uneasy about the way people are talking about it, too. here’s a little bit. ❤
Foggy’s pacing. Foggy’s pacing in his living room. And Foggy is pacing in his living room because Matt Murdock is passed out snoring on his couch for the first time in about—he doesn’t know, several months. Maybe a full year. Matt’s been too busy being a criminal fighting criminals to drink properly for a while.
He was hanging precariously from Foggy’s fire escape last night, apologizing as soon as Foggy opened his window because apparently he realized it wasn’t an especially good idea to follow up a couple of months with nothing more than stilted phone conversations with a late night visit from Trashed Matt.
Trashed Matt is a sweet, sad ball of human emotions who still doesn’t know how to ask for a hug but makes it very obvious that he wants one. It was nice in college, because there were very few points in his life then when he didn’t want to hug Matt. Now, though—it’s complicated.
*
He saw it all on Matt’s face, a little crumpled when he says, “I can just leave, Foggy, I should’ve called or—”
“Shut up,” Foggy says, laughing. “You’re already here.”
“You’re laughing at me,” Matt says, like he’s not sure how to feel about that.
“A little bit, yeah, Murdock,” Foggy says. “Come here.”
Matt takes a hesitant step forward and Foggy fills in the gap, wraps his arms around Matt and breathes out another laugh when Matt immediately clings to him, pressing his face into Foggy’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Thank you, I just—wanted to see you. Don’t make a blind joke.”
“I won’t,” Foggy says, smoothing a hand up and down Matt’s back.
*
He almost let Matt sleep in his bed, but they don’t really do that. They have all these lines that Foggy mostly built himself but Matt seemed to understand; they toe them sometimes but only that.
So, after Matt drinks a few glasses of water and they talk as much as they can when Matt looks like he just wants to crawl into Foggy’s arms again, Matt settles into Foggy’s couch with an excess of pillows and blankets and falls asleep almost immediately.
If Foggy watches him sleep, it’s only for a minute.
Now, he’s walking a hole in his floor until he sees Matt stir, waking up and immediately groaning and swearing hoarsely.
“…Foggy?” he asks, sitting up slowly. His hair’s a mess and he’s making a sleepy, pained face. It’s more adorable than Foggy’s seen him in a long time, which does something old and familiar to his stomach.
“You survived,” Foggy says.
“Did you—put an ice pick through my eye, maybe?” Matt ask, rubbing his temples. “I probably deserved it, but—ow.”
“You did that to yourself, buddy.”
“Right,” Matt says. “Sorry for coming here. I was thinking about you.”
“And the whiskey guided you?” Foggy asks. “I made a pot of coffee. You should drink most of it, probably.”
“Thanks,” Matt murmurs, starting to get up and making a long, pained noise before he sinks back down again. “Nope, not yet.”
“Just stay there,” Foggy says. “You were not sure on your feet last night, I’d rather not have you break something. I dropped my Matt Murdock insurance after we split up.”
“Sounds like we divorced,” Matt says, smiling wryly, kind of sad.
“Well, close enough,” Foggy says. “Bacon?”
“…yeah, please.”
*
Matt looks a little less dead after he eats and takes a shower, coming out in nothing but a smile and pair of Foggy’s sweatpants because it’s entirely possible that Matt is allergic to shirts. After all the time they lived together, Foggy has enough evidence to support this theory.
“I can leave, if you want,” Matt says, for probably the tenth time.
“How are you feeling?” Foggy asks.
“Like my—brain is too big for my skull,” Matt says, after a moment.
“You’re still dehydrated,” Foggy says. “Sit down.”
Matt seems to like Foggy telling him what to do, gets this soft, perplexed smile on his face as he sits down. It opens up something inside of Foggy that he’s never quite let himself feel before. Matt drinks the water bottle that Foggy gives him and then turns to him expectantly.
“…lie down,” Foggy says, shifting to give him more room on the couch.
“Here?” Matt asks, hesitantly.
“My lap.”
Matt’s mouth drop opens for just a moment before he nods and moves to lie down on his side, head resting in Foggy’s lap, moving around until he’s comfortable and making a soft noise when Foggy slides fingers into his hair.
They’re both quiet as Foggy pets him and rubs his temples and feels a dumb thrill at the satisfied sounds that Matt makes, shifting and moaning softly.
“Why were you thinking about me, Matt?” Foggy asks, breaking the silence.
“…I can’t stop,” Matt says.
“Matt,” Foggy says, sternly, and Matt sighs and rubs his cheek against Foggy’s knee.
“I just can’t believe that I lost you when I was just figuring out what you really meant to me,” Matt says. It takes him a few attempts, stumbling over words, stopping to take a shaky breath. Foggy thinks he knows what that means. It just didn’t take him as long to figure it out.
He lets his fingers brush over Matt’s mouth and Matt kisses them.
“I can leave,” he whispers.
“Kiss me,” Foggy says, and Matt sits up slowly, touching their foreheads together. “We can sort out all of our shit later, Matt, just—just kiss me, okay?”
“Okay,” Matt echoes, and he kisses Foggy on the mouth softly, chaste. Foggy laughs.
“Kiss me better than that,” he says, laughing harder when Matt tips him over on his back and climbs on top of him.
oh my god, they were roommates 