mattfoggy & 21!

the-space-narwhal:

21. Too much eggnog! 

When Matt wakes up he’s keenly aware of two things: the
first is that his mouth taste like death and the second is that having a
building collapse on top of him might be preferable to this.

Next to him Foggy is snoring like a chainsaw and Matt can feel
every vibration of it running through his whole body and while there’s normally
a kind of quaintness to these early morning moments, today it makes Matt feel
like there’s a tiny angry logger in his brain, sawing through his skull.

“Ugh.” Matt groans, the world feeling wobbly underneath him
and over him and around him. “The spins.” He rolls on his side, away from
Foggy, pulling a face at the sour taste he accidently amplifies when he
swallows. And breathes.

“Matty?” Foggy asks, startling away seemingly at once. Matt
isn’t sure how loudly he groans, his head pounding and his stomach turning
traitorously behind his navel.

Foggy’s hand paws at his bare back, clumsy with sleep, and
it’s not really comforting but Matt doesn’t want him to stop either, happy to shift
his attention over to something other than the unsteady, rattled feeling surging
throughout his body.

“Never let Karen make the eggnog again.” Foggy mumbles,
shifting closer, hiding his flushed face against the spot between Matt’s
shoulder blades. “It’s, like, just cream and bourbon.”

“Don’t remind me.” Matt manages through clenched teeth,
willing his body to either succumb to unconsciousness or else cast aside the
terrible tightness clenching his body into knots.

Foggy hums low in his
throat, and the tremble of it plays differently that that of his previous
snoring, softer, quieter, more like feather down than gnarled wool. It seeps
and pours through the cracks in Matt’s fractured brain, flushes to the surface a
memory from last night, Foggy’s mouth sweet against Matt’s neck, his voice ripe
with laughter as he half-sang, half-mumbled against Matt’s skin. “Say what’s in this drink?”

(“You’re the worst.” Matt laughed, even as he looped his
arms around Foggy’s shoulders, holding him tight, and Foggy just pressed a kiss
to the corner of Matt’s mouth, warm, so warm, “Gosh your lips look delicious.”)

Foggy’s arm curls around him, holding Matt close. Against
all odds, Foggy’s warmth spreads across Matt’s skin and eases the sharpest edge
of the shivering tension in his body.

“Think of my life long sorrow.” Matt whispers into his
pillow. He recognizes the curve of Foggy’s sleepy grin against his back.