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the space between fingers

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Final exams are over, and that means - well, that means drinking, as far as Foggy is concerned.

"Matt. Matt, I can't feel my face," Foggy says, and gives up on prodding at his numb cheeks to hit Matt's thigh with his knuckles instead. They're cramped together on Matt's bed purely on the virtue of it being closest to the door, in their dorm room purely because the bars are still open but too packed to be of any use, propped up against the headboard as Matt's shoulder digs into his because anything else would require moving.

"Wait, let me," Matt starts, flinging a hand over and patting up his chest until he hits Foggy's jaw. "Yeah, I can," he says, grinning so bright Foggy doesn't even have to turn his head to see it.

"Hilarious," Foggy says. He starts to roll away, yanking his jaw out of Matt's reach, and Matt huffs a wobbly kind of laugh and chases - and see, this, right here, is why he sometimes forgets that Matt is even blind: Matt straddles him with a sure swing of his knee that Foggy is pretty sure he couldn't manage when sober. His hands land squarely on his shoulders, thighs bracketing his hips, and even as Matt sways too far and laughs stretched and fuzzy he still manages to steady himself with no effort at all.

And this is how Foggy knows he's really, stupidly drunk, because his best friend is straddling him and all he can think about is, like, whether he navigates by body heat or something. Or clicks, like bats. Is that bats? Echo-something. Echo-clicks. Noise-seeing.

"Foggy," Matt says, blind drunk (ha) and grinning with it, his fingers digging into Foggy's shoulders like he's trying to read stories in his muscles. His chin is tilted up like he might be looking at the ceiling behind those glasses if, you know, he could look at anything.

"Murdock," Foggy says, pitching it very low for no reason at all, and that sets Matt off again, swaying backwards as he laughs at the air. Foggy grabs him, scrabbling at his t-shirt for a futile moment (what is this super-silky bullshit, Murdock?) before abandoning that and going straight for his hips. His shirt slips out of the way, warm skin under his fingers. Hey.

Matt sways forward, gripping tighter at Foggy's shoulders before he settles. He sits heavily across Foggy's thighs and his hands trail up his neck, catching at his hair, until his fingers find Foggy's jaw. Soft-skinned thumbs smooth along his cheekbones. Someone outside the cracked open window laughs, thin and staccato.

"Found your face," Matt says. His hands are blissfully cold; Foggy's face is flushed warm with whatever those last three shots were.

"Yeah? Is it still pretty?"

"I wouldn't know."

Foggy gasps, and Matt adjusts the impossibly-gentle way he's touching him. "Are you saying you can't tell how hot someone is by feeling their face? I'm shocked, buddy. I can't believe you've lied to me all this time. All those poor girls you've tricked -"

"Shut up," Matt says, and his grin is so wide and close and unselfconscious, so stupidly handsome, that Foggy feels drunker than ever. The room spins, everything suddenly dizzy, and he might throw up if he wasn't so practised at not doing that. If Matt's fingers weren't a cold and perfect anchor against his cheeks. If Matt's skin wasn't warm and silky and surprisingly solid under his hands.

Christ, he wants to do something stupid. He's not sober enough for this.

Matt drops his chin. Foggy stays perfectly still, waiting for the room to catch up with him, and maybe something has only just reached his bloodstream because he has the weirdest impression that Matt is staring right at him, that somehow he's seeing straight through his skin and his chest and his ribs all the way to his heart that's beating skip-fast.

"I'm glad you got rid of the beard," Matt says, low and quiet as his fingertips span the sides of Foggy's face, his thumb catching down across his chin.

"Yeah, I got it, no one liked the goatee," Foggy says, and he wants to shrug this off but there's no power in the 'verse that could make him push Matt away right now, as his thumb drifts up like an accident to brush across his lip.

And, fuck. Matt's mouth is a mirror of his, whole face slack and lips slightly parted, and Foggy must have left his impulse control back at the bar because nothing stops him from following the urge to bite down when Matt's thumb hits the middle of his lip, his teeth grazing across the pad. A memory of cheap tequila, chemical and sticky and stale, floods across his tongue.

"Oh," Matt says, and drags his thumb away, hitting the corner of his mouth like a checkpoint before his whole hand slides hard around to grasp the back of his neck, all gentleness gone.

Foggy feels caught, pinned under a spotlight or - or - a brutal cross-examination, or something, as Matt just holds his face like he's considering what to do with him. There's a flutter in his chest that might be panic, might be anticipation, but he's too dulled to pinpoint it and if his lap wasn't full of his blind best friend he would totally just get up and go -

"Don't move," Matt whispers, his eyebrows drawing together and oh God, what is he going to do. Foggy barely has enough time to call himself an idiot before Matt sways close and fast (is he going to headbutt him for being slightly gay?) and his mouth hits his, a rough slide over his lips that turns into a dry suck, something sharp dragging over his skin, a scratch of stubble and the taste of godawful beer and holy fuck, Matt is kissing him.

Foggy surges into it so hard he nearly topples them both over. Matt laughs against his mouth but he doesn't stop, which is the important thing, and when he stops grinning and kisses him again it's with a kind of biting softness that does awesome, unsettling things to the way the room's spinning.

Foggy finally remembers that kissing requires more than just pushing back, and opens his mouth. The sound Matt makes sinks fast and low like his throat has a direct line to his cock - and, fuck, that's not a thought he should be having when Matt is straddling his hips and kissing him like that, making him feel like he's on fire and touching as much of Matt as possible is the only way to put it out.

He's more than fine with that, by the way. It's not like he can concentrate on much more than the wet slide of Matt's lips, the lick of his tongue that catches him like an electric shock every time, but then Matt changes angle and his glasses crunch across the bridge of his nose and okay, ow.

"Wait, sorry," Matt murmurs, the rush of it warm and happy against his mouth and yes, he will wait for anything as long as it means Matt will kiss him again. Matt pulls away and Foggy blinks his eyes open, watches unfocused and bleary with desire as Matt tugs off his smoked glasses and snaps the arms shut with one hand, tossing them onto the bedside table with that unerring accuracy.

And, wait, what was that he was thinking earlier? The thought swims somewhere just behind his head, and maybe if he leans back he'll catch it - but then Matt's hands are back either side of his face and he's kissing him roughly, his tongue in his mouth and everything pressing hard up against him like he's making up for the two seconds they lost.

Yeah, nevermind. Matt rocks his hips against his stomach, just once like he can't help himself, and Foggy doesn't know what to do with the realisation that the hardness pressing against him is Matt's cock, thick under his jeans, but he definitely wants to do something.

He holds tight onto Matt's waist and summons up the coordination to grind up against him, let him know that he's not the only one seriously turned on right now. Matt gasps against his mouth and he's dizzyingly aware of all the warm skin his hand is splayed over, his arm pushing Matt's shirt up and out of the way - he wants to touch everything, now that he has the chance, now that Matt is open-mouthed and clutching at his face and apparently as desperate for this as he is.

The bedsprings ping worryingly when he throws a hand behind him for leverage and tries to pull Matt closer, or push up against him, or something - anything that means more, is what he wants, and Matt seems to get the idea as he lets go of Foggy's jaw and sends one hand grasping down his side, his skin suddenly painfully sensitive and touch-starved in the trail of his fingers.

"You feelin' me up, Murdock?" Foggy says, and Matt stills, mouth pulling far enough away that he can lick his lips and Foggy can only just taste it.

"Would you like me to stop?" Matt says, an impression of sobriety ruined by the crack into a giggle at the end, by the way his breath is running ragged. Foggy opens his eyes and takes it in; the way Matt's eyes are open but heavy-lidded, fixed unfocused somewhere around his lips; his mouth hitched into a smile that stutters with every breath but it's fading way too fast as Foggy just looks at him, and -

"Absolutely not," Foggy breathes, rough with honesty, and surges forward again. Matt grins against his mouth and slides his hand down, kissing him wet and open as he finds the curve of his hip, the crease of his thigh, the front of his jeans where his cock is straining ready to go.

"Let me hear you," Matt murmurs, and fuck, if that isn't the hottest thing anyone has ever demanded of him. It's not hard to comply - that obscenely delicate touch working his zip down like he's already done this to him a hundred times, slipping in and palming his length through the cotton, and Foggy groans in that messy, breathless way that means this might not last long.

If he's going, he's taking Matt with him. Matt is like a column of solid muscle he could chain himself to (which, by the way, is awesome) - he braces with the arm around his back and hauls himself closer, his previously-supporting hand sliding up Matt's thigh and straight between his legs.

"Christ, yeah, right there," Matt gasps, bucking into his hand, and this is more familiar territory but the angle's different and even Matt's voice is apparently doing things for him, every soft breath pouring heat across his skin. Matt's mouth slips away, nuzzling along his jaw before sliding down and he buries his face in Foggy's hair, begging prayers into his neck.

It sounds like last rites, the way he's stumbling through it - except Foggy catches his name and realises it's just a stream of nonsense encouragement, as Matt shudders against his palm and still somehow keeps the twist of his own fingers maddening. He could either do this all night or come right now without even being touched skin on skin, definitely one of those, but he's too stretched out and pinned down to be certain which.

"Come on," Foggy says, before he even realises he means to, dragging his knuckles down Matt's stomach as he fumbles for the hem of his jeans. He doesn't know how he gets his hand down there but finally he has it wrapped around Matt's cock, twitching hot in his grip, and he can barely move his wrist but Matt stutters into silence anyway.

He's panting hard against his neck. Foggy likes to think he's got pretty good at guessing what Matt needs, even though Matt doesn't really need anything most of the time, and he starts speaking without thinking about it; about how good Matt feels in his hand, how hot he is right now, how he's never been so fucking turned on but first he's going to make sure that everyone on their floor knows that Matt Murdock makes chicken noises when he comes -

And Matt's burst of laughter against his skin is the greatest thing, his whole body shaking with it. The heel of Matt's hand is still dragging along his length, a rub of cotton between them, and the mutual desperate need to get off that drives whatever this is is still plucked tight but Matt kind of sinks against him, and lets go.

He doesn't, in fact, make chicken noises when he comes. It's more of a silenced cry, scorched into Foggy's collarbone as Matt buries his face in his shoulder and rocks into his palm, and Foggy feels weirdly, stupidly proud, the way he always does when he makes Matt lose it and stop being so self-conscious for a minute, throwing his head back laughing.

He can slightly forget the rest of the world exists, when he's focused on Matt. He's not quite used to it and it's always an odd sort of surprise to come back to the world and find that it hasn't changed, that it has carried on as normal while he was occupied with more important things.

The room has stopped spinning, which is a bonus, but his skin still feels a little bit on fire and Matt's fingers are infuriating, perfect and hot but not quite enough pressure to do anything vital. He's feeling tired and wrung out, starting to feel like maybe he'll never get there at all and the memory of every hangover is lining up for the encore - so his own orgasm is kind of a surprise, Matt's fingers are apparently made of sex magic, or something.

"Oh, fuck yes," is what he actually says, coming in his pants as Matt works him through it with an exhausted, single-minded kind of focus. There's a snuffling laugh and his own fingers are warm and sticky and caught in Matt's jeans and, yeah, that just happened, in the ringing silence of an afterglow threatening by reality. There's no way that they're going to untangle themselves from this without something getting a lot messy.

But, hey, they were drunk, right? That's, like, what guys are supposed do in college, isn't it? Experiment a little? Get weird with their best friends?

"Foggy," Matt says, his smile so fucking obvious even though his face is still hidden somewhere in his hair - Foggy gets his hand free, not caring that he's smearing stickiness across Matt's hip. He can feel Matt's every breath hot and ragged against his shoulder, and he's pretty sure he would know if he was talking out loud, so what the hell he is laughing at?

Matt finds his mouth, both hands on either side of his face, and kisses him again. It's closed-mouthed and kind of short, ruined by the way Matt's lips can't stay out of a grin for very long, but Foggy presses back for as long as he can and doesn't try to chase when Matt lets his forehead hit his, sharing air as they catch their breath.

"Ha," Foggy says, and somehow that sparks something in Matt, a laugh flooding through him like a bowling ball knocking down pins before he sways to the side and flops hard onto the mattress, one leg sprawled off the side. Foggy feels weirdly cold, suddenly, like all his heat was only ever borrowed.

"Hey," Matt says, reaching up and patting at him until he finds Foggy's forearm, and tugs it at. Maybe telepathy is a thing he has because yeah, lying down right now seems like the best idea in the history of the universe, and Foggy scoots down with a cacophony of bedsprings until he can stretch out, Matt pressing up along his side from calf to clashing elbows.

There's a distant noise that might be sirens, might be a smoke alarm in a far corner of the campus, just that and the sound of their breathing in the hanging stillness. He wants something, as Foggy's brain realises it is horizontal and immediately starts shutting down. Matt shifts close and lends a little heat back to him. Water, or, no, hamburgers, but that would involve moving more than three fingers -

"Hey," Foggy says, blinking at the spider-web cracks in the ceiling as he taps Matt's thigh with the back of his hand. "Can you cook?"

Matt licks his lips, tilts his jaw towards him. "I'm pretty handy with a microwave," he says, into the air, and Foggy huffs a laugh. He thinks vaguely of turning off the lights, but he's more comfortable than a single bed should ever allow for and Matt sounds half-asleep already, the back of his fingers brushing against Foggy's, and yeah, this isn't weird at all.