It’s too much. It’s always too much.
Foggy pets his face, movement slow and touch searing. It’s meant as a comfort but it isn’t, can’t be, not right now, not when everything hangs on the grace of an unraveling thread and Matt can’t—
He grabs hold of Foggy’s wrist, keeps his hand still, presses an open-mouth gasping kiss against the fluttering pulse trapped beneath the thin skin there. It echoes on the tip of Matt’s tongue, little zoom, zoom, zooms, like electricity. Matt tastes fluoride and nickel and calcium, the mineral flavor that always lingers after a shower, though it’s almost been overtaken by the taste sweat (it’s everywhere, on his body and on Foggy’s, the air humid and thick in his chest, and he can’t draw enough of it, can’t—too much too much too much).
Foggy shushes him, but Matt can’t remember making noise, struggles to keep his grip on the shreds of his focus. “You with me Matty?” Foggy’s voice shivers inside his throat, prickles in Matt’s ears. Matt swallows, tries to find voice enough to answer. I’m always with you. He doesn’t know if he’s successful, but Foggy’s breath is hot against the side of his face, damp and quick. Matt sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut against the shifting darkness. Behind his eyelids the after image of Foggy flares brighter still, a Pentecostal flame the burns across his ruined eyes.
“What’s so funny buddy?” Foggy asks, voice strained at the edges, “And please don’t let it be me because I don’t think my dick would never recover.”
Matt’s laughter startles out of him, “No your dick is fine. Blasphemously so.”
Foggy barks a short sound, his whole body jerking with it, pushing closer, deeper. Matt whines, more pain than pleasure; and Foggy apologizes, kisses Matt’s jaw, a quick rush of “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—” against Matt’s skin.
It takes everything to keep still, to fight against the urge to move.
Fight or flight. Matt's never been very good at walking away from a fight.
He kisses Foggy’s ear, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I—” He licks his lips, tightens his thighs around Foggy’s hips, rocks down and clenches his teeth against a whimper. Foggy groans deep in his chest, his teeth drag across Matt’s jaw. “Hey—” His voice catches, “Don’t. Not if—”His heart beat quickens in Matt’s ears. “If you’re not ready.”
But he’ll never be ready. All his discipline and focus torn ragged in the wake of undiluted feeling. Synapses and nerve endings and the too-soft heart Stick always told Matt he had to learn to ignore but never taught how. And for all the times Matt has wished he could, all the moments he lived convinced he could succeed if he tried harder, fought harder, that he could beat it bloody and still, he doesn’t want that now. Not if success means solitude, more silence and a deep-pitted loneliness that rots him from the inside out.
Matt wants—Matt wants everything.
He wants his city saved and its people safe and he wants to have this for himself. He wants the anchoring reassurance of Foggy’s hand on his hip and Foggy’s mouth on his throat and his grin, slow and familiar against the underside of his chin when he calls him an idiot. Matt wants with a singular selfish desire that burns everything else away.
“Please.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, but it is still his, and Foggy kisses him, one hand against the side of his face, so careful it makes Matt whine at the back of his throat.
Foggy moves. Their hearts beat out of sync. Matt wonders if he’s confusing the sound of Foggy’s blood vessels swelling with blood with his own, if Foggy’s skin is growing hotter under his hands or if Matt’s setting them both aflame. His mouth falls open, moves wordless around something intangible, something that slips away faster than a shadow in the dark.
“Matty,” Foggy’s groan reverberates through them both and Matt clutches more tightly at his back, meets the next thrust harder. It’s not good or bad, nothing he could describe so simply as either pleasure or pain, it just is. Too much. Everything. Everything. Overwhelming fullness that traps Matt inside his own skin and shuts everything else out.
Foggy’s fucks him and Matt feels each tightening coil in his body, his heart galloping inside his chest. His hands shake, fingers twitching, tightening, his feet seek purchase on the mattress, try to find leverage. He ruts up against Foggy’s stomach as best he can in this position, dick heavy and aching, blood rushing rabbit-quick across his skin. He loses track of the embarrassing noises spilling out of him, drowns out everything but the quick pant of Foggy’s breathing, his voice shivering across every , “Matty” and “Yeah” and “Fuck”. (Matt wonders, not for the first time, what Foggy looks like like this, wonders if his skin goes as red as it feels beneath Matt’s hands. Wonders how his hair hangs, damp with sweat, and what his eyes look like when he’s looking down at Matt. And Matt wants.)
It doesn’t last long.
He bites Foggy’s wrist when he comes, moan broken against the skin, hips rolling through a series of starts and stops he can’t control. Sensation crashes over him, a riptide that drags him under, presses the air out of his lungs and breaks Matt beneath the weight of it.
“Shit.” Foggy sucks in a damp breath, movements slowing to a standstill as Matt’s body goes limp.
The world takes on a fuzzy feeling. Faraway. There’s a prickle of panic somewhere inside him at the hazy nothingness that settles in the wake of all that feeling. But then Foggy moves and Matt remembers, focuses on Foggy’s heart and the solidity of him still there, still a part of him.
“Too much?” Foggy asks, still careful—only ever careful here, Matt thinks until he bats the thought away. Because there is a difference between being careful and taking care, and that’s what Foggy does, he takes care of Matt, he loves Matt—“Matty?”
And Matt knows Foggy would pull out if Matt breathed the word. How many nights have ended like that, Foggy hard in Matt’s hand or his own, movements erratic and breathing tight until he comes against Matt’s skin.
He nods against Foggy’s hand, a reassurance, “C’mon Foggy.”
“Christ.” Foggy bites out, tucks his face against Matt’s, the barely there rasp of his stubble against Matt’s, “Sorry—fuck, I—“
Foggy thrusts harder, deeper, his movements coming closer and closer together until—
Matt forces his hand to remember movement, pets at Foggy’s heaving back, through the heavy hair at the nape of neck. “You alright there buddy?” he teases while Foggy gets his breath back. Foggy’s stops stroking his thigh long enough to pinch him. Hard.
Foggy shifts, his lips brush over Matt’s shoulder, and Matt relinquishes his hold of Foggy’s wrist, stretches his fingers, furls them around empty air. Their hearts slow. Their breathing returns to normal. Matt listens to the rustling of the sheets, feels the shift of the mattress as Foggy disposes of the condom. There’s the routine of cleaning up, the distinct scent of the wet wipes Foggy prefers. Foggy hums an apologetic sound when Matt flinches at the first cold touch.
The springs squeak when Foggy finally resettles on the bed.
Matt expects the touch before it lands. Foggy’s hand is warm and heavy over his chest. There’s a sunspot of heat across Foggy’s wrist. Matt knows, if he were to touch his fingertips to it, he would feel the indentation of his teeth there. (There’s guilt, but satisfaction too, and Matt tells himself he’ll examine it closer in the morning.)
“You falling asleep on me Murdock?” Foggy asks, so close Matt feels the words brush over his skin.
“Yeah.” He turns his smile in Foggy’s direction, pats the back of Foggy’s hand.
“Typical.” Foggy sighs, shuffles closer. His fingers move in absentminded patters over Matt’s skin. It tickles. “You gonna make me breakfast for my troubles?”
Matt smiles, hopes Foggy can make it out in the low light.
“Good. That’s good. We’re good.” Foggy sounds seconds from sleep, and Matt covers his fingers as they go still, holds them in place.
“Yeah Foggy. We’re good.”