“Think fast.” Foggy says, bumping the back of Matt’s hand. It takes a moment to place it, the leathery skin and the cool curvature of it, but even without either there’s no mistaking the sharp smell of citrus buried under Foggy’s nails and emanating from the peel. Matt turns his hand over and accepts the orange Foggy’s holding.
“It’s an orange.” Foggy says. In the short weeks of their cohabitation he seems to have taken on the responsibility of telling Matt things Matt could pick up on his own, sure, but he also tells Matt things he sometimes forgets to check for, or things he could never catch even with his remaining senses. Things like facial expressions, miniscule ticks, and even the color of dogs that pass them on the street. Matt suspects the internet was involved since Matt’s only request upon their meeting had been to please keep the floor near the door clear, partially for appearance sake but also because it really does make life easier. Matt’s initial wariness has gave way to a cautious appreciation weeks ago, though he knows better than to get used to it.
Foggy’s been a genuinely nice guy since they’ve met and Matt even suspects him to be a good person, but the novelty of befriending Matt always wears off. Even the best people rarely take on an unnecessary inconvenience long term. After the accident, even before Stick came and went, Matt understood the importance of learning how to live independently.
“I had one earlier, thought I’d save you one.” Next to him, Foggy is already moving away, crossing over to his side of the room. “I know you’re like, one of those people who respects their body’s need for non-Frito Lay produced snack foods, which I’ll try not to hold against you.” His desk chair creaks when he sits down, and Matt hears the twin thump of his feet being propped up on the desk.
“Hey let me know when you’re hungry, I found this ramen place that’s super cheap and delicious. I think you’d like it.” Foggy says, pulling something out of his backpack. Matt listens as he quickly flicks the pages of a book, orange still held in one hand. There’s no underlining intention in Foggy’s voice. Despite the occasional spike in body temperature and the uptick of his pulse that Matt’s learned to read as attraction, Foggy’s never done anything Matt could interpret as an advance. He hasn’t decided how he’d feel at this point if he did.
Matt’s stomach rumbles, his fingers flex involuntarily around the orange.
He has another twenty pages to read for Torts that he should finish and twice as many to read for Contracts. But his back aches from being seated for nearly five hours, and now that he’s noticed it, his hunger only seems to gnaw all the more fiercely at his gut.
“I was actually about to take a break,” Matt lies, setting the orange down on the desk top, just to the left of his computer. “If you want to go now.” Foggy’s feet drop off the desk, followed by the thud of his text book landing unceremoniously in the space they left vacant.
“Excellent timing Matty. I so did not want to read for this class.”
“Do you ever?” Matt asks with a grin, tries not to dwell on the use of a nickname he hasn’t heard in more than a decade.
Foggy shrugs, waiting for Matt to make his way to the door. “Touché.” The smile in his voice is so apparent that Matt can’t help but return it in full.
“Happy Tuesday.” Foggy calls when he arrives, tossing his backpack over to his bed before he sets a cup at the edge of Matt’s desk. “Coffee, 3 o’clock.”
Matt smiles up at him in thanks, reaching out for the cardboard cup, still warm against his fingers. It’s not from the student union, that becomes apparent before he’s even taken his first sip. It’s sweet, not with sugar but in the quality of the coffee itself, rich with just a bit of half and half. It’s not exactly now Matt makes it for himself but a good approximation. (Foggy always adds three packets of sugar into his own coffee and a hefty dose of milk; he’s not particular to any one kind. He’s easy-going and friendly with clerks, asks how they’re doing with the same genuine interest he projects into all his conversations, always drops whatever he can into the tip jar at the counter and thanks them at the end of a transaction. Some days Foggy feels like a living embodiment of the phrase ‘Kill them with kindness’ and Matt doesn’t know what to do with it.)
There’s the crinkle of a paper bag and the aroma of sugar and cinnamon and yeast. “They had donut holes too, if you want one.”
They smell good—they don’t always, when the oil burns after too many uses the taste of it seeps into the dough and sits heavy on Matt’s tongue for hours—so he nods, reaches out and Foggy places the bag next to his hand for him to grab one.
“What are we celebrating?” Matt asks, licking cinnamon sugar off his lips, savoring his next sip of coffee just a little bit more. He doesn’t think it’s Foggy’s birthday, but then again, he doesn’t actually know Foggy’s birthday, is filled with a sudden dread that it is and he’s missed it. Foggy probably wouldn’t hold it against him, but Matt’s sure it’s the principle of the thing. Matt isn’t always the most personable but he knows enough to understand that birthdays are important to most normal people. He should probably ask Foggy for his.
Foggy shrugs, popping a donut in his own mouth, “It’s Tuesday.” He says easily, like it can be that simple.
Matt doesn’t know what to make of that, the causal ease of Foggy’s heart and the much appreciated one-two punch of sugar and caffeine spreading throughout his body. Right now it’s nothing compared to the thought of being included in this clandestine celebration of nothing in particular.
Matt raises his coffee cup in a toast. “To Tuesday then.” Foggy chuckles and bumps the bag of donut holes against Matt’s cup. “Here, here.”
Matt is dying.
He can feel it. His brain is liquefied and sloshing against the walls of his skull. “Ugh.” He groans, overly warm and smelling of stale beer and bad choices, last night’s greasy fast food sitting like lead in his belly. He clamps his lips shut, drags in a deep breath to try and quell the nausea that rolls up his throat. “Shut up.” Foggy moans practically in Matt’s ear, arm heavy across Matt’s chest and knee digging into Matt’s thigh. “Please shut up.”
Matt vaguely remembers Foggy’s harrumphing last night when Matt threw himself down on the bed besides him. There were definitely cookie crumbs on the comforter and Foggy’s hair on the pillow and the sheets were old, pilling flannel that smelled entirely of Foggy but Matt had never been so tired or more comfortable in his life, the world tipping and turning beneath him as the alcohol blurred everything soft. Foggy never had delivered on his threats to push Matt out of bed when he’d refused to move, shifting himself until there was almost room enough for both of them.
Matt kicks him, or well he tries, it’s closer to a forceful nudge of his toes against Foggy’s bare calf. Foggy whines and wiggles away, sets the mattress bouncing under Matt’s back and upsets the general feeling of death that’s forcefully clawing its way up out of the depths of his soul. Sister Marge was right. Alcohol is undeniably a tool of the Devil.
Matt grips Foggy’s arm, squeezes hard. “Please stop.” He whispers, his voice pounding inside his own head. And Foggy whines again, butting his head against Matt’s shoulder before falling blissfully still again. Okay, Matt thinks, Foggy’s forearm solid in his grasp. Okay. He’s got this.
He does not got this. He throws up less than seventeen minutes later, elbows Foggy in the side in his rush to get to the bathroom before last night’s mistakes reappear on their dorm room floor.
A week later, after their joint resolution to never drink again has been forgotten, Foggy walks into their room and drops something at the foot of Matt’s bed on his way to his dresser. “There was a buy two get one free deal,” Foggy starts before Matt’s even grabbed a hold of the oddly shaped bundle Foggy left for him. “Those are grey, with a little yellow at the toe and heel, very fashionable I assure you.” He says as Matt squeezes at what feels like a soft, cable-knit three-pack of socks. “They’re for your dastardly cold penguin feet.” Matt hears the slide and shuffle of Foggy depositing his own buys into his drawers, rubs his fingers against the material of the socks. They don’t feel too bad.
Matt snorts, “And exactly how many penguins’ feet have you touched?”
Foggy forces his drawer shut. “That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Unless you ply me with booze, than I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. But if you’re gonna crawl into bed with me after you better be wearing some damn socks.” Foggy’s voice is still teasing and cheerful, and there’s a funny second where Matt feels his own heart trip over itself, the memory of Foggy’s arm across him rising out of the fuzzy details of that morning.
“I’ll try.” Matt answers, waving the socks in Foggy’s direction.
Foggy’s eye roll is practically tangible when he says, “Promises, promises.”
“Hey Matty.” Foggy says, his casual air belied by the slight quickening of his pulse. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He slides something across the surface of Matt’s desk, comes to a stop less than an inch from Matt’s elbow. “Envelope to your four o’clock.”
The envelope is made out of thin and flimsy paper, smudged and dented in the places Foggy’s handled it the most. There’s the faint scent of nail polish in the air when he eases the envelope open and Foggy is practically buzzing with restrained anticipation, muscles vibrating beneath the surface of his skin as he watches Matt remove a single piece of heavy cardstock from inside. Matt hasn’t received a Valentine in years, not since he was at the orphanage. Sister Barbara would buy boxes of generic cards from the dollar store nearby and distribute them among the younger kids (“It’s not like he can see it.” Someone had protested when Sister Barbara had told them they were all expected to gift them indiscriminately between each other. Stick had been nearly two months gone by then and there was a part of Matt still waiting for him to come back when all the rest of him knew Stick never would, that Matt hadn’t been good enough, and it was that part of Matt that wanted to rip every single one of the pulpy, cardboard cards to shreds).
He runs his fingers around the edges of the card. It isn’t heart-shaped or even especially big, about the size of a standard flashcard, without the serrated edge that implies Foggy ripped it out of a sheet of twelve. Matt gives it a shake but he can’t detect the nearly silent fall of glitter particles and Foggy laughs. “It’s not exactly an etch a sketch buddy.” Matt grins, lays the card out on the desk in front of him and skims his fingers over it—he doesn’t expect to get much from it, maybe the impression of Foggy’s pen where he signed his name somewhere near Matt’s—feels his eyebrows rise when he skims an unmistakable sequence of raised bumps. B-E-E.
It isn’t quite uniform, some of the letters slightly more raised than others, all of them lack the precise feel Matt’s become accustom to in text books and public placards. The faded scent of nail polish lingers on the paper.
There’s something else beneath the message. Matt traces the circumference of an oval bisected by horizontal lines, two more ovals, one on each side, perpendicular to the one in the middle. It’s waxy under Matt’s fingers, gets caught under the edge of one of his nails, probably crayon. Definitely handmade then, not that Matt had many doubts.
He laughs, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight. “Foggy, what is this?”
“Pretty sure it’s a Valentine. I googled.” Foggy starts, his nervousness permeating the air, “And I’m 99 percent sure I got a legit website. Please tell me I didn’t just insult you in braille or something.” Matt shakes his head, smile widening with every new pass of his fingers over the front of the card. Foggy keeps talking. “I wanted to do ‘I Choo-Choo-Choose You’ but I couldn’t get it all to fit on one card and then I sort of demolished my supplies. My Thomas the Engine was looking pretty rough anyhow, which I know you wouldn’t care about but I couldn’t just give you a crappy card, man. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“A craft reputation?” Matt asks to keep down the oddly-shaped lump stuck in his throat.
“You know it. And you better believe that is the sickest cartoon bee outside of a Honey-Nut Cheerios commercial, Murdock. Foggy Nelson doesn’t skimp. On talent I mean, he has to skimp financially or he’d never eat.”
“You’re talking about yourself in third person again.” Matt points out unhelpfully, and Foggy flips him off and tells him about it. Matt can’t help but laugh some more.
“You didn’t have to.” He says, touching the makeshift braille letters again. B-E-E. M-I-N-E. The bumblebee drawn beneath it. He grins.
Foggy makes a dismissive sound. “Duh, I know that. This is a theoretically free country.” Foggy shrugs, uncomfortable in a way he rarely lets show anymore. “I wanted to. Couldn’t just let you miss out on all the pun-tastic, mass produced, artificial romance that gets peddled around at this time of year. What kind of friend would that make me?” Honestly, Matt doesn’t know. Foggy’s his first in a long while.
At the bottom right-hand corner is the impression of Foggy’s ballpoint pen, To Matt. There’s a sloppy row of x’s and o’s leading to the curling indentation of Love, Foggy. Matt touches them again and again.
The last of the pizza is congealing to the bottom of its grease stained box and Foggy is challenging him to a winner takes all round of rock paper scissors for the final bottle of beer. Matt should probably just let him have it. After all Foggy did borrow his uncle’s car and spend the day carrying boxes up the countless flights of stairs until all of Matt’s things were situated in this new apartment. Matt doesn’t know when or how he accumulated all these things, the solitary duffle bag that had gotten him through until now suddenly not enough to contain his things when it was finally time to pack again.
Foggy had helped him pack, had helped Matt fill easily distinguishable boxes with books, blankets, records, all the bits and knickknacks that have strayed into Matt’s life over the last five years without Matt even noticing. “Oh my god, you still have this?” Foggy had asked while they were clearing out the book shelf in their old apartment, voice bright with surprise. Matt hadn’t known what it was until Foggy had laid it in his hand, felt the familiar edges of the cardstock and the impression of a crayon rubbed almost indistinguishable by Matt’s fingers.
“You gave it to me.” He’d answered simply, fingers tightening involuntarily around the card in his hand, creasing it at the edges, uncomfortable with the thought that it hadn’t really been his to keep.
“Murdock, you old softie.” Foggy had teased, voice so fond it ran like a soothing hand along Matt’s spine, quieted some of the displaced dismay accumulating at the back of his mind. “I’ll make you one for every major holiday if it means that much to you. Fuck, I’ll even throw in Arbor Day on account of how I like you so much.”
“Ugh, I hate you so much.” Foggy groans from where he’s lying prostrate on Matt’s floor (Matt’s floor, it sounds weird now after so many years of everything being theirs), “I’m pretty sure today violated a number of labor laws.” Across from him Matt laughs, reclining further against the sofa the delivery men brought up yesterday. He wonders how long it’ll be until he stops missing the dusty scent of the old sofa Foggy kept for his own apartment (“I can’t kick Big Bird to the curb for some scavenger to steal. After all those good times we had together?” “Do you mean passing out on the couch after too many drinks? Or spilling coffee all over yourself?” “I was referring to the time I found a quarter between the cushions but yeah, those too.”). “I didn’t tell you carry the last three boxes up at once.” Matt reminds him again.
“Dude I had to. Note the added emphasis. I’m verbally throwing my hands in the air here.”
“Good. Your neighbor was totally stabbing me with her eyes every time I walked by. If I’d made one more trip she would have definitely drawn blood.” Foggy says vehemently, his voice climbing up the high walls of the room. “Anyway, what’s done is done. I’ve collapsed with exhaustion.” Matt hears the dull thud of his head dropping back down to the floor. “I am declaring this part of the floor my new home. Consider me your tenant Murdock because I am never moving again.”
“Alright, but I’m gonna have to charge you rent.”
Foggy sighs, “Can I write you an I.O.U.? I promise to get you back just as soon as L&Z actually puts us on payroll.” There’s still a disbelieving trickle of excitement in Foggy’s voice whenever he says that, his contentment radiating off him in a way it only ever does when they’re not actually confined to the glorified storage room that acts as their office.
“Sure Foggy. But don’t forget, I know where you live.” Matt threatens, reaching out until his fingers grasp the neck of the last beer. Foggy miraculously recovers his strength long enough to lunge at him, but Matt’s faster, rolling away before he can get a hold of the bottle. It devolves pretty quickly into a half-hearted wrestling match that borders on a pillow fight once Foggy starts beating him with a couch cushion. When it’s over they can’t even open the beer until it’s settled from all the jostling. Foggy vindictively claims the last slice of pizza for himself in retribution.
Matt feels the sunlight move slowly across the room until the temperature starts to cool, the sun probably winding its way down in the sky. Eventually Foggy gets up, circles the room a couple of times to make sure the boxes are all neatly piled against the wall. “It’s getting pretty late man, I should probably head out. Got all those stairs to climb.” Foggy heaves a heavy sigh. “You really couldn’t find something ground level, buddy?”
Matt grins. “Sorry, I couldn’t pass up on the view.”
“Oh hey I got you something.” Foggy says at the door. Matt hears him digging around his pockets (the cacophony of loose change, crumpled paper, and keys) and then Foggy’s pulling something free. “It’s a keychain. For your new keys. Sorry it’s not one of those fancy-smancy ones that’ll tell you the time, but I thought, y’know, it was still pretty nice.” Matt smiles, holds his hand out for Foggy to deposit it in his palm. It’s metal, body-warm from being in Foggy’s pocket all day, heavy where it settles in the middle of Matt’s hand. He curls his fingers around it, feels out the shape and weight of it. It feels almost like a figure eight, the loose end wider and more spherical than the part attached to the keyring itself which tappers into something narrower, straighter, but still three-dimensional. “It was between this one and one of those I heart New York teddy bears with a sequin for a belly button. I thought you’d probably prefer a boxing glove instead. Totally sequin free I promise.” Foggy’s heart performs an irregular measure; enough that Matt rubs the keychain between his fingers, but it’s smooth, not a sequin in sight.
Foggy’s lies are usually innocuous. Tiny things like “Yes Matt I let my mom know you were coming over this time” or “No Matt I’m not playing Zelda, I’m reading for Evidence, I swear”. Whatever Foggy’s not saying now, it hardly registers as a lie, lost in the ramble of Foggy’s voice. “Okay, I guess I’ll…see you at the office. Heh. Listen to us, we’re all grown up.”
It’s not Foggy’s heart Matt’s listening to then, too aware of his own pulse, his own nervousness rising up now that Foggy’s leaving. Matt forms a fist around the miniature glove, squeezes his fingers around it. “Thank you.” He says, voice rougher than he anticipated, his heart beating so hard against his ribs he wouldn’t be surprised if Foggy could hear the echo of it. For a second, it’s all he can feel. “For everything.”
Foggy’s breathing changes, catches somewhere in his throat like he’s about to say something, but he swallows, and it shifts again. “Don’t mention it Matty. Pretty soon I’m gonna find a way to cash in on the fact that my whole body is going to hate me in the morning.”
He leaves after a final clap to Matt’s shoulder—and it would be easy, he thinks, to step closer, to turn it into a real hug, to wrap his arms around Foggy and let himself be held in return for just a second, two seconds longer than an eight hour separation warrants—and Matt listens at the door as Foggy’s footstep retreat, grow quieter and quieter as he descends the winding stairs, until he can’t hear them at all.
Matt hates crying.
The feeling of mucus blocking his nose and sliding down his throat, the blood rushing hot to his face and the feeling of tears drying on his skin even after he’s wiped them away, it’s all terrible. Crying, as Foggy likes to put it, blows.
Matt’s spent almost twenty years trying to perfect the art of controlling his emotions, though some (if not all) the people who know him best would probably disagree with the statement since he puts on a horned mask on a regular basis and “punches bad guys in the name of justice”. Foggy’s not laughing right now though. His hands are warm against the sides of Matt’s face, his mouth touching down across his features so fleetingly that it barely qualifies as kissing. Matt’s face is hot and damp and gross but Foggy doesn’t let go, says his name over and over again, smile evident in every consonant and vowel, as real as it is against Matt’s cheek and his chin and over his eyebrow. “Matt. Matt. Matty.”
Matt draws in a ragged breath, swallows down the tight knot of emotion—so many emotions he can’t even pick them all apart. If he tried he’d probably unravel completely and never find the way to put himself back together—and tries to speak. “Foggy, I—”
But his throat closes around everything he wants to say, his vocal cords so tight it almost hurts when the next wave of tears wrenches a strangled noise from his chest. Oh, Matt thinks, drowning in humiliation, oh God, he’s officially lost it. Who would have thought it? After everything—after the accident and Stick and law school and Fisk and the Hand and every other battle Matt’s ever taken on—this is where he loses. In his own bed with Foggy’s hands on his face and Foggy’s heart beating irritatingly serene, almost a taunt in Matt’s ears. He pulls on every fiber of strength he has left to rein in the messy, choked sounds that keep trying to escape his mouth, tries to breathe through his ruined and useless nose.
“Hey, it’s cool, buddy, just—it’s cool. Don’t worry.” Foggy’ pushes the hair off his forehead, drops a kiss there too for good measure, and Matt forces his shoulders to relax, forces his throat to open and let air in. He concentrates on the rhythmic expansion and shrinking of his lungs behind his ribs, one, two, three, tries to match the tempo of Foggy’s breathing beside him. Foggy cups his face again, and Matt reaches up, curls his hands around each of Foggy’s wrists and tries to ground himself in the pulse that reverberates beneath his fingertips.
He can do this.
But Foggy’s fingers flex and Matt feels the press of the metal band around Foggy’s finger all over again, almost at the same temperature as Foggy’s hand now that he’s been wearing it a while, and Matt loses his strenuous grip of himself all over again. Foggy makes a sympathetic noise, rubs at the tears that will not stop falling from Matt’s stinging eyes. Matt has never wanted to punch himself so badly. “Y’know,” Foggy says, voice so fond it just makes the aching feeling in Matt’s chest grow, “I sort of always thought, if this ever happened, I’d be the one having The Notebook moment.” Matt squeezes Foggy’s wrists, sucks in a sound that’s closer to a sob than a snort. “You suck.” Matt manages, and Foggy’s answering laughter warmer than the summer sun. “Sure, but first I got to give you something.”
He pulls out of Matt’s grip and Matt lets him go, takes advantage of the distance to take another deep breath, holds it in, tries to recapture his long-fled sanity. Foggy shuffles off the mattress, pads across the room to the set of drawers by the window. His pace is slightly quicker on the return, and the mattress bounces when he climbs back on the bed. He doesn’t lay down again, crawls forward on his knees until he’s back at Matt’s side.
“Y’know I was positive you were gonna be able to, like, taste this in the air or something.”
Matt rolls his eyes, wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He already feels disgusting, what difference does it make? “Not how it works.” He grumbles, voice rough but at least a little more composed than before.
“Sure, say that again the next time you’re complaining about how I ate curry for lunch four days ago.” Matt heaves a sigh, pushes himself up on his elbows to close some of the distance between them.
“Full disclaimer: It totally doesn’t match the one you bought me. Which, y’know, if you’d just told me you were going ring shopping I would have tagged along and we wouldn’t be in this pickle right now. So you’ve really only got your own compulsive secret keeping to blame for this one Murdock.” Matt wants to point out that the real punishment was that Matt had to go ring shopping with Marci but he’s cut off by the tiny squeak of a hinge easing open, and then Foggy’s hand is on his, taking up his left hand and sliding a cool metal ring down Matt’s ring finger. “It’s gold. And, um, it doesn’t have anything on it, but the jeweler said you can get something engraved on the inside if you want. I was thinking ‘one ring to rule them all’ if you’re looking for ideas.” Foggy rubs his thumb over the face of the band, spins it around the circumference of Matt’s finger. Foggy lets out a nervous chuckle, his heart accelerating despite the steadiness of his hand on Matt’s.
“Oh fuck.” He whispers, voice so low it’s almost inaudible over the quickening of his pulse, but Matt still catches it, and then Foggy’s hands are back on his face tipping his head back and covering Matt’s mouth with his own. Foggy’s mouth trembles, breaks the kiss in order to suck in a shuddering breath before he slides his lips over Matt’s with renewed vigor. Matt lets himself be held there for a moment, but the angle is terrible, can’t be any better on Foggy’s back than it is on Matt’s neck so he springs upward, wraps his arms around Foggy’s shoulders and tips them both off balance and back onto the mattress. Foggy grunts on impact, their mouths parted until they’re not. Matt swings his leg over Foggy’s hip, moves as close as he can without climbing on top of Foggy entirely. Foggy’s chest heaves against Matt’s, his breathing rattles in Matt’s ears, goes scattered and uneven half a second before Matt pieces together what’s happening.
He pulls back, grinning so wildly it must border on deranged, “Enjoying your Notebook moment?” He asks, eyes stinging anew but he doesn’t care, already cataloguing the warning signs of the impending storm Foggy’s barely holding in check. Foggy sniff indelicately. “Totally, don’t ruin it by talking.”
“Okay.” Matt says, stealing another kiss even as Foggy’s face crumbles against his, salt in the air and on Matt’s lips. In the morning when they call Karen they’re going to have to leave out this part of the story. “Okay, wait.” Foggy says, pulling back, and Matt can hear him trying to calm himself down, sucking in deep breathes and rubbing at his face. “We can’t have sex if we’re crying. We can’t be those people Matt.” He says it so emphatically that Matt laughs, watery and short, buries his face against Foggy’s chest and rubs his face against his t-shirt in a weak effort to get it clean. He feels steadier now, anchored by the unfamiliar weight of the ring on his left hand. Foggy kisses the top of Matt’s head, strokes his hands over his back (if Matt tracks the trajectory of his ring on Foggy’s finger who can blame him). Foggy takes a handful of minutes composing himself, chest rising and falling under Matt’s cheek. When he nods his chin bumps against Matt’s head. “Okay, take two. Lay it on me Murdock.”
Matt chuckles, uncurling, reaches up to curl his hands over Foggy’s shoulders and tug him until his body is covering Matt’s. “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a way with words?” Matt asks, winding his fingers in Foggy’s hair, pulling him into a kiss before Foggy can answer.
Foggy is heavy, warm, heart singing so sweetly throughout his body that Matt can feel that wild tremble of emotion all over again, tightens his grip in Foggy’s hair and tries to press it back before it can rupture free. “You wanna cry?” Foggy asks softly, brushes the words over Matt’s jaw, “because I kind of still wanna cry, Matty.”
Matt nods against the side of Foggy’s face, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Foggy gives a reedy giggle, “Deal.”