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It’s not that he’s drunk, okay? Because he isn’t drunk. He totally isn’t drunk. There is absolutely no possible way that he could be drunk. He only had four-. No, that wasn’t right. Well, not like it really mattered. He was a husky, Irish, frat boy. A six pack of Bud Light was a pleasant buzz. Although, he was already on his third when Christine Hao, who he had the distinct displeasure of sleeping with once during freshman year, started babble about the different types of shale that you could actually pull out of the ground in central Pennsylvania.


Like could you imagine that, she sipped boxed wine out of a solo cup, just, like, going out in a field and pulling out a rock that’s like a foot long. It could be, like, your own personal chalkboard. I fuckin’ miss chalkboard. Fuck this electronic board shit.


“Do you miss chalkboards, Matty?” Foggy asks, shielding his eyes from the bright overhead light as he flicks it on. “‘Cause, like, I really miss them. Clapping erasers was my favorite thing ever. Although, I think I inhaled way more chalk dust than is like humanly safe. Could I get cancer? Am I gonna get cancer? Matty, can you get cancer from chalk dust?”


Matt tosses his cane on the ground and collapses onto his bed, grinning despite himself. “How am I supposed to know? I’m a Political Science and Urban Studies major. The only Bio class I took was the one they made me take.”


Matt carefully kicks off his shoes. He props himself up against his headboard. As he moved, the bed creaks and strains underneath his weight. Matt might be a beanpole compared to Foggy, but there was a reason that just about every girl (and a few boys) on campus had a raging crush on the guy. The guy’s abs had abs. It was abception.


“I know. I was your lab partner, and you made me cut up the fucking dead baby pig. But, like, didn’t you take a class like ‘Cancer and the Eternal Soul 101’ or something sophomore year? Shouldn’t they teach you that shit?” Foggy flipps the light off again. It was too damn bright for three in the morning and too damn dim for three in the afternoon. He should complain. He should start a petition. He’d be a campus hero. They could rename the library after him. The Franklin P. Nelson Law Library, he could see it now.


“How was I, the guy who can’t see, supposed to cut up the fetal pig?” Matt exhales, and the bed creaks again. “And that class was called ‘Cancer and the Psyche.’ I fucking hated it like I told you about it every single day of that semester.”


“Okay, like, you could have easily, like, felt the pig up-.”


“You wanted me to grope the pig fetus? That’s disgusting, Foggy.”


“Your hand has been nastier places.”


“Name one?”


“Down Maddie Dunn’s pants at Spring Break in Punta Cana last year.”


“I’m surprised you can still remember that. You were drunk as hell.” Matt honest to God giggles. Foggy would be content if he could listen to that sound all day long. “But, yeah okay, she was pretty gross.”


“I wasn’t as drunk as you were. And gross? Just gross? That’s it? She puked on me! Twice!” Foggy slips off his jeans and leaves them in a pile by the door. “Besides, I’m surprised that you can still remember it. You were plastered.”


“I wasn’t that drunk. I was just buzzed. It was a warm and fuzzy feeling.” Matt laughs, and Foggy pretends like his heart isn’t beating double time.


“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” Foggy starts to shuffle toward his bed. “The warm and fuzzy feeling was from the 102 degree sun. You weren’t even coherent. I remember you were drinking jungle juice like it was water. You even carried it in one of those plastic bottles you stole from a girl from Alpha Phi.”


“What can I say? I like jungle juice,” shrugs Matt, smiling.


“Bullshit,” Foggy continues shuffling across the tile floor. “Grade A bullshit, Murdock. High school cheerleaders who live in, like, Oklahoma like jungle juice. Ivy League students who are on the fast track to law school like scotch and destroying other people’s arguments.”


Just as the words escaped his mouth, Foggy’s left foot connects painfully with one of Matt’s scuffed up Chucks. He falls forward, crashing over the frame of Matt’s bed, grasping at the air. He reaches out his hands to brace himself. They connect with Matt’s upper thighs, and they both cried out in pain.


Foggy scrambles to readjust himself. He carefully moves his knees until they were digging into the very edge of mattress. He pushes himself up frantically, hands still resting on Matt’s thighs.


“You’re hurting me,” says Matt very softly.


“Right.” Foggy pauses for a second. “I’ll move.”


He braces himself on the mattress and kept pressing up, up, up until his face was hovering a few inches from his best friend’s. Matt’s breath was labored. It smells like alcohol and orange juice and something else he couldn't quite identify. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.


His mind started to do mental leaps over itself. Foggy could try and lie to himself about it. He could pretend he hadn’t fantasized about this a hundred times, a thousand times. He could ignore the heat that seemed to rise up from his stomach, up into his throat. He could-.


He could honestly say he was completely and genuinely surprised when Matt’s lips touched his. He is tentative at first, his mouth gentle but unyielding. Foggy leaned closer. His hand sneaked away from its place on the mattress and grasped at Matt’s hair. Matt in turn settled his hands onto Foggy’s waist. They were calloused and dry, but the weight was comfortable. Foggy felt his lips slowly begin to part. He feels Matt’s tongue dart past his teeth, and damn, when did he get so good at this?


This was exactly how Foggy had imagined it over and over and over again in his head. It was the kind of shit Shakespeare would have written a dozen sonnets about. It was the kind of shit angels sang on high for. The angels would sing from the heavens about Jesus and two guys making out in that exact order. It’s fantastic. It’s perfect.


It’s completely unacceptable.


Foggy practically throws himself off the bed. “We are not doing this. It’s not happening.”


Matt lays there, frozen. His eyelids are heavy, concealing part of his unseeing eyes. It was kind of hot. It was really hot. But like he said earlier, it isn’t not happening.




Foggy shrugs despite the fact that he knew Matt couldn’t see him do it, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t wearing any pants.


“You’re my friend.” He lowered himself unto on the edge of the mattress. “You’re my best friend. You’re my best friend who just so happens to be both incredibly straight and incredibly Catholic.”


He exhales softly. “I get that people fool around in college. Normal part of human sexualitiy or whatever. I also get that most people completely forget about it the minute they graduate. I don’t want to be that person you experiment with. I don’t want to be the person you forget about. I can’t be that person.”


They sit in silence for what seemed like forever. There is the distant sound of girls’ laughter as the last staggering few headed back to their dorms to sleep off every shot, every beer, every bad decision. Foggy kind of wished he was asleep right now. Strike that from the record, your honor. He kind of wished he was dead.


“What makes you think you’re the first guy I’ve done this with?”


Now it was Foggy’s turn.




Matt shrugs. (They were doing an awful lot of shrugging tonight. This morning. Whatever.)


“Are you,” says Foggy with disbelief, “trying to tell me that you, a man who goes to mass more than once a week and currently has a rosary hanging from his bedpost, have a secret gay history? Because, to be honest, I’m not sure if I believe you.”


“His name was Chris. We were fourteen, and he was in my theology class. We didn’t have like sex or anything, but we did more than kissing.” Matt shifted uncomfortably. “I have no idea what happened to him. I think he goes to USC, but I don’t know. I could be wrong.”


Foggy gropes blindly in the dark and ends up connecting with the hard edge of Matt’s kneecap. He clings onto it. “Listen, I’m really sorry, man.”


“It’s okay. It’s not like it’s your fault.”

They sit in silence again.


“Can I kiss you again?” Matt’s voice is quiet in the dark.  


“That depends.”

“On what?”


“Can you kiss me before I kiss you?”


The answer to that is no. Foggy, for once in his very unathletic life, is quicker. He twists himself around, catching the very corner Matt’s mouth. He feels him jump in a little bit of surprise, and for the first time tonight, Foggy throws caution to the wind. He sucks little marks a few inches apart from each other. His lips are scratched by the coarse hair of Matt’s five o’clock shadow, but he doesn’t mind very much. It stings only vaguely. The pain barely registers in his head as he continues to make his way down Matt’s neck. Right now, the only thing on his mind pale skin and the smell of Dolce and Gabbana cologne.


“You need to shave,” Foggy mumbles into the very crook of Matt’s neck when he finally reaches. His lips ghost over the skin, skimming gently. Matt shutters, and Foggy’s grin is nothing but teeth.


“I’ll-.” Matt lets out a throaty moan. “I’ll shave when you do.”


Foggy inches his hands further up Matt’s thigh and began to trace little patterns through the thin cotton. Matt moves enthusiastically against Foggy’s hand, and Foggy can’t help but grin like he won the jackpot. “Great. So neither of us will ever shave. You’ll look like a dude from Duck Dynasty, and I’ll just rock this Shaggy look forever.”


Matt’s hands started to grasp at whatever they could find. He pulled at Foggy’s shirt, the back of his neck, his hair. “You look like Shaggy, as in the guy from Scooby Doo?”            


Foggy’s hands in turn start to quickly unbutton Matt’s shirt. “I can assure you I’m a very sexy Shaggy.”


Matt chuckles. His hands grab at Foggy’s waist, and in one swift motion, he pushes him back onto the bed. Matt then straddles him in what seemed to be the complete reversal of the position they started in.


What a wonderful, delightful, fantastic twist of fate, Foggy thinks. The ghost of a smile dies on his lips, though, as Matt’s hands start to dip below the elastic waistband of his boxers. It's almost embarrassing how eagerly responded to the touch. Heat was pooling in his stomach. His heart was racing. He felt as if he bit his lip any harder it would bleed.


“Do you want me to stop?”


“Nope. That is the opposite of what I want you to do,” wheezes Foggy. He began to grasp at the sheets, Matt’s way too expensive for a college student silk sheets. Some rational part of his brain reminds him that he can’t actually afford to rip them.  “Do not do that.”


“Okay.” Matt begins, excruciatingly slowly he may add,  to pull Foggy’s boxers down. “I just want to warn you that I’ve been told that I’m pretty good at this.”


“Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” Foggy squeaks out.


“I’m willing to put a lot of things where my mouth is.”

Foggy probably would have laughed at that if Matt’s mouth wasn’t wrapped around his dick. It was a great usage of innuendos.


He cums, a bit too quick but he’ll chalk that all up to skill, with one hand locked in Matt’s hair, one that fails out and knocks over the alarm clock they share, and a shout he can’t seem to contain. Matt is good. Really good. Too fucking good, if that’s a thing. (It’s not.) And hot damn, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph they weren’t lying when they said that boy has a mouth like sin. Someone give this man a gold medal. Play the national anthem. This was an Olympic level performance. The esteemed Franklin Nelson judges this whole experience as a 10/10 would do again.  


Of course, the universe never does strike twice in his favor, and before Foggy can catch his breath some is banging down his door.


“Who the fuck is that?” Foggy wheezes out, hand still twisted in the sheets.


“I don’t know.” Matt tells him as he wipes his mouth. “You can answer it though. Consider it payback.”


“I’m not wearing any pants.” Foggy peels himself off the bed. “Besides I had better ideas on how to pay you back. Significantly better ideas.”


“Like what?”


“Yeah, I just didn’t think of them yet, but I will.” Foggy yanks his boxers back onto his body and whips away some of the sweat from his brow.


It’s his RA at the door, because of course it has to be her of all people. It’s not that Foggy doesn’t like her. Rachel is a nice girl with a bubbly personality and a great taste in cheap liquor. It’s just that her family has more money than is humanly possible, and if he has to listen to her tell the entire floor about the last time she went ‘summering’ in the French countryside, he may punch her.


“Franklin!” She whisper-shouts. “Is everything alright?”


Her hair is a mess, and she’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants combo in Yale blue. Word in the dorm is that her boyfriend is set graduate from Yale as valedictorian this year. Natalie three doors down thinks that’s all bullshit. Foggy is inclined to agree.


“Yeah, uh, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?” He asks her nervously.


“It’s just that I heard someone scream and a crash, and I was worried about Matthew.”


Right, Matthew. Foggy glances back to see Matt rolled over, attempting to snore over dramatically. He smiles.


“Oh no. That was all me. I tripped over Matt’s cane and knocked over the alarm clock. No big deal. He didn’t even wake up. He sleeps like he’s deaf.” Foggy laughs sheepishly.


“Maybe I should call him Helen Keller.” She laughs at her own joke, and he can hear Matt snickering. “Get it because he’s blind and deaf.”


“Ha ha, yeah.”


“Well good night, Franklin. Sleep tight.” Blessedly, she’s gone. It takes everything he has not to slam the door after her.


Matt dissolves into laughter. “If I’m Helen Keller does that make you Annie Sullivan?”

Foggy sneaks back into bed and grabs Matt’s hand. “Yeah, I’ll take you out to the quad and spell out ‘j-u-n-g-l-e-j-u-i-c-e’ on your hand. Then thousands of students can study about me for three weeks in linguistics. I can see it now. Young genius teaches fellow student how to avoid terrible alcohol. I'll go down in history.”


“You’re an asshole.”


“Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”