Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, what?”
Matt isn’t sure how Foggy hadn’t known before now, nor why he’s so upset about it.
“Seriously, it’s fine. I go to Mass, that’s all I need,” Matt insists with a weak smile. He’s fairly certain Foggy is going into what Matt has affectionately dubbed ‘Lawyer Mode’ in his head- when he gets all argumentative and plans his sentences three turns ahead of the conversation.
Foggy’s casual question of what Matt’s plans are for the next two days had been what started it, although it isn’t exactly clear why Foggy is asking. Maybe he thinks Matt will be lonely. No matter, though, since it doesn’t change his answer: he’s going to order cheap Chinese food, settle into his creaky, over-worn desk chair, and study the night away. The following day he’ll attend Mass at dawn and midnight. All the same things he does every year.
“Matt, Christmas Day is about all that is good and holy in the world! Family, and food, and presents, and my mom’s glazed ham- seriously Matt you have to try the food. My mom will restore your faith in humanity with this ham.” His arms make a swoosh through the air as he moves them emphatically.
“I’ve had your mom’s cooking, Fog. It is pretty amazing. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s not what Christmas is about?”
“And Jesus too, yeah, sure. But Matt, Matt, hang on, I’m gonna appeal to your Catholicism here.” He pauses, then speaks slowly, haltingly. “What, better way… to honor Jesus… than to spend time with people you care about?”
Matt scoffs in amusement. He adjusts his glasses, which are pinching his nose. The rectangular black frames had been irritating him lately, what with them never staying on right. “You’re- you’re not wrong.”
“Then come with me!” Foggy is definitely in ‘Lawyer Mode’, and that’s how Matt knows he’s lost. Foggy tears even the professor to shreds in their debate class, Matt’s seen it first-hand. “Come on, I’ll even drive you to Mass.”
He sighs, but only for the drama of it. “You’re sure?”
“Matt, there is nothing I want for Christmas more than for you to stay with my family this weekend.”
“Even more than the glazed ham?” Matt mocks innocently.
Foggy hesitates, taking a sharp breath in. “... There is one thing I want more. But you’re a close runner-up!”
His voice sounds like the verbal equivalent of a shrug, and Matt laughs, genuine, throaty and just this side of too-loud. “Yeah, buddy, I’ll come with you.”
- - -
It’s during the taxi ride to the Nelsons’ that he realizes he doesn’t have gifts for anyone.
He shifts uncomfortably at the thought, pushing himself up with one palm against the itchy, cracking pleather seat and nervously twirling his compacted cane in the other.
“Hey, Fog?”
“Hm?” Foggy turns in his seat. He’s been describing the scenery blurring past the windows, but since they’re stopped in traffic, his monologue has dwindled to the occasional comment on interesting-looking passersby.
“Am I gonna be expected to have gifts for everyone?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry about that,” Foggy gives a jittery laugh. “They, uh. May have only learned you were coming about an hour ago, so. Uh. It’s not like they’ll have anything for you either.”
“Foggy!” Matt’s eyebrows shoot up in indignation, chin jerking forward.
“What?”
“You didn’t tell them I was coming?!”
“I told them! Just… a little after we were on the way.”
Matt makes a frustrated noise. “This is such a bad idea.”
“It’ll be fine! Look, I knew they weren’t gonna say no. Everyone in my family loves you, you’ve charmed the shit out of them. I just…” he trails off, breathing irregular.
“What is it?”
“I…” Foggy licks his lips, tongue rasping over a crack that sprouted last week after their last snowball fight. “I wasn’t sure you were going to say yes. It would have been unbearable if I told them in advance, then ended up coming alone. They’re always telling me I need to… make more friends.”
Matt frowns. Foggy has plenty of friends, he’s a gosh dang social butterfly. Sure, he isn’t close with many of them, but he can start up a conversation with anybody. His family should recognize that.
He claps a hand on Foggy’s shoulder, smiling flatly. “Well then, I’m happy to help. I’ll get them off your back, at least for this weekend.”
Matt can hear a strained sort of relief in Foggy’s voice when he says “thanks.”
- - -
Mrs. Nelson greets them at the door as soon as they knock (“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Anna, dear”), pulling them both into tight hugs, one after the other, then ushers them in and hurries back to the kitchen.
They make it one whole step before Matt grinds to a halt, having just been slapped in the face with a full-frontal wave of sensory input. It’s not bad, but it is a lot. There’s a roast in the oven just shy of done, coated with something peppery and tart, and fresh-baked rolls cooling on the counter. Faint Christmas music floats from the ancient record player in one corner, nearly drowned out by the dull roar of half a dozen people conversing. He blinks hard and tries to take it all in.
“Matty?”
“Huh?” Matt’s attention snaps back to the man standing next to him.
“You alright, man? You kinda just… stopped.”
Matt shakes his head, clearing his senses like a bad Etch-a-Sketch. “Yeah, sorry, just processing everything. Appreciating.”
Foggy chuckles. “Just wait until you actually get to taste the food. So, uh, my mom’s cooking awaits. ...Shall we?” He extends a hand towards the living room.
In a singular moment of unrestrained, uncalculated instinct, Matt grabs it.
“Oh-”
He retracts his hand and repeatedly fails to put it in his pocket, face flaming. The edges of his coat suddenly feel unbearably itchy. “Sorry, uh-”
“It’s all good, I don’t mind.” Foggy offers his hand again, this time towards Matt instead of the path forward. Matt takes it in his own again, then slides up his arm until he lands in the crook of Foggy’s elbow.
Safer territory.
“Ready?” Foggy asks, pulling the door closed behind them.
Matt takes a deep breath, letting it punch out of his chest into a slightly stressed sigh. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Then right this way, my good sir!”
- - -
The Nelsons are as friendly as ever. Foggy tells him that Uncle Timmy and Aunt Jeanie are on one side of the room, talking to Grandpa Bob while little Ruthie runs circles around them. Theo stands towards the counters with two more of Foggy’s cousins. Mr. Nelson is in the kitchen tossing pasta salad- Matt can smell the vinegar and hear the olives hitting the bowl with dull little plink sounds. Mrs. Nelson, of course, tends to the roast. It may not be the famous glazed ham, but any of Anna’s cooking is a coveted thing, and everyone knows to leave her be when she’s working.
Foggy greets his brother, then beelines to join the conversation with his grandfather. Matt trails along with him, clinging a little tighter and pressing minutely into his side. He’s not ready to let go yet.
Matt had nearly forgotten how cozy it is in the Nelson abode. Bob may be a little grouchy, but everyone else is almost comically friendly, like a cartoon about Christmas, rather than a real family. It all sounds very… soft, to Matt’s ears. Soft and kind and welcoming. Foggy, in particular, promotes that feeling. His knit sweater and the faint vanilla scent of his shampoo make Matt want to tuck his entire face into his chest and stay there for an inordinate amount of time.
He restrains himself. Instead, he joins the conversation, offering opinions and talking about his time at Columbia. The Nelsons haven’t gotten any new additions to family get-togethers in years, so they all want to dote on him. Ruthie takes a particular liking to him, and practically begs him to sit next to her for dinner. That’s how he finds himself wedged between Foggy’s youngest cousin and his Aunt Jeanie, directly across from Foggy himself.
The food smells delicious, and tastes even better. The scalloped potatoes are perfectly cheesy and soft, the pasta salad has a good zing to it, the meat is impossibly tender and the rolls melt in his mouth. It’s been… Matt doesn’t even want to figure out how long it’s been since he’s eaten a home-cooked meal. There’s even wine to go with it, and while it’s far from fancy, he’s sure it’s nicer than anything he and Foggy could afford. He gladly accepts a glass.
Ruthie is easy to talk to. He lets her ramble about her days at school, how she likes her teacher and all her different classmates. She loves P.E. and Science, but hates English, which she informs him of through the gap in where one of her front teeth should be. Matt chuckles and prompts her to keep talking.
Conversation cycles around the table, bouncing between family members at either end. In the midst of the comfortable chaos, Foggy finds Matt’s feet under the table, and kicks him. Matt covers a smirk with his hand and kicks back.
The two keep playing footsie. They trade ankle-jabs and toe-nudges, right up until the moment that Aunt Jeanie gets caught in the crossfire. Both boys immediately sit still, and Matt offers a quiet, “Sorry, Mrs. Nelson.”
In a casual, melodic voice, she tells them, “It’s alright, boys.”
- - -
A long while later, when more than one bottle of wine has been drained and Ruthie has started yawning, they get up to clean. While everyone else does dishes and packs leftovers, Matt sits with the youngest Nelson. She’s still talking, more slowly now, and her already-scattered trains of thought have become nigh impossible to understand.
Aunt Jeanie sets a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time for bed, sweetheart,” she tells her daughter.
Ruthie doesn’t even protest, like Matt is fairly certain kids are wont to do. She just says, “I want Uncle Matt to tuck me in.”
Matt’s lips part in surprise. Uncle Matt.
He turns to be almost-looking at Jeanie. “Do you mind?” he asks carefully.
She thinks about it for a moment before agreeing, “I don’t see why not. I’ll show you which room.”
Matt stands, only to feel little Ruthie tugging at his pant leg. “Will you carry me?” Her high voice is so quiet, barely peeping through the syllables.
Matt chuckles. “I thought you were a big girl, Ruthie! Isn’t eleven too old to be carried to bed?” He can practically hear her posture drooping before he scoops her up in his arms. “Just joking, kiddo.”
She tucks her chin over his shoulder with a happy squeal.
The way to the guest bedroom is barely more than a minute, but Matt’s chest must be the most comfortable place in the world, because the little girl is already asleep by the time they get to the top of the stairs.
“She certainly seems to have taken a liking to you,” Jeanie says softly. She pushes the door open for him.
He hums in agreement. “Seems like. Shouldn’t she brush her teeth?”
Jeanie waves a hand dismissively, Matt can hear the way it splits the air without much force. “She’ll be ok for one night.”
Matt nods in assent, careful of the fragile body by his neck, then finds the bed with his knee and sets her down on a pillow. He arranges the thin limbs and pulls the blanket over her. He doesn’t think he could keep the fond smile from his face even if he tried.
Jeanie leads him back to the living room, where the adults are just settling in for an extra glass of wine; it is cramped with so many people, but the thick rug cushioning the ratty carpet makes it seem cozy. The whole place still smells like good food. Matt finds his place next to Foggy, claiming an armrest for himself with Foggy pressed up against him.
The group is a little more raucous than before, what with the amount of alcohol in them, but Matt is just tipsy enough not to mind. He and Foggy chat about anything and everything, joined occasionally by Theo.
At one point, Matt thinks to ask, “So what does Christmas look like for you guys, anyway?”
Theo starts to explain earnestly. “Well, there’s plenty of gift-giving, usually on Christmas morning. And we’ll have a big dinner tomorrow night, even better than tonight. And we decorate a pine tree, or an evergreen actually, with ornaments and lights and popcorn and stuff.”
Matt had noticed the tree early on, couldn’t smell any pine so it must be plastic, but he can hear the tinny buzzing of the lights he supposes must be strung around it. They sound sort of cute.
“Really it’s about time with family,” says Foggy, “But most kids don’t care much about that, so Santa- they think that Santa is gonna come down the chimney and leave them presents under the tree.”
Matt can’t contain a snort at that. Most of it makes sense, it isn’t far off what he’d done in the orphanage, but Santa? It was supposed to be about Jesus, and the Holy Trinity.
“Hey! Don’t you laugh at me!” Foggy is smiling too, he can hear it in his voice. “So sorry that not all of us can be as pious as you, O Holy One.”
“Mm. Sucks to be you, I guess.” Matt takes a casual sip from his glass, then sets it on the end table behind him.
“Oh you’ll pay for that.” That’s all the warning Matt gets before Foggy knocks him back, and proceeds to tickle the everloving shit out of him. Turns out, if you watch enough late-night movies on your laptop with someone, you can learn all their ticklish spots, and Foggy is abusing this knowledge to its full extent.
Normally Matt would be mortified by doing anything so familiar as this in front of anyone else, but somehow the embarrassment never sets in. Instead, he’s reduced to a weak wheeze-laugh as he tries to turn over and crawl away. “Fo- Foggy please- we can- we can talk about this-”
“It’s too late, Matthew! You brought this upon yourself!”
“No, please!” He tries without any real effort to push Foggy off.
In the background, he hears Theo telling Foggy to “go for the ribs!”, while Anna and Ed laugh at them good-naturedly.
Finally, Foggy has to stop, but only because he himself is laughing too hard to continue. He collapses, forehead to Matt’s collarbone, as the pair cough out the last of the humor before sitting up again with goofy smiles plastered to their faces.
The rest of the family has stopped paying attention by now, and actually begins to filter out in favor of finding their beds. Matt and Foggy follow suit, ambling through the steps of brushing their teeth and changing before fitting themselves in Foggy’s bed. It’s queen-size, so while they’re not horribly cramped, they don’t exactly have space to spread out. Matt finds Foggy’s arm acting as his pillow, and one of Matt’s knees slots between both of Foggy’s.
It wasn’t like they’d never been this close. Their dorm is hardly bigger than a shoebox; the two end up wrapped around each other more often than not. Matt has no trouble falling right asleep.
- - -
The first sound that registers in Matt’s sleep-addled mind is the obnoxiously cheerful pealing of his alarm. He utters a quiet groan into the pillow, reaching vaguely to the side and slapping the ‘off’ button.
He sighs, dropping onto his front and letting his shoulders sag. Foggy’s arm weighs down the small of his back, and his soft snoring reverberates off the poster-covered walls of the room. One floor below them, Ruthie is breathing softly, sandwiched between both of her parents. Cars are already running on the street outside, headlights buzzing in the predawn darkness. It’s blissfully peaceful.
He sighs one more time before heaving himself up, wriggling out from under Foggy’s arm and tiptoeing to his suitcase. He puts himself together in the bathroom- Foggy is a deep sleeper, but he doesn’t want to risk waking his friend up so early in the morning. The tile is cold even through his socks, and the hiss of the faucet is a shock against the near-silence.
He locks the handle of the front door and closes it behind him, stepping out into the biting cold of late December in New York. He can feel the moisture being stripped from his throat with every exhale. He pulls his shabby coat a little tighter around him, bristly fabric chafing his wrists and neck, then readjusts his glasses (still pinching, always pinching his nose) and sets off. The tapping of his cane against the pavement seems particularly loud in the frozen quiet of 5am.
Taxi rides cost a fortune on Christmas Day, so Matt is limiting himself to one, instead choosing to walk the way to his church. Thankfully it’s not too far, and once he gets moving, it’s easier to keep going than it would be to stop.
The air stings every bit of exposed skin, bringing blood to the tip of his nose and making his eyes water. He pops his ears, sliding his jaw from one side to the other and back, then speeds up.
The relative warmth of St. Agnes’ is a welcome sensation. He slides into a seat in the pews. He can uncurl his fingers from the handle of his cane again- gradually, and carefully. The polished oak beneath him starts to thaw him out, although it’s sure to be near-freezing too. The smooth, aged varnish is reassuring for its familiarity. The room is cavernous and largely empty, that much he can feel- The cathedral is built to hold hundreds, and barely more than a few dozen are here. But despite the loneliness, despite the cold, despite the stark design, he can’t help but be warmed by the comfort settling into his bones. He rearranges himself and waits for the dawn service to begin.
- - -
By the time Matt steps back through the tall double doors, smelling of rosemary and myrrh, it has warmed to an almost-tolerable temperature, and he takes that as his sign to finally get Foggy a gift. He’s thinking maybe a new beanie, seeing as his last one had blown into the marina, the one and only time he and Matt had gone on a ferry ride.
In line to check out, Matt tunes out the poppy music spitting from the overheard speakers, but catches the sugary-sweet aroma of highly processed chocolate. He sweeps his hand over an item on the shelves.
For lack of a less questionable-looking investigation method he can use while in broad daylight, Matt asks a nearby employee to describe it to him. She calls it ‘a tin wreath, filled with ganache chocolates’.
He smiles wryly and adds it to the belt.
- - -
He lets himself into the Nelson household after carefully running his fingers under the welcome mat for the spare key. It closes behind him with a quiet creak. It’s still dark, none of the lights are making any noise, but it won’t be that way for long; he can hear people starting to shift in their beds.
The whole place smells lived-in, and while he wouldn’t yet go so far as to call it home, Matt rests easy here. His bones are at peace. He feels tension beginning to leak out through the worn-down soles of his shoes.
He removes his outermost layers, then pads upstairs, anchoring himself on the familiar sound of Foggy’s heartbeat. The plywood door scrapes gently over the thin carpet. He trades the rest of his clothes for a comfy pair of sweatpants, setting his glasses on the bedside table, then peels back the comforter and crawls into bed next to his best friend. He replaces Foggy’s arm over his waist, just the way it was before he left, and tucks his forehead into the center of Foggy’s chest without a second thought. Every remaining bit of stress leaves him in a rush; a gooey puddle of Murdock melts into place against Foggy’s warmth.
He heaves a deep sigh. A faint, contented smile plays onto his face.
Foggy’s heartbeat is strong and steady. Matt can feel it against the tip of his nose. Foggy’s breathing passes through his chest without even a little bit of a wheeze, coming out his nose and mouth as a gentle snore. He still smells like vanilla shampoo, and now like the gingerbread candle that had been lit after dinner last night, like good wine, and a little like his childhood home, and Matt wants to smother himself in it for the foreseeable future.
This, right here. This is what Matt wants.
Of course, it doesn’t last for long. Before Foggy’s breathing can even begin to shift to signal that he might wake soon, Ruthie barrels into the room at top speed. She launches herself into the air, and all 75 pounds of excitement lands on top of the pair. Foggy’s snoring switches to an involuntary “oOF-” as all the air is forced out of him. Matt bears the pain of a tiny foot in his stomach.
“FROGGY!!! Uncle Froggy, Uncle Matt! Uncle Froggy, Uncle Matt! Wake up wake up wake up wake up!”
Foggy groans quietly, then blinks hard. “Well good morning, Baby Ruth! What’s got you so excited?” He picks her up and rolls over to sit her in his lap.
“It’s Christmas!!!” she says with an overwhelming level of gusto, bouncing on Foggy’s stomach and forcing another quiet “ouff” out of him. “There are presents!!”
Matt chuckles and sits up too, “No, it can’t be. Are you sure?”
She seems to miss the teasing in his tone. “Yes!! Come on, I’m sure there’s something for you too!!” She hops down and makes it her mission to drag them both out of bed by the hand, and although Matt is fairly sure he could sling her entire body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, they let her ‘lift’ them up and lead them downstairs.
Most of the adults are already there, and Mrs. Nelson has somehow managed to whip up breakfast for eleven people in the hour or two that Matt was ‘asleep’. They all sit and eat, and although Ruthie is practically vibrating with gift-impatience the whole time, she still enjoys more than her share of sugar-topped blueberry muffins.
The Christmas tree is situated in a corner of the living room; Matt likes the way that sound fractures and bounces between the plastic tines. Ruthie tears open two of her gifts with zealous frenzy before remembering her manners and passing some out to everyone else.
It’s with a sudden, cloying dread, that floods from his chest up his throat that Matt remembers he never wrapped Foggy’s gifts. They’re sitting next to his bed, right where he dropped them a few hours ago.
He sets a hand on Foggy’s arm to assure him that everything is alright as he stands, stepping carefully through the drifts of paper he can hear being brushed around the living room floor. He finds Mrs. Nelson’s voice, then taps her on the shoulder and leans down to mutter in her ear: “Can you help me wrap something for Foggy?”
She jumps slightly, but responds with a swift and equally quiet “of course, dear.”
Five minutes later, Matt returns, a novelty gift bag swinging from one hand. He drops it into Foggy’s lap and seats himself between his friend and the fabric-covered couch arm again. He’s been told it has a glitter-coated image of a Christmas tree on it.
“Oh!” Foggy says. “Thanks, Matt. I have one for you too, over on the- here, let me show you.” He slides his fingers over the back of Matt’s wrist and up the tendons of his hand, and guides it to the end table, where he finds a small box.
Everyone else is tearing paper open at the same time, so Matt figures he doesn’t need to wait. He slips his fingers under the taped seams, finding the cardboard already open for him. He reaches in to find- glasses.
He’s not wearing his glasses. He flushes slightly in embarrassment, feeling all-too-suddenly vulnerable.
“They’re red,” Foggy informs him. “They’re uh- round, with silver frames. I thought they might look good on you.”
The embarrassment is gone for the moment when he grins wide, wider than that comment should make him want to, and slips them onto his face. They sit comfortably on his nose, plastic pads only a little stiff from lack of use. Much better than his old, beat-up pair.
“How do I look?” he asks.
Foggy carefully straightens one corner, hand barely brushing Matt’s cheek. Matt flushes a little more at the contact.
“Always knew red was your color,” is Foggy’s affectionate response.
Matt forcefully ignores the pounding tempo in his chest, choosing instead to gesture at the bag in Foggy’s lap. “So? Are you gonna open it?”
Foggy chuckles. “So impatient, Murdock.”
There’s a shuffling, crinkling sound as Foggy removes the thrice-reused tissue paper, and then the first item. “Oh, nice, new beanie. Been meaning to buy another one. Thanks.” The paper crinkles some more as Foggy goes, “Is this a… wreath?”
“Filled with chocolates.” Matt ducks his head, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. “It’s- you wanted to hang a wreath outside our dorm, but the super wouldn’t let you put a nail in the door. I just thought this might be a good substitute.”
There’s a short pause. Then Foggy opens the tin with a hollow pop, places one truffle in Matt’s hand, and closes his fingers around it. “Why don’t you try one, then.”
Matt blinks. He takes a bite.
“Mm- they’re not that bad, actually. A little on the sweet side.” They’re undeniably cheap, tasting of processed ingredients and stale nuts and not much else- but hey, they’re college students. Cheap is all they know.
“Perfect for me, then!” Foggy pops one into his mouth and clacks it against his teeth before biting it in half.
Matt pushes his new glasses further up his nose, beaming proudly. “I’m glad.”
- - -
If Matt was in Mrs. Nelson’s position, he’s sure he would have gone insane many hours ago. As it turns out, she has much more patience than him, and makes it all the way till early afternoon before snapping and banishing everyone from the apartment.
After a short debate (“I just don’t want you to freeze, buddy” - “I’ll be fine, Foggy”), they decide to kill some time with a walk through Central Park. The air is bitingly cold, and a wind has risen since morning, buffeting their limbs this way and that with the occasional aggressive gust. Matt can smell the frost in the air, can feel sharp crystals that he’s come to associate with microscopic ice particles, and Foggy warns him that he has to step carefully because the ground is frozen.
Matt likes when it snows. The cold is miserable, of course, making his overworked joints ache and freezing his fingers stiff around the handle of his cane. But he has fond memories of snow days- curling up with his dad and some cheesy movies, buried in a comically large pile of blankets. He can practically feel the mug of watery hot chocolate in his hands, burning his tongue whenever he dares take a sip.
Back then, he had loved the coziness of it all, and the time he got to spend with his dad. Now, he’s learned to love how quiet snow makes things. It acts as a thick carpet, muffling all the sounds of the city.
Matt likes snow days. Plus, they give him an excuse to stand closer to Foggy, and Matt likes Foggy. He tucks himself further into the man’s side, searching for that precious warmth that Foggy exudes like a never-failing space heater.
Foggy slows his stride. “Are you still cold?”
Matt just shrugs in response, unable to keep himself from shivering. “Not very.”
“Here.” Foggy takes Matt’s hand from where it’s hooked through his elbow and instead sticks it in his own jacket pocket. “Better?”
Matt runs his fingertips down Foggy’s open palm, then curls them into a fist for Foggy to wrap his hand around Matt’s knuckles. “Yeah, thanks.”
There’s lint in his pocket, and tangled thread loose from the stitching. Foggy has extra blood running to his face, Matt can hear it circulating in his cheeks. Must be from the wind. “We should probably get back, right?”
Foggy clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, probably.”
Matt makes sure to press as close to Foggy as he can the whole way back. The air doesn’t sting quite so bad anymore.
- - -
The apartment is warm, so very warm, and Matt can feel the tip of his nose start to thaw. Even the entryway is thick with the scent of honey and oranges, blended with the curing spices on the ham. There are other dishes, too- he can smell the delicate layer of oil and salt on the green beans, and a hearty amount of garlic in the starchy mashed potatoes.
He gives one big shiver, shaking off the chill of the outdoors as well as his overcoat, then cracks his neck and follows Foggy into the dining room. Soon, the last of the family files in, and Ruthie’s blood is pumping hard from her time outside as she sits herself next to him. She starts talking fast, even faster than the night before, and keeps on talking until well into the meal.
Dinner is absolutely delicious. Foggy may have been right about the ham. Matt doesn’t have any faith in humanity that needs restoring, since Foggy takes care of that for him every day, but it is really good. He gladly takes a second serving, along with everyone else. He isn’t sure that there’ll be any leftovers. He makes sure to savor the flavors on his tongue; the steady cumin and earthy cloves, little punches of paprika and onion, topped beautifully with a syrupy orange glaze.
The atmosphere, too, is more perfect than he could have asked for. So much laughter and joy at one table. Everyone has as much wine and food as they could want, and little Ruthie is enjoying a champagne flute of fizzing apple cider. The air is warm with the heat of so many bodies. Foggy is barely two feet away from him, Matt can hear the regular beating of his heart more clearly than he can the old-fashioned music from the other room.
The evening is a long, drawn-out affair, and Matt loves all of it. In the end, though, it’s been a long day, and everyone is ready to get some rest. Ruthie’s dad carries her to bed, and the adults all agree to leave the dishes for tomorrow. Matt and Foggy retreat to their room, feet clunking on the steps.
- - -
Matt plops himself onto the bed without pause, crossing his legs and holding his ankles in front of him.
“I’m gonna touch your face now, Matt,” Foggy warns him.
“Yup.”
Foggy pokes the tip of one finger into the center of his forehead, and Matt lets himself roll backwards as if Foggy had actually pushed him over. He splays his arms out when he lands, going loose and puffing his cheeks out with a tired sigh. Foggy’s weight makes a dent in the bed next to him.
“I’m still driving you to Mass, right?” Foggy checks.
“Mhm.”
Matt’s eyes drift closed, reveling in the tranquil stillness of the room and the perfect cushion of the bed against his tired muscles. It’s just a little too cold, making the hair on his arms stand up in the confines of his jacket, but he doesn’t mind.
Foggy mirrors him, laying down and stretching his arms out in the other direction, so they fill up the whole bed. They sit like that, decompressing, for more than a few minutes.
“Have you ever danced?” Foggy asks suddenly.
Matt blinks rapidly. “I- what? I mean, I assume I have at some point, just. By myself, or whatever.”
“No, I mean, like- like with someone. Ballroom dancing, or something like it.”
He laughs at that, propping himself up on his elbows. “No, Foggy, I can’t say that I’ve ever… ballroom danced before.”
“Me neither.” Foggy falls into a thoughtful silence. “Come on, I have an idea.” He drags Matt upright, like Ruthie did this morning only with much, much more strength. Matt tamps that thought down and follows him downstairs.
There’s only one light left on, on the far end of the kitchen. Matt wonders how dark it must be for Foggy. The man in question doesn’t turn any on, though, focusing instead on loading the record player and dropping the needle. Suddenly Frank Sinatra croons through the speaker, imploring them to recognize the loveliness of the Christmas season.
“I’m gonna touch you now, Matt,” Foggy warns, then steps far closer than Matt had anticipated. “Yeah?”
Matt nods, so Foggy sets Matt’s hands on his shoulders, and both of his own around Matt’s waist. Matt tries not to inhale too sharply. Foggy’s hair is swishing softly over the backs of his hands- it's very soft.
He shoves the mental static from that thought aside and follows along as Foggy says “Then we just… step? I’ll narrate, here- right foot,-back-” he takes a slow step forward with his left, and Matt stumbles to get his foot out of the way in time. “Then left foot, out-” he steps out with his right, and Matt copies him on the left. “Yeah, then left forward, and right..”
It’s fairly easy to pick up. Actually, it’s a little like boxing footwork. By the time Sinatra has finished convincing them of the virtues of the snowy season, the pair moves smoothly around the living room. A new song starts up for them.
“I’ve seen my parents doing this,” Foggy explains. “They always seem so… peaceful, when they dance. I thought you might like to try.”
“It’s nice, Fog.” He’s trying to be normal about it, although that’s effectively shattered when he slides his arms around Foggy’s neck and sets his head on his friend’s shoulder. He barely refrains from tucking his nose all the way into his neck. Foggy just sighs, leaning his head against Matt’s temple.
They stay like that, swaying in gentle circles around the little room to a medley of Christmas songs for… Matt isn’t sure how long. The crackle of the record player and the soft pressure of Foggy’s hands on his waist lull him into a meditative state.
Eventually, though, Foggy lifts his head enough to look to the kitchen, presumably towards a clock. “Yep,” he mumbles softly, “time to go.”
Then he freezes, arms stiff around Matt, heart fluttering as he stops breathing for a moment. Foggy tears himself away all at once, putting far too much distance between them and running his hands through his hair. “Um- it’s time to go, if you wanna make it on time. Are you ready? My dad is letting me borrow the car.”
Matt’s head twitches to one side, brow furrowing in confusion. “Fogs? Are you-”
“I’m fine. C’mon, let’s go.”
He trails after his friend into the freezing night air once again. Foggy shows him where the car is and holds the door open for him, then falls into the driver's seat with a distinct lack of grace.
They drive the whole way to the church in silence. Foggy is locked in place, every muscle pulled taught as he clenches his fingers around the steering wheel. It’s only when they pull in next to the church, leaving the car running at the curbside, that Matt is able to put a hand on Foggy’s knee.
In the smallest, most careful voice, he asks, “Are you ok?”, and Foggy’s shoulders go slack. Fabric shifts as Foggy’s tension begins to dissipate.
“I’m ok, Matt. I just need to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? You’ve got a ride back?”
Matt nods, hesitates, then pulls Foggy into a hug as best he can over the center console. Foggy buries his face in his shoulder. Matt listens to the way his heart rate starts to slow as he breathes.
He takes one more deep, steadying breath before sitting up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Matt.”
“See you, Fog.” Matt hauls himself out of the car, unfolding his cane and making his way towards the smell of frankincense.
- - -
It’s nearly two hours later when Matt steps out of the cab, paying the driver, and slipping through the front door of the Nelson home for the third time that day.
He leaves his shoes by the door and pads upstairs, socks making near-silent noises against the carpet.
He yawns three times in succession while undressing and brushing his teeth, ears popping on the first and third.
In their room, Foggy is fast asleep, muscles no longer tense and heart no longer irregular. His breathing is slow. Matt slides into bed next to him with leaden limbs. The shifting sheets seem loud in the fragile quiet.
Matt takes a deep breath, soaking in the calm, and rubs circles into Foggy’s back. His friend makes a low humming sound in his chest and rolls closer, and Matt welcomes him with open arms.
- - -
Matt wakes slowly, to the sound of chirping birds and bustling cars and the steady breathing of his best friend. Foggy is lying next to him, breath fanning over his face, and Matt is blinking his sleep-heavy eyelids open and trying to determine if Foggy is awake yet when Foggy darts forward and kisses him.
He doesn’t linger, just starts apologizing before their lips have even separated. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. That was so fucked up, I’m sorry, I should have asked, and you don’t even swing that way, and-”
Foggy is acting far too awake for whatever time it is, and Matt is very in love with him, and he can’t stand this any longer. He rushes forward to clutch at his friend’s face and kisses him as hard as he can.
It’s desperate, and slow, and Matt can feel every nerve in his body singing with how right it is.
“But-” Foggy tries when they break for air. Matt kisses him again to shut him up.
Without letting go, he sits up and situates himself in Foggy’s lap, then just… takes his time, enjoying the way Foggy’s lips feel moving against his. He scratches his fingertips through the scrubby shape of Foggy’s facial hair, liking the way the prickly-soft texture keeps him grounded.
The second kiss is followed by a third, then a fourth, until suddenly Foggy is the one leaning in, grasping Matt’s chin with thumb and pointer and holding it in place to kiss him for a fifth, a sixth, so many times that Matt loses count.
A while later- a minute, or maybe a lifetime, a life well spent- Matt has no choice but to pull away and catch his breath. He links his hands at the back of Foggy’s neck, under his wild bedhead, and rests their foreheads together. They’re breathing morning breath in each other’s faces, but he hardly notices anymore.
“We really should talk about this,” Foggy reasons.
“I love you,” is what Matt says.
Foggy laughs incredulously, ducking to knock his forehead against Matt’s collarbone, then starts pressing kisses against the column of his neck. Matt’s certainly not about to protest.
“Can’t believe you… one-upping…” the words are hard to understand when most of Foggy’s attention is going to Matt’s neck, but he gets the gist. “Stubborn… ass…” He nips at one spot near the base, working Matt’s skin between his teeth, and Matt makes an odd sort of keening noise. Foggy ignores it and travels up his neck, his jaw, and back to his lips. “I… love you too!”
He plants another kiss on Matt’s lips, seeming like he just can’t help himself, before he says “God, I love you so much. Loved you since the day I met you, do you remember?”
Matt grins, a besotted, overwhelmed thing, and his face feels like it must be an interesting shade of red. “You flirted with me.”
“I flirted with you,” Foggy confirms dejectedly.
Matt hums, noncommittal. “Seems to have worked out pretty well for you though, hasn’t it?”
Foggy scoffs. “Only after years of pining- God, Matt, it was so pathetic.” He kisses him again. “You’re so- we really should talk about this though.”
“Talking is overrated,” Matt mumbles distractedly.
“... Matt, we’re training to be lawyers. Our whole job is gonna be talking.”
Matt reaches down to find Foggy’s collarbone and leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses past his clavicle. “This sounds like more fun, though.”
Foggy laughs, a deep, hearty, from-the-diaphragm kind of laugh that bursts from his throat and makes Matt’s heart skip.
“What?!” Matt asks incredulously, not stopping the onslaught of attention with lips and tongue and teeth against Foggy’s collarbones. He pulls his t-shirt down for more access. “It’s not like I’m wrong.”
“Mmm. I’ll give you that,” Foggy admits. He cups a hand around Matt’s cheek, fingers splitting around his ear and scratching into his hair, then pulls him up for another deep kiss.
Outside the window, birds are singing warbly melodies, and Foggy’s family is clattering around in the kitchen downstairs. The blankets around them are soft, the top layer cool from the fading night air. Foggy is a warm weight against him, and Matt has never felt more loved.