Chapter Text
“It’s wonderful to see you again Matt.” Mrs. Nelson says, shaking his hand and pressing her cheek against his briefly, an approximation of a kiss. She fills his nose with the scent of lemon dish soap and fragrance-free hand lotion. Her fingers are sturdy and warm in his own, the thin skin of her hands bear the signs of decades of work. “I hope that son of mine has been behaving himself.”
Foggy sputters indignantly at Matt’s shoulder, readjusting his bag. “Told you she liked you more.” He pokes Matt in the back and Mrs. Nelson swats at Foggy, clicks her tongue at him. “I’ll take that as a no then.” She says, moving to the side and ushering them both in. Matt waits for Foggy to come up beside him, takes his offered arm and follows them both inside. Even inside the air still smells of moss and damp earth and greenery, the rustling of the trees in the early spring wind still prevalent through the walls and windows.
“How was the trip?” Mrs. Nelson asks up ahead just before the wall to Matt’s left opens into doorway, “I hope you boys don’t mind the downstairs room. Did your bus get caught in all that awful traffic? I told your father we had to head out early but would he listen? Of course not.”
“It was fine.” Matt answers when Foggy remains uncharacteristically silent. “And I’m sure this room will be fine. Right, Fog?” Matt surveys the room quickly, two windows on perpendicular walls, furniture, probably a dresser and at least two side tables, a bed. A bed.
Behind his glasses, Matt blinks.
Foggy’s heart gives pause and then quickens, his body temperature rises enough for Matt to notice. “Uh—Mom, Aunt Sherry knew I was bringing Matt right?”
“Of course she did Foggy.” Mrs. Nelson replies smoothly, already backing out of the room, “I’ll let you two get settled.” The door latches shut behind her.
It’s cowardly but Matt decides to let Foggy take this one, acts blissfully ignorant of anything that might cause discomfort for either of them. Because really, what is there to be uncomfortable about?
Foggy clears his throat. “So, I think…there might have been…a misunderstanding.”
-
It’s sort of funny. “I mean I don’t know whether to be insulted or touched that my extended family apparently thought we were dating in secret and decided this was the best way to broach the subject.” Foggy says at night, after a rehearsal dinner and the spur of the moment decision that this isn’t really something they have to rectify. (“It’s Julie’s wedding man. Years from now I don’t want to be the first story that comes to mind when people get nostalgic about this weekend.”)
It’s only a lie by omission Foggy reasoned earlier, when they first came back to the room. They haven’t told anyone they are together, romantically. They just aren’t correcting anyone who might assume otherwise. It’s the same tactic Matt used to discourage Rachel’s advances, and he doesn’t know what it says about them that people can so easily read them as this.
“I think we can both agree that there are worse reactions.” Matt says, suddenly solemn. He thinks vaguely of his grandmother, the true Catholic, doesn’t have to wonder what she would say if she had lived long enough to see Matt now, lying in bed with his heart beating furiously inside his chest, skin tingling and hyperaware of the warmth given off by Foggy’s body just a few inches away. Foggy rolls towards him, knee nudging Matt’s leg beneath the blankets. The night’s a cool one and Matt’s glad for the weight of the blankets, for Foggy at his side, the deep, rhythmic in and out of his breathing in tangent with his beating heart. It’s not the first bed they’ve shared, but it’s the first they’ve shared since Matt became aware of this, of himself, since he put a name to the feeling, warm and soft and gentle, that rises up from inside his belly whenever Foggy is near. (He’s always near, Matt realized, and that’s the problem. How was Matt supposed to know it for what it was without adequate information for comparison?)
Matt turns on his own side, brings his knees up so that they bump into Foggy’s, the pillow cool beneath his cheek.
Foggy’s heart thumps, thumps, thumps in Matt’s ears (in his stomach, his wrists, his throat. I always miss you Matt said without knowing the truth of it himself). “I guess I could do worse.” Foggy whispers wryly, shifting furthering beneath the blankets, the mattress springs sighing with his every move.
Matt’s laughter sounds too loud in the quiet house, its other occupants quiet in their respective rooms. “That’s the spirit.”
-
Matt can count all the weddings he’s been to on one hand but this is the first he’s attended inside a barn.
Foggy whistles next to him, his arm stretched across the back of Matt’s chair as he leans close to say, “I’m not saying this place looks haunted but if a ghost cuts across the room at some point during the ceremony, I will not be surprised.”
Matt chuckles under his breath, “Yeah?”
“Oh definitely. I was reading up on this place, apparently it’s a converted Amish barn. I mean sure, it looks super nice now, what with the candles and the ribbon-y things and the flowery stuff but, y’know, I can’t shake the feeling that the Scooby Gang should be investigating.”
The air is dizzyingly sweet with lavender and a half dozen other flowers Matt doesn’t know by name, candle wax, and the warring aromas of four dozen guests. And Foggy. Clean-shaven now, his hair pulled back in a sloppy knot at the back of his head, his single concession to his mother’s chiding. (“Mom I know it’s not professional. But I’m not cutting it until I absolutely have to.”) Matt misses the sound of it sweeping over his shoulders when Foggy turns his head.
“Does it bother you that this isn’t a church?” Foggy asks abruptly, drumming his fingers on his knee, fidgeting in his seat. “Like is that a thing for you?”
Matt’s mouth thins, not quite a smile or a frown. He’s honestly never thought about it. He doesn’t remember his parents’ marriage except for its ending. To date his own relationships have been short-lived, attraction giving way to dissatisfaction before either party can become too attached. There’s only ever been two exceptions. Elektra was the first and it when it was over Matt hadn’t known what to do with himself, more aware of his own cracks and jagged edges than he’d been in years. Afterward he hadn’t been in any rush to repeat the experience.
The second is sitting beside him in a converted barn waiting for a wedding ceremony to begin.
“Not really.” Matt answers honestly, clutching at his cane, which he still has laying in his lap. “I’ve never believed you had to be in a church to be married in the eyes of God.”
Foggy makes a considering noise, a soft hum at the back of his throat that vibrates beneath his skin. His breathing changes, a fragmented pause before it shifts, whatever he was about to say delayed in favor of: “I think you’ll make a beautiful bride Matty, no matter the setting.”
Matt’s snort gets drowned out by the opening notes of the wedding march.
-
Foggy keeps his word and keeps Matt in drinks.
The reception is well underway, the dinner plates cleared away and the dance floor beginning to reach capacity as people kick off shoes and their own inhibitions, the sun finishes its decent over the forested mountains. Matt keeps his dress shoes on, but he sheds his suit jacket, loosens the tie at his throat, warm under the lights strung across the barn rafters. Foggy reappears with another round of drinks in one hand and a plate of sugary snacks in the other. He describes his bounty to Matt, goes counterclockwise around the plate: rosewater meringues, salted caramel truffles, lavender-honey macaroons, miniature cupcakes and chocolate covered fruit. “I’m liking this dessert bar trend. I vote we keep it forever.” Foggy says appreciatively after they’ve sampled most of the things he’s brought. They split the last of the fruit tartlet, Matt licks pastry cream off his thumb, smiles at the sound of Foggy’s quickening pulse.
“It’s not bad.” Matt agrees, sugar buzzing through his veins.
“Frankie!” Comes an excited voice from nearby, accompanied by the swish of beading that grows louder the closer it comes, “Don’t tell me you’re going to let your young man sit in the corner all night long.” Matt places the voice as Foggy’s Aunt Sherry, mother of the bride. “Our Frankie is quite the dancer.” She adds teasingly, champagne rounding out her words as much as the happiness of the day does. Matt’s smile widens and he turns his face in the direction of her voice, answering, “Oh I know ma’am.”
Foggy’s fist bangs against Matt’s thigh under the table and Matt kicks at his ankle in retaliation as Foggy’s aunt wanders over the next table.
Foggy sits in considering silence, one song turning to another, softer, slower. “Well, I definitely can’t just leave Baby in a corner.” He says at last, turning in his seat so that he’s fully facing Matt. “What do you say Matt? And before you answer, remember, my whole family will blame me if you say no and at least half a dozen people will be ready and waiting to let you know you can do better.”
Matt grins, gesturing in the direction of the dance floor, the slowing bodies turning in slow circles to match the tempo of the newest song. “Fine, but only to save your good name.”
Foggy stands. Matt leaves his cane folded under his seat, takes Foggy’s arm by the wrist and allows him to lead the way towards the dance floor. There’s a second’s silent negotiation as they figure out who will lead, and then Foggy’s right hand takes Matt’s left, lifts them together so that they’re roughly shoulder level. Matt follows Foggy’s lead, cups Foggy’s shoulder with his right hand and steps forward with his left foot. “It never fails to surprise me how good you are at this, buddy.” Foggy sounds pleasantly bemused, his left hand against the seam of Matt’s shoulder. “Though it does fill my head with visions of you slow dancing with a nun at prom.”
Matt’s lips twitch into an even wider smile at the thought. “I never went to prom.”
Foggy makes a distressed sound. “You jest, surely.”
Matt shakes his head, maneuvering them through the next box step. “Somehow being a blind orphan did not make me the most popular kid in class.” He says drolly, Foggy’s hand is heavy in his own, his fingers tightening just barely in Matt’s own as he says, “Their loss.”
When the song ends Foggy’s arm drops around his waist, turns Matt in a sloppy quick circle that throws him momentarily off balance. This new song is quicker, something bouncy and light. For a single, rushing instant, the whole world spins under Matt’s feet.
-
“I can’t see what I’m doing.” Matt says stupidly, tugging helplessly at his tie, and Foggy, already giggly and slumping into his side at the foot of the bed, laughs harder, clumsy. “You, my friend, are a disaster.” Foggy chides, batting Matt’s fingers out of the way, though he doesn’t have much better luck. “You love me anyhow.” Matt retorts, happiness fizzing on his tongue like sparkling wine. Foggy’s fingers curl into the circle of his tie, tug Matt sideways. He doesn’t deny it.
They get it loose enough that Matt can wrangle the tie over his head, though it hurts his ears and knocks his glasses off completely. Foggy pulls his own dress shirt off over his head after undoing the minimum amount of buttons, elbow shoving into Matt’s side as he goes. His belt jangles as he wiggles out of his pants, and Matt follows suit, throws his dress clothes on the floor to worry about tomorrow. “Dude.” Foggy warns, picking Matt’s glasses up off the carpet, sweeping their clothes into his arms and dropping them on the vacant chair by the bed and out of the way. Months ago Matt would have blamed the alcohol, the hour, the unfamiliarity of their setting and the absolute familiarity Foggy represents for the warm, achy tightness in his throat. He knows better now.
“Thank you.” Matt mumbles, turning his glasses over in his hands.
“Someone’s got to take care of you, Murdock.” The mattress sinks beneath Foggy as he takes his seat again, and Matt allows the momentum to pull him closer, bends his head against Foggy’s shoulder. He’s sleepy now, his earlier laughter muted, gone heavy in his chest.
“Thanks for coming Matty.”
Matt nods, nose dragging over the sleeve of Foggy’s undershirt. “Thank you for wanting me here.”
Foggy’s hand squeezes at his knee.
In the morning there will be another bus to carry them back to the city. The city and school work and interviews and debt. Classmates and books and a thousand other distractions. Here it is only them, Foggy and Matt. Matt lifts his head, reaching out with his hand and resting it atop Foggy’s on his knee, turning at the waist to better face Foggy.
“Matt?” Foggy asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question, not when he’s leaning forward, hand slipping out from under Matt’s, lifting to the nape of Matt’s neck instead. His fingertips are calloused but they rub at the tension Matt still carries in his muscles, and there’s no better feeling than that. “I always miss you.” Matt says, and if Foggy’s confused he doesn’t say anything, draws Matt closer, presses his lips to Matt’s. Soft. Careful. Hardly a kiss and yet.
Matt follows him when Foggy pulls away, lead and follow, angles their mouths together for two counts of three. And then another. And another. Until he’s not counting at all.
-
The End