Okay, this is fine.
Foggy is not panicking, he’s not. This is totally fine, he’ll just extract himself very slowly out from under Matt’s arms, and fuck his head hurts. The thought of moving hurts. He wiggles a little, trying to move without moving and that is…that is not working. Jesus, for such a thin bastard Matt’s got a grip like a lamprey. Foggy pegged him for a cuddler but this is ridiculous.
Foggy makes another attempt at sliding away, down, out, but he’s pinned and Matt is warm and his head hurts and Matt is moving and—oh. Matt is moving. Shit, Matt is groaning and not in the fun way—no, Foggy, there is no fun groaning, that is not how he thinks about Matt even if he can vividly remember some of those groans, fuck.
Matt’s hand clenches on Foggy’s shoulder, pulling him closer as Matt rolls towards him, snuggling into his side like the little shit that he is. Foggy makes an involuntary sound—he has no idea what it is, don’t ask him, it’s part because his head pounds and part because Matt is a particularly good snuggling partner, okay, sue him, it’s the truth—and he feels Matt tense beside him, his eyes opening.
“Hey Matt,” Foggy says, in as normal a voice as he can manage as Matt blinks vaguely in his direction.
“Hey Foggy,” Matt says back, in almost the exact same tone. His face scrunches up a little; Foggy imagines that the same herd of elephants trampling their way through his brain just made their way into Matt’s. “Oh god, what did we drink,” Matt moans.
He doesn’t move his arm though. Doesn’t move away. If anything, he snuggles in a little more, burying his forehead against Foggy’s shoulder.
“Whatever it was, I think it was illegal,” Foggy says. He’s only half-kidding; his brain feels like it’s going to liquefy and leak out his ears and he’s not positive he can feel his toes. He’s fairly sure if he moves though, the world is going to go spinning in some very unsatisfying ways and probably take the entirety of his stomach with it.
That’s going to make getting out bed a bit difficult, isn’t it? Also, the whole putting on pants thing, because Foggy is starting to get the feeling back in his lower body and yep, no pants. No pants and one of Matt’s legs is hooked in between his and oh good, Matt’s not wearing pants either. This isn’t going to be awkward at all.
Foggy tries to ease one of his legs away and realizes that if he makes the wrong move he’s going to go tumbling straight off the edge of this ridiculously tiny bed. He also realizes that Matt’s sheets are much nicer than his are.
“Are your sheets silk?” he asks, wincing at the sound and volume of his own voice. Matt winces too and then snorts, smiling against Foggy’s shoulder because he either hasn’t found it necessary to move his head away or physically can’t muster up the effort to do so yet. (Foggy has his bets on the second.)
“I like silk,” Matt says, his voice muffled. “Feels nice.”
Well, yeah, it does. Trust Matt to have a simple duh answer. Moreover, trust Matt to buy twin-sized silk sheets for his dorm bed, because he’s a diva and a smart ass and his thigh is warm against Foggy’s and fuck.
“We gonna talk about this?” Matt asks, still not moving his head. The rest of him is tense though, Foggy can feel it, tense but trying so hard to stay relaxed.
“About you having silk sheets?” Foggy asks. “Where do you even find silk sheets to fit this bed?”
“I have my ways.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Foggy says fondly. Then he takes a breath. “I’m sorry about—I’d move but I can’t move. I think I might be dying, actually.”
“You’re not dying,” Matt says, but he doesn’t sound completely sure. “Do you feel like your spine is trying to detach itself from your body?”
“No…,” Foggy says slowly.
“Well that’s worrying,” Matt replies, shifting a little bit. “I think my tongue is trying to choke me.”
“Blasphemy,” Matt grins.
“Oh, shut up,” Foggy says, testing how much he can move his legs without brushing up against Matt. Not much is the answer. “Okay,” he says, “we were obviously very drunk. We were—we were so drunk.”
They were so drunk, Foggy giddy and dizzy and they stumbled through the door into their room, him leading Matt and they clutched at each other, trying to keep balance and Matt had giggled and smiled and Foggy doesn’t remember if he leaned in or if Matt did but the end result was the same. Them pressed together in this little bed, this fucking miniscule bed, Jesus Christ, this is a doll-sized bed, Foggy doesn’t remember his own bed being this small.
“We were drunk,” Matt agrees.
“So, it happens,” Foggy says. “Stupid things happen when we’re drunk, it doesn’t have to be weird.”
“Is it weird?” Matt asks. Maybe he’s still drunk, because of course it’s weird, they’re best friends and they’re naked and trapped in bed together by the biggest bitch of a hangover that Foggy’s ever been hit with and he may not remember much from last night but Matt’s cock in his mouth is a pretty clear memory. Matt’s mouth on his cock is an even clearer memory.
It’s also a pretty awesome memory.
So, yeah. Weird.
“I should get up,” Foggy says instead of answering. Matt makes a sound of discontent and nuzzles against Foggy’s shoulder.
“Or,” Matt says, slightly more coherent, “you could stop thinking about it. I’m pretty sure you can’t move anyway.”
Matt is completely right about the second part. He’s probably right about the first part too. “But—“
“Foggy,” Matt says firmly. “Stop talking. Talking hurts. Thinking hurts.”
Thinking hurts like a bitch, actually.
Foggy decides to hell with it. It’s not gonna get any weirder if he takes a nap, and really, that’s all he wants right now, he wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep because everything hurts and Matt is a fucking furnace while the rest of the room is cold and it should be weird, he knows it should be but it’s not, not really.
He squirms a little so that he’s not right on the edge and Matt makes a soft noise of complaint before settling comfortably back against his side, and Foggy closes his eyes.
Matt can be the one to deal with this, the next time they wake up.