this is one of those fics where i’m, like, “i’ll reblog it and add pornography later,” but that may or may not happen…
It takes about three seconds after Matt opens the door for Foggy to realize that he hasn’t waxed recently—mostly because Matt refuses to adhere to social mores and put on clothing when he’s got guests. He’s in a pair of loose pajamas pants and nothing else, and he just vaguely smiles at Foggy before walking back to collapse on his sofa.
“Haven’t gotten over the simultaneous multiple stab wound and flu yet?” Foggy asks, sitting a take-out container of chicken soup on Matt’s counter, wondering if it would be weird to comment on Matt’s chest hair just because it’s making him kind of light-headed.
“It was, uh—a really shitty combination,” Matt says, coughing. “I should be good to go soon, though.”
“Good to go as in coming back to work or good to go as in getting additional stab wounds?”
Matt tilts his head so Foggy can see him smile wryly.
“Little of both?” he offers, shrugging.
“Of course,” Foggy says. “I’m making myself coffee—you want some?”
“Please,” Matt says, dragging a blanket down from the back of the sofa and pulling it around himself, sinking down further.
Foggy’s hand is shaky while he’s measuring out the coffee grounds, and he gives in and asks, casually, “So, have you given up on your manscaping regimen? You’re looking burly.”
“Huh? Oh. Sort of, yeah,” Matt says, hand lifting up to touch his chest. “I was too messed up to do anything about it when it was growing back in and then I just—didn’t think about it, I guess.”
“Not dying is more important than being pretty,” Foggy agrees.
Matt huffs out a tired laugh.
“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.
“The prettiest, Murdock,” Foggy says, dryly, leaving the coffee to brew and nudging Matt until he sits up enough that he can sit next to him, smiling when Matt immediately sinks against him.
“I’ll get back to it when I can—move again,” he says yawning.
Foggy wants to touch his chest. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to touch Matt’s chest, and it’s not the first time he’s been so close to Matt when he wanted it, but the situation seems more desperate now—very focused.
“I mean,” he says, as calmly as he can, “You’re looking pretty good for someone who’s mostly dead, buddy.”
Matt turns his head to give him a confused smile.
“Thanks?” he says. “You’re—being really nice.”
“I’m always very nice,” Foggy says.
“You’re normally not so nice when I almost die,” Matt says, almost hesitantly. “Is something going on?”
Foggy twists his hands together in his lap before he says, weakly, “Have you—have you ever considered not waxing?”
*
A few weeks later, after Matt’s fully recovered and re-entered the world of the living, he comes into the office without a jacket and with the first three buttons of his shirt undone and Foggy almost falls out of his chair.
The hair came in quick and—dark and Foggy wants to—god, he doesn’t even know. Rub his face against it, maybe, like a cat.
Matt’s got to hear his heart beating hard, because he nods in the direction of Foggy’s office and says good morning with a smile that Foggy can only name as meaningful.
The rest of the day is Foggy attempting to get work done, pretending like he’s attempting to get work done and losing track of the conversation during a meeting with a client because he’s staring at Matt’s chest and imagining what the full picture must look like. He does his best not to sexualize Matt whenever possible, both because it’s creepy and because it routinely saves his life, but that’s kind of out the window now.
“What’s up?” Matt asks, after it’s over. “You seem distracted.”
Foggy squints at him. Matt smiles.
“You dick,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs.
“What?”
“Did you stop waxing just to tease me?” Foggy asks, feeling about fifteen different things at once, but at least one of them is sort of sick. “That’s—that’s actually kind of shitty, Murdock.”
“Oh,” Matt says, eyebrows knitted together. “I thought you wanted me to…”
Matt makes a vague gesture encompassing most of his body.
“…well, I did,” Foggy says, “but telling you that was a moment of weakness and now you’re just—what, making fun of me?”
“I’m not making fun of you,” Matt says, frowning. “Why would I make fun of you?”
“Because you figured out that I have—conflicting feelings about you,” Foggy says. This is kind of his worst nightmare, actually, just happening right now on a Tuesday afternoon. He takes a step back, wondering if he can just make a run for it and never come back.
“I did, I—I’ve wondered,” Matt says, slowly, “but I’m not making fun of you. Do you really think I’d do that?”
Foggy just stares at him.
“No,” he says, softly, eventually.
“Then why do you think I did it, Foggy?” Matt asks, and then he steps forward to slide fingers into the hair at the back of Foggy’s head and Foggy’s whole world goes still and then—pulses.
Matt kisses him first.
*
“You did it for me?” Foggy asks, for the fifth time, while Matt’s got him pressed up against a wall in an alley—their second alley on the way to Matt’s place. He’s eager, apparently; Foggy’s trying to comprehend the idea of Matt being eager to touch him while Matt’s in the process of touching him, hands moving everywhere until they settle on Foggy’s ass.
“Yes,” Matt says, laughing against Foggy’s mouth. “It was itchy, I suffered—it was very romantic.”
“Sounds it,” Foggy says, kissing him back enthusiastically before he adds, “Okay, stop accosting me on the street, I want to feel you up indoors.”
Matt pushes his whole body against Foggy’s, kissing him softly one more time before he steps back and pulls him back towards the sidewalk.
“You did it for me,” Foggy says, happily, taking Matt’s hand.
Matt squeezes his hand.
“Yeah,” he says, face soft and fond when he turns it towards Foggy. “I did it for you.”
oh my god, they were roommates 