Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer heat formed visible heat waves just beyond the window to Foggy’s family butcher shop, Nelson’s Meats. Just the thought of stepping outside was enough to melt the soles of his sneakers. 

Leaning against the glass case, he wished he were the chop of beef resting in its beautiful air-conditioned containment. Mrs. Johnson stood on the other end, her beady eyes narrowing on the price sign propped up against it,  as if staring would magically lower the price. He’d lost track of how many times she did the same act throughout the summer. Nearly clockwork, the welcome bell would chime, and she’d show up ready to haggle for a discount. 

“Hot dogs are much cheaper, you know,” she tutted.

“Frank’s Weenies is very busy this time of year,” he agreed with a smile.

Her finger tapped towards the cold cuts. “Wasn’t this a dollar cheaper last week?”

“You must be mistaken.”

Huffing, she wiped a sweat from her brow.

Beneath his apron, he was a pool of sweat. If I took off my shirt, I'd drown all of Hell’s Kitchen, he thought, pulling on the aprons’ straps.

Hopeful, he looked to the door.

A group of children screamed as they ran by. Craining his neck, he spotted a man with a salt and pepper beard striking a wrench to the fire hydrant across the street. As a soon-to-be lawyer, he should’ve called the police against the blatant unsanctioned access to the water, as a Hell’s Kitchen resident, he gleefully turned a blind eye. Memories of running through a busted fire hydrant as a kid played in the back of his head as his present self tried not to run into the spray of refreshing water. 

Mrs. Johnson tapped her chin. “I need a moment.”

“Take your time.”

 There wasn’t much business today. A few hours ago a teen came in, probably looking for a place to cool off, then promptly left when it was apparent it was equally hot inside the building as outside. Since then, it had only been Mrs. Johnson’s patronage that required him to watch the storefront.

Again, he looked to the door.

The searing heat was a perfectly rational reason why Karen or Matt wouldn’t visit today.

“Why don’t I get your usual?” he offered with a wink.

Pleased, Mrs. Johnson watched him load up a mix of meats punched in figures that were nearly double before adding the special discount she earned from her returned business.

It was the least shady practice any business in Hell’s Kitchen would do, one that he’d worked hard to justify. The discounts Mrs. Johnson truly wanted would not keep Nelson’s Meats afloat. 

“You were always the best worker here,” she said, happily carting her things away.

Plastered smile dropping, he walked into the back room. The meat locker's cold embrace was heaven against the sticky mess he'd been puddling into for the last few hours.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, securing the fridge’s door. “You know he rules.” His foot tapped against the doorstop.

“Is it my fault that our family prioritizes keeping the meat cooler than their own children?” he groaned. 

“Are you going to do something about it or just complain?” 

“Maybe I should write  a strongly worded letter to the city about this infringement against humane working conditions.”

Dean scoffed.

“Fine. When I win my first trial, I’m buying AC for the whole house! It’ll be so cold we could rent it out as an ice skating rink!” 

“That’ll be nice.”

Reaching into his pocket, Foggy checked on his phone. No new messages filled his inbox. 

 Dean’s arms folded. “Foggy... you good?”

“Yeah.” 

The last text he had was from Karen, a few days after little Aimee was born. The invite to spend the night had been shut down for a summer camp job she’d taken on. He still wasn’t sure if he believed that was the truth. As for Matt’s whereabouts, he had no clue. It would be a complete lie if he said that he wasn’t disheartened by their absence.

“Those friends of yours,”

Jolting his eyes away from the screen back to Dean, he silently warned not to say a word.

Matt and Karen had their own lives; it didn’t take a genius to know that. They weren’t kids anymore, free to run around the neighborhood until the street lights came on. Foggy had decided the lack of visits from his friends was just an unfortunate side effect of growing up and not an indicator that somehow he had been simultaneously dumped and forgotten.

“I was just going to ask if things were okay.”

“Of course they are. They’re just busy.”

The end of last year assured at least two things: one, he’d be in a few classes with his friends, and two, Matt was going to be his roommate.

Dean raised his brow, clearly not convinced that he wasn’t hiding something.

Hiding anything from his family was nothing short than a disaster waiting to happen. Each of his family members had different methods to wring out the truth. 

Hiding that he asked Matt out had never been the plan. After Matt accepted his proposal, he was ready to make one of Liz’s grand announcement dinners, had crafted ten different surprise I’m gay and have a boyfriend speeches, and began building up the courage to ask Dean and Liz for support throughout the whole thing. But everything had to be set to the side as attention drew to little Aimee going  in and out of doctor's appointments. With the added realization that it was much harder to find Matt in Hell’s Kitchen than at the university,  it made more sense to hold off on announcements of technically dating Matt.

It’s not like I know what I’m doing, he thought. Catching himself picking at his nails, he shook his hands apart.

“Foggy,” Dean sighed, the warm air forming small puffs in their cold surroundings. “You’re being stubborn.”

“You have a vendetta against my friends,” he playfully accused.

Dean smirked. “No one’s good enough for my little bro,” he ruffled his head.

“No one? You said Karen was growing on you.”

“Like mold. She's trouble.” Again, he crossed his arms over his chest. “And Matt,”

His heart clattered to the floor.

“Are you still trying to figure that out?”

“A bit,” he swallowed hard around the half-truth. Dean would deftly make a big deal that his technical boyfriend hadn't visited once all summer. The blame wasn’t Matt’s alone. Foggy knew he wasn’t exactly innocent in all this; he could’ve made efforts to see Matt, could’ve pushed through the irrational fear that he would burst into flames for staking out a church.

Dean tapped his shoulder. “You don’t need to rush things.”

“Please dont pack any reading material in my backpack.”

“It could come in handy.”

“Gross.” He pushed Dean’s arm away.

“Perfectly natural part of life.”

Making a T shape with his hand, he called a timeout. “I don’t need to hear all that right now.”

“Okay, but when you do have questions about all that, you should ask. Things are different when you’re with a guy.”

“Noted.” He felt his whole body temperature rise. “I’m a thousand billion light-years away from that, so please stop.”

Throwing his hands up, Dean stepped back. “Had to give some brotherly advice before you head back tomorrow.”

****

Tomorrow was all Matt could think of as he sat through mass. Imagining what Foggy would say when they reunited instead of following the priest’s homily was an action teetering on blasphemous. The mere thought of Foggy’s smile was more than enough to turn a deaf ear to the teachings reverberating around him. 

“Finally got bored hearing the same bible stories?” Eddie whispered once the majority of the crowd had disbursed.

“Afraid I’m about to be struck by lightning?”

Eddie hummed in a way that he’d correlated with amusement. 

Summer’s Sunday masses had cemented the truce between them. A part of him wanted to thank Eddie for putting into clarity how far he still needed to go to become, as Eddie put it, “less of an asshole”. Although Father Lantom’s heart did a disappointed dip each time he spotted them together in the pews, Matt was sure the man appreciated his renewed devotion to his faith.

The kind thing would be to reassure Father Lantom that he and Eddie were not returning to how things once were, but confidence in believing things were truly different was shaky. He was still working at The Scratch Club, still returning to the orphanage with cuts or bruises here and there when Elektra approved his dog fighting, and still shackled with guilt and shame that watched over his daily deceptions. The only difference this time around was the held promise that he would put more effort into not severing the tentative bonds he held, especially with Karen and Foggy.

A small smile tugged on his lips just thinking of Foggy. 

All summer, he had restrained himself from detouring along the way to The Scratch Club just to listen in on the events of the Nelson’s household. After the newborn scare, he was sure Foggy was in full protective uncle mode. Vividly, he could imagine Foggy’s fortress of pillows against every sharp object around the house.

“You can’t be that excited to get back to school,” Eddie said, rising from his seat. The tap against his shoe signaled that he should get up as well.

“Some people do enjoy gaining knowledge through academics.”

 Leather wafted in the air as Eddie shook out his gloves. “I prefer learning on the job.”

“Reporting going well?”

“This is New York, plenty to write about.” Eddie actually sounded happy, even when they were “together”, that was a rarity. “What?” Eddie asked.

“Nothing.”

 He knew Eddie would be the first to call bullshit if he told him that their truce was nice. It was more than nice how they could sit for hours without barbed words or fists. With every mass or small talk shared, he could feel the beginnings of actually rebuilding the bridge he’d burned down between them. 

Eddie's back straightened, letting him know that he was most likely glaring at the small group of old ladies gawking at this motorcycle.  The scent of caramels in musky bags followed their scattering feet.

“Hey.” Eddie pulled out his key.

On the last step, he hesitated

Transitioning their truce beyond these sacred grounds was still a work in progress. Parting every Sunday still held that unspoken tension of this being the start of another fight. He still didn't know how to fortify these olive branches.

“You want a ride?”

It had been years since he’d last been on a ride with Eddie; those times had been filled with exhilaration and copious amounts of recklessness. If he was remembering correctly, the last time he’d been on that motorcycle was a few nights before...

Gripping the hilt of his cane, he prodded it at the minuscule drop from step to street level. “Raincheck?” 

A symphony of crinkled leather announced Eddie’s shrug. “If you’re late tonight, I’m not covering your,” Eddie’s head turned to look past him. “A-s-s.”

Smiling at the attempt to withhold swearing near church, he settled more firmly on the last step. “I won’t be.”

Fisting his helmet, Eddie swung a leg over the seat. Hesitation dripped off every move. The distinct smell of stress peppered into his pores.

Tugging at the edge of his collar, Matt tried to lessen the sun’s magnifying attention.

Seeming to change his mind about something, Eddie put on his helmet and drove off.

Maneuvering through the iron gates, he swept his white cane over the uneven rock path to the small church garden. The orphanage was so close, yet today the distance felt nearly as daunting as when he received his acceptance letter to Columbia University. It was ironic how last year he dreaded being away from the orphanage, and now he couldn’t handle remaining in the room he'd occupied since a child.

By every measurement he painstakingly made that room exactly to his liking, desk facing towards the window to catch what little breeze past during studying, bedding light and washed in the one detergent that didn’t set the sensation of fire ants biting at his skin, closet sorted precisely to avoid accidental color clashing, and even his floor space was divided to allow for noon workouts. Up until last year, he had considered it to be the most perfect thing in his life.

Now stepping inside highlighted all that was missing: the smell of coconut shampoo, boxes stacked in the corner, the flapping of posters against the wall, and the constant sound of humming or pacing. The first nights of summer, he’d been unable to sleep without Foggy’s heartbeat accompanying him in the room. For two weeks straight, he had to remind himself not to wait around for Foggy whenever his watch informed him of the time. 

I’ll see him soon, he thought.

“Matthew!” Father Lantom's voice called out. Soil crumpled off his gloves as he motioned for him. “Care to spare a helping hand?”

“Of course.” Left hand outstretched, he found the edge of the flower bed. “Needs more water,” he pointed to the middle pot. Tracing up the stem, he tracked each leaf. Even with his light touch, he could feel the beginning of wilting from the scorching heat. 

“To have a green thumb,” Father Lantom began.

“-You need to know what to look for,” he finished the man’s sentence.

“Exactly. People are more like plants than we think. They require proper care. If we listen to the needs, they grow; one might need water, a turn of soil, or a larger pot to grow into.”

“If this is your way of kicking me out of the orphanage,” 

A strong hold clasped around his shoulder. “You are purposefully misinterpreting my words.”

That was only partially true. Reality was that he couldn’t spend his entire life on the charity Father Lantom provided. How much longer could he overstay his welcome had to be a common thought amongst the church. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. He hadn’t been in a long time.

“I’m working towards getting my own place.” The second he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. 

Shame crawled up onto his back. “Ungrateful leech,” it muttered in his ear.

“When,” Father Lantom said with a careful calmness, “you do get a place for yourself, I'll celebrate that achievement, but know that you are not being forced out, Matthew.” Tapping on his shoulder, Father Lantom turned to face the flower bed once more. “It's important to learn what you need to thrive. You've grown since last year, be wary not to regress.”

“I understand.”

***

“Basement, sweet basement!” Karen greeted her cramp home. Toeing off her boots, she face planted into the bed that had gone untouched all summer. Its slight moldy smell was heaven compared to the overtly perfumed rooms of Felicia’s place. Every muscle ached, protesting even scrounging for the abandoned flipphone that was not allowed in the Nine Lives meetings.

Jamming in the charger, she opened the lengthy list of messages: two came from her dad, five from telemarketers, and ten from Foggy.

Smiling, she clicked on the first dated two months ago.

“Hey, it’s Foggy...” Hearing his voice was like a cool bath. “Guess you're still at summer camp. Call me back when you can.”

Clicking the down button, she let the next voicemail play.

“Hypothetically, if I were to get to this summer camp, would there be openings as a counselor? Do I have any experience? No, but what I lack I make up for with enthusiasm. Plus, I have a large group of people who could write a character reference letter.  Does that help my chances? I’m great with kids, at least I think I would be great with kids. Did I tell you that they named their little girl Aimee? I was worried they’d never pick one. Could you imagine that?  I-” the voice mail cut off.

“Didn’t realize I got cut off. I talk too much, don’t I? Bet you don’t miss all my yammering. This will be my last voicemail. Just hoping that you’re doing alright.”

“Okay, so I’m a huge liar,” the following voicemail started. “But you should call me back sometime. What camp doesn’t allow phones?”

“I’ve been thinking about this whole no phone situation. Isn’t that dangerous? What if there’s a serial killer in the woods? If I knew the address, I’d come get you right away! Stay away from guys with machetes in hockey masks!”

“If you are reported missing, I’m suing the camp! I’m going to full-on tear that place apart!”

Voicemail number seven consisted of lots of muffled sounds.

“Sorry about that last voicemail. Completely buttdialed you.”

“By now, you have to have made it out of that summer death camp. I bet you completely took down that machete-wielding murderer. You’re going to show up to school boasting about it, aren’t you... Maybe I’ll make a cake. I make cakes now. Nothing too fancy.”

Finally, the last message played.

“Is there AC where you're at? I’m living in a sauna. Next time you see me, I’ll have to be carried in a jar. You think Matt would date me if I were a jar of jelly?” Foggy laughed to himself. “Sorry, it’s the heat. I shouldn’t be blowing up your phone. I’ll see you soon?”

Flipping over, she watched the voicemail train come to an end.

Tomorrow seemed so far away while the months apart had come and gone in a blink. 

“I can’t wait to hear everything,” She smiled, imagining the sticky-sweet summer Foggy had planned out for Matt. Despite exhaustion, she got up from the bed. 

Leaving her car to rest, she walked along the street towards Nelson's Meats.

The carefully crafted world she’d spent the summer in had lacked all the charm her portion of the city had to offer. Hell’s Kitchen air was thick with hot garbage. Her nose crinkled at the swarm of rats lounging in sweating garbage bags. Runny streaks from a cracked egg sloshed towards the shoes of children succeeding at cooking it on the sidewalk. Every window of every building she passed was wide open, fans oscillating helplessly. 

That makes it so easy to break in, she thought.

The revving of an engine sped through the street. Just glancing at the motorcyclist clad in leather was enough to drench her in renewed sweat. 

“Idiot,” muttered a woman waiting at the crosswalk. 

Turning her head, Karen’s heart stopped at the sight of the woman. Her tank top showed off her defined shoulders as she leaned against the busted traffic right button. Tension followed her every move like a drawn bow ready to fire. The high ponytail of her midnight black hair complemented the splashes of red eyeshadow and red form-fitting pants. 

I’m so gay, she thought, fighting to keep her looking respectful. I swore off hot women, she reminded herself begrudgingly. 

The bell on her bracelet rang. 

“Is that an agreement or an argument?” she muttered.

The woman gave a scant glance towards her before crossing the street. Cars honked, but the woman invincibly walked on.

Heart dropping to the floor, Karen cursed herself for not checking the woman’s wrists.

“Why would Felicia stop at nine minions? The whole cat aesthetic is so dumb anyway!” she grumbled. “Cat burglar. So on the nose it’s almost embarrassing.” Shaking her head, she filed away the interaction for later dissection. New York was filled with all sorts of people, and if that woman was another one of Felicia’s so-called partners, it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed again.

Jumping over large puddles of water, she safely crossed over to the beautiful, chipped painted exterior of Nelson’s Meats. The closed sign flipped in the window didn't deter her. A couple of jiggles of her lock picks let her right in. 

“Oh!” Mrs. Nelson’s head jutted out from the backroom. Her hands wiped against her apron as her eyes looked to the door. “I was sure I locked that.”

“You have to be careful with older doors...I could leave.” She took a step back.

“And have my son upset that I chased his friend away?” There was a slight dig in Mrs. Nelson’s voice. Even as she motioned her in, Karen was sure she was keeping a close eye on her.

I should add no breaking in to the friendship rule, she thought. “Did you have a good summer?” she asked, breaking the weird tension between them. Mrs. Nelson was a kind woman, but there was a strong underlying current that screamed, “I don’t trust you”.

From that first meeting at Christmas, Karen was sure Mrs. Nelson knew something. That somehow all it took was one look to reveal the narcissistic user she was deep down. Or worse, that Mrs. Nelson knew of her family. Even now, she wanted to ask which was it. The answer to that question was nothing short of opening Pandora's box. She didn’t know the full extent of the Page’s influence in Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t as if her family were some mob-level entity, but what little she did know of  her brother’s actions had created a lot of pain.

I’m not like them.

“Something on your mind?” Mrs. Nelson asked, instead of leading her upstairs, she motioned toward one of the back rooms where some spare meat had been left on the chopping block.

“New school year. Lots to do.”

Nodding, Mrs. Nelson picked up her meat cleaver. “Do not hurt my boy. I hope that I’ll only have to tell you once.” 

Gripping her bracelet, she nodded. Just as shame settled in her chest, anger began to bubble. A Page has no right to be here, that’s what you think, isn’t it? Whatever they did to your family, I’ll fix it.

The meat cleaver hitting the chopping block filled the silence.

“Mrs. Nelson,” Tampering down her anger, she pulled conviction into her voice. “I love Foggy.”

Mrs. Nelson’s eyes widened.

“If I ever hurt him, I’ll let you sever me up.” She motioned towards the meat grinder.

Face scrunching slightly, Mrs. Nelson turned away. “I didn't realize you were so morbid,” she chuckled a little. “Though I suppose I started it... I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been threatened worse,” she said before able to stop herself. “Foggy is always threatening to take me to court.”

Mrs. Nelson’s face paled a little. “Is it horrible that I want him to change his mind about that?” she whispered.

“Not at all.” Knowing how soft-hearted Foggy was made it hard to imagine him as a ruthless lawyer. “Though if you saw him in mock trials he has with Matt, you’d be very impressed.”

“Mom, who are-” Foggy’s voice preceded his steps into the room.

Strangely, she expected him to somehow look drastically different, but he’d kept a clean-shaven face, his long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and those gorgeous eyes were so large she couldn't help saying: “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  In two quick strides, he enveloped her in a crushing hug that stung every bruise that hadn’t quiet healed over yet. Dealing with the slight pain she gave her all into reciprocating the hug. Like the rest of the room, he smelled like meat and was a bit too warm, but still, she didn’t dare tear away from the hands pressed against her back, swaying them.

Thousands of questions flashed across his face when the hug did come to an end. She hadn’t created a believable story to explain it all yet, but that didn't matter.

“What are you doing here?”

“Having a chat with your mom.” She tilted her head towards the rather pink-faced woman.

An equally embarrassed huff snuck out of Foggy. “Do you need any help with that, Mom?”

Face turned downward, Mrs. Nelson waved them away.

Karen wasn’t sure if the action was considered a good or bad thing. Deciding to deal with the slight animosity later, she let Foggy drag her upstairs straight into his room. Aside from the wall-to-wall covering of posters and stacked shelves, it wasn’t all that different from the dorm room. It even had the boxes all set to take up the dorm’s corners tomorrow. Walking around, she tried to find clues of Matt’s influence on the space. 

“Brought back your Fleetwood Mac CD.”

“I never lent it to you.” Walking towards his CD display, Foggy ran a finger down the spines of each one in his collection.

Giving an innocent pout, she batted her eyelashes. “I distinctly remember you saying what’s mine in yours.”

“Do you have any evidence of this supposed conversation?”

“Do you have any to contradict my impeccable memory?”

“My own memory.”

“Well, I took it.” She waved it around. “Got me throughout summer and now I’m returning it.” Lightly, she tapped the CD on his nose.

“For future reference, borrowing implies an agreement to take and then return an item.”

“Are we starting trials already?” she smirked. “I’m way more interested in what you did all summer.” She nudged his shoulder.

“Well,” Foggy began to mess with his hair.

“Shh, no, not yet. I want details which I know you will not give me here,” she motioned to his room. “So save it for tomorrow. I can interrogate you both at the same time.”

Foggy’s eyes looked slightly down, his chest rising with a deep breath before looking at her again. “It’s good to see you again.”

She squeezed his hand tight. “Still worried about me?”

“Constantly.”

“I got all those voicemails. And still alive.”

Alive was much better than fine. She wasn’t fine, not in the sense that Foggy could accept. Things had been brutal, awkward, and for a brief moment, terrifying. All that Foggy could never know. She was alive, here, and so happy to see his face.

Playfully, she tapped his cheek. “You should do one more shave tonight. Don’t want to be cutting up someone’s face when you’re smooching.” Dramatically, she puckered her lips.

Soft, careful hands cradled around her cheeks, then a prickly chin rubbed against her face.

Laughing, she tried to avoid the sandpaper texture. “Stop!”

Right away, Foggy ceased his torment. “You can't just show up and insult me.”

“It’s not an insult, it's advice,” she countered.

“Just like how you borrow my things,” he said with air quotes.

“Now you're insulting me?”  she mocked shock. “After I braved the sweltering heat to see you, this is how I’m treated?” Pressing a hand against her forehead, she stumbled. “Oh, I’m feeling faint.” 

Falling backward, large soft hands caught her. Cracking one eye open, she caught Foggy shaking his head.

“We both should’ve gone into drama.” Slowly, Foggy lowered them so that her head now rested against his thighs as he sat on the floor. From this angle, the light above gave him a glowing ring around his blond hair. 

“Not too late to rope Matt into it. Give me a few minutes in the database, and I can change our majors.”

“I’m sure Matt will know something’s up once we're told to recite Shakespeare.”

“You said he sculpts, therefore he’s a secret artsy kid.”

Foggy seemed to actually think over her words. Mindlessly, his fingers raked through her hair. Tired eyes begged to close.

“Any sculpting sessions lately?” She pressed a hand against his open mouth. “No, save it for tomorrow. Damn, I should’ve dragged him over too.”

Taking her hand off his mouth, Foggy sighed, “That would’ve been nice.”

“Easy, lover boy. How long has it been since you’ve seen him last, a few hours?”

Again, Foggy’s eyes averted hers. “Do you want to stay the night?”

Yes, she thought even as she regretfully removed herself from the comfortable position. “If I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from interrogating you. Plus, you’re going to be sooooo sick of seeing me this year. Oh, we should think of a new friend code word to use when I should give you and Matt some alone time.” She wriggled her eyebrows up and down.

“Karen!”

“Think about it. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Meet at the cafe?”

She nodded. “Our spot.”

Chapter Text

The Olympic-level gymnastic routine Foggy’s stomach was doing kept his sleepless eyes open through the car ride, which his father insisted on, back to campus. The clunky delivery truck advertising the family business would've sent his younger self into a bout of embarrassment, but there was no more room in his chest for any emotion other than the teetering Jenga of anxiety.

Practically running out of the truck, he rushed to pick up his dorm keys. All his boxes had been loaded up onto a dolly by the time he returned, key clasped into a tight fist.

"Excited to go back?" his dad asked.

"Yeah," to be safe, he double-counted the boxes. "Karen's meeting me at the cafe later."

"What about your other friend, Matt?"

"Obviously, him too." The paper slip that announced his dorming assignment was practically a golden ticket to the start of a great year. "We're rooming together again."

His father smiled. "Glad you found some good people."

"Me too."

With a quick glance around, his father pulled out his wallet.

"Dad!"

"Don't," he warned, handing over a hundred-dollar bill.

"I have workstudy money."

"That's survival money this," he crumbled the bill into his hand. "is for fun."

"Thanks." Giving a quick hug, he watched his dad drive off.

Hauling his things back into the dorm brought on a wave of nostalgia. "Good old room 312," he greeted the familiar, slightly scuffed-up door.

Key turning with a satisfying click, it swung open to the empty living space. Other than a touch-up of cream colored paint, it was exactly how it had been on that first day. This time, he didn't need to ask the Universe to manifest the best roommate or feel self-conscious about stacking the boxes onto his side of the room. Those worries that had once seemed so monumentous had been thoroughly replaced with something else.

Climbing over the still too flimsy provided mattress, he tacked last year's ice cream social picture onto the wall. The photographed Matt broadly smiled down at him. "He'll be here soon." Adding a photo of the three of them beside it, he admired the small decorative touch.

Glancing at his flip phone, he frowned at the no new messages notification.

His feet began to pace.

***

Cane sweeping left to right against freshly waxed floors made the already difficult task of hauling his things irksome. Footsteps backed into their rooms as he widened his radius. Scents of cardboard, cigarettes, and alcohol mixed with floor wax and sweat dripping occupants that he parted through. Heat nipping at the back of his neck didn't assist his attempts to arrive in a better mood.

Taking a breath, he tuned out all the conflicting noises and smells to the best of his ability.

Room 312 was just up ahead.

Amongst all the moving day chaos, there was that familiar heartbeat, one that he'd missed drumming besides him, one that was now an acting lighthouse safely steering him to where he should be.

Pacing feet stilled, turning in his direction. Foggy was smiling; he could feel the room brighten in the way only Foggy could provide. Even the plant in his arms seemed to turn toward Foggy’s beaming light. Soaking up all the warmth erased everything else around him. Even the slight bump against his back didn't fully register until Foggy yelled out after the stranger's fading laughter.

"Can you believe some people?"  Coconut shampoo filled his nostrils as Foggy’s head shook. "What asshole throws footballs indoors? You should've used your cane on them." Fluttering around the room, Foggy’s feet swept across the floor presumingly to kick away unseen dangers.

Leaning against the door frame, he listened to every step, steadily refreshing his memory of the sound.

"I know I brought too much stuff again."  Foggy sighed. "I tried to cut it down, I swear, but," Fingers drummed against cardboard then stilled. "Did you get bitten by a vampire over the summer?"

"What?"

 "If you're standing there waiting for me to invite you, it's not going to happen. I'm versed in most vampire movies. Number one rule, always be wary of people who stand in doorways."

"No vampire bites as far as I know," he smirked.

"Fine, I'll check."

A warm touch glossed over his skin, the end of his collar pulled down in a way that pooled heat at the bottom of his stomach. The feel of Foggy’s concentrated gaze against his neck froze him in place. Steady breaths tickled against his exposed skin. If it weren't for his occupied hands, he'd sink into the now-fading touch.

"No bites. But if you start showing signs of vampirism, I'm going to bed with a bag of garlic under my pillow."

His nose wrinkled at the thought of having to live with such an overpowering smell. "Please don't do that."

"I like not being part of the undead. Love the sun! Though her summer heat has been killing me. Mind if I take the plant?"

Electricity danced through their brief connection of fingers. 

Has it always felt like this to touch you? he wondered, subconsciously looking down at his hands.

"Getting into agriculture?" Foggy's voice now faced the window where the orchid planter now resided.

"It's for you." Fiddling with his cane, he trained his ear even more on Foggy. "I got it from the orphanage greenhouse." The grand debate to bring it hadn't reached a satisfying conclusion. Even now, having it in their dorm was questionable. For the life of him, he couldn't recall if he ever asked Foggy if he liked flowers or if so, which ones he did prefer.

Maybe I should've brought roses, he thought. Roses were supposed to be a universally liked flower, but he couldn't bring himself to present a type of flower that he'd often smelled on graves.

"You must have grabbed the prettiest one." Lightly, as if too afraid to accidentally crush it, Foggy hovered around the orchid. "The leaves are green as limes, and the flowers are pinker than that one time I accidentally threw a red sock in with all the white sheets. I have to admit I know nothing about flowers."

"I can help with that. Father Lantom taught me how to take care of orchids."

Shifting on his feet, Foggy wrung his hands.

It was odd to actually have him in the room instead of the constant loop of his voice. Tightening his cane kept his hands from reaching out to his roommate. Boyfriend, he mentally corrected himself. The cassette that held their promise assured him that was what they were now.

Unfortunately, he had little idea how to proceed with the new definition of their relationship. Formally, he never dated anyone. There were one-night stands, drunken bathroom encounters, and the complete mess with Eddie, which had been inadvertently misinterpreted as a friends with benefits situation. For certain, Matt knew he didn't want things between him and Foggy to end up that way. Out of the two of them, Foggy had to be more versed in what it meant to "properly date" someone.

I'll follow his lead, he thought.

"We should get to the cafe," Foggy suggested.

"Missing those pancakes?" he asked, recalling their first breakfast together.

"This year I'm going to learn how they make it so fluffy," Foggy sighed dreamily. "But more importantly, I told Karen to meet us there."

Pushing his suitcase to the side, he motioned to the door. "Then let's not keep her waiting." Unassisted, he navigated ahead.

****

Nearly tripping over his own feet, Foggy fought to keep up with Matt. From the dorm all the way to the cafe, his technically boyfriend moved with laser-focused purpose. The lack of a hand curved around his elbow was a difficult thing to ignore. The muscle memory of helping guide Matt last year had spontaneously activated throughout the summer. Just the sound of tapping had caused his elbow to assume the position. Now his arms hung useless at his side, and his feet tried to mimic Matt's rhythm.

"I bet she has a lot to tell us," Matt smirked. "If you both got up to something illegal, you shouldn't talk about it here."

His heart kicked against his sternum.

Head tilting, Matt raised his brow.

"FOGGY!" Karen exclaimed. "MATT!" Pulling them into a three-way hug, she gently rocked them.

I missed this, he thought, laying a hand against both of their backs. So far, their reunion was leagues better than the attempts to reconnect with his supposed middle school friends. Sometimes, summers turned friends into strangers, but holding onto them was like hitting a resume button on a paused DVD. There was nothing he was more ready for than to pick back up from where they'd left off.

This year is going to be great; it has to.

"Get your food," Karen ordered once the hug dispersed. "I claimed our table, so hurry. I want to hear everything." She winked at him.

Matt's head cocked slightly again.

"She just winked and now is shooing us with barely restrained exaggerated motions," he narrated.

"Doesn't she seem too excited?"

He shrugged. "You should know by now my excitement scale is askwed. I was debating making a welcome back sign and baking a cake."

"She would've gotten a kick out of that." Cane sweeping in tight movements, Matt expertly navigated around the cafe. Matt's spatial recognition was equally impressive and aggravating.

Moving through the pancake line, he tried not to sulk.

No reason to be all moody, he told himself.

As if to rub it in his face, the Universe delivered a super cozy couple right behind him. The two were whispering into each other's ears, hands clasped so tightly he was sure they'd been superglued together. Tuning them out, he glanced at Matt, who was cherry-picking the best fruit into a bowl.

Monday: fruits, eggs, and yogurt, he recalled the exact breakfast Matt had settled on last year.

Chocolate chip pancakes acquired further course corrected his mood.

By the time they arrived at their claimed table, Karen's face was a mix of awe and confusion. There wasn't anything noteworthy about their perfectly normal sitting arrangement, but something in his gut warned him that Karen was scarily observant when it came to things between him and Matt.

Maybe I should've pulled out his seat now that we're dating, he wondered, tetrising their trays into the small space.

Biting her lip, Karen waited until he situated their drinks before leaning forward. Eyes glistening and a toothy grin, he couldn't help but think she looked like a cat pouncing on a defenseless bird. "I. Want. To. Know. Everything," she said with deliberate emphasis on each word.

Fighting not to tear his napkin to pieces, he prepared to speak only to be stopped by Matt's amused scoff.

"Don't you know all that's going to happen this year already?" Matt asked, lightly peppering his eggs.

Raising her middle finger, Karen stuck her tongue at him.

Leaning over, Matt asked, "She's flipping me off, isn't she?"

"Nothing gets past you," he chuckled.

In careful slices, Matt began to divide his eggs. "I should write a complaint to the student help center."

"Good luck finding someone who can get you a Perkins Brailler."

Although he had no idea what that meant, the way she said those last two words gave off the impression that it was something expensive.

Matt's jaw slacked, completely wiping the smugness right out of him. Eggs that had been on the way to his mouth hung unceremoniously at the edge, waiting for gravity or a hand to decide their fate. Placing his fork down, Matt tried to restore his typical stoic, perfect posture. "You're joking," he said, forced disinterest clearly written on his face.

Karen's smile widened. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." Her fingers steepled together in the same way villainous characters did in cartoons. "Enough stalling, tell me about your summer!"

"Summer," Matt mixed a few strawberries into his yogurt. "was good."

"Good?" she prompted for further information.

Missing the cue, perhaps deliberately, Matt chewed on a forkful of eggs.

"That's it?"

Seeming to think about it, Matt nodded. "Yes, I'd say good. A few very productive days, attended several masses, and did a lot of reading: some Newton, Kafka-"

"-You're on thin ice, Matthew," Karen hissed, eyes narrowing into daggers that he couldn't see, but definitely felt as he leaned back slightly. "I want to know about your travels to Times Square or cozying up through a movie marathon, that sort of thing, not your summer reading list."

Brows knitted together, Matt pouted. "I didn't do either of those things."

Groaning, Karen tugged at her hair. "Is this another Mike evil twin thing?"

"I don't know, are you sneaking around with my fictitious twin, Foggy?" Matt teased.

Blue eyes locked right into his soul.

"No." His stomach churned.

Matt's playful smirk dissolved into confusion.

For a brief second, he contemplated choking on his cold pancakes just to get out of the discussion.

Patience was running out of Karen; her nails began to drum against the table, eyes held in that warning glare.

"I didn't spend the summer with Mike or Matt," he confessed as normally as possible.

****

Despite Foggy's nonchalant tone, Matt could pinpoint the exact second his heart seemed to nearly flatline.

Their table fell silent.

If it weren't for the lingering body heat besides him and the drumming of nails against the table, he would've mistook the quiet for abandonment. Monitoring the spikes in Foggy's heartbeat was as difficult as drawing a straight line during an earthquake. Every little blip in his mental heart monitor further confused him.

"Summer is nearly three months," Karen said, her warning tone disrupting his concentration. "You're telling me that for three months you two haven't hung out once? Not one coffee date? Nothing?"

"We didn't hang out either," Foggy said matter-of-factly.

"You didn't?"

Foggy's heart hadn't tripped his inner lie detector, but Matt was sure that he had to be joking. Throughout the summer, he was sure that while he did what he needed to do to earn enough to afford this year's dues, Foggy and Karen were out there enjoying the break to the fullest. On rougher nights, he'd play out scenarios of what Karen would drag Foggy into; more breaking into swimming pools, or diving into Mrs. Nelson's delicious dinners. That was what he had expected to hear: wild tales that would leave him jealous and perhaps grant him a few similar experiences now that they were all back together. Based on how close Karen and Foggy were, it didn't seem right that they hadn't seen each other all summer.

"I'm sure you were both busy." A tight smile reflected in Foggy's voice. "I was swamped with the family business anyway. Adulthood, am I right? You had work, and Karen had summer camp."

Curiously, Karen's heart skipped. Ignoring the knowledge that she was caught in a lie, he refocused on Foggy's hands that were alternating from haphazardly twisting his fork to scratching his palms.

"Foggy," Karen whined. "Matt gets a pass not trekking to your place, but you didn't think to visit him?"

"Of course, I thought about it. Unlike someone, I don't stalk my friend's home."

"Both of you," Karen snapped her fingers. "Hands flat on the table." Trays pushed aside, giving a clear surface for whatever she intended. "Closer together."

Complying, his shoulder fused against Foggy's. The spark of touch was eclipsed by the swift whack against the back of their hands.

"You hit him!" Foggy launched into attack dog mode.

"It's not that bad. The nuns did the same thing but with rulers."

"I'm going to sue those nuns for causing emotional distress! And you too!" Foggy huffed. "Why would you do that?"

"It's your prize. Congratulations on being the worst boyfriends ever!"

Deflating, Foggy sank into his chair. "Matt, hand me the salt," he pleaded. "I would rather rub it into my wounds before she does."

Huffing, Karen snatched Foggy's plate.

"Hey!"

"No chocolate chip pancakes for you." Again, her hand jutted out. "No fruit for you."

The confiscated fruit bowl or the stinging of his hands wasn't a comparable consequence.

Who are you to think that things would last longer than a moment? Gulit snuck a seat next to him. You didn't even try to see him.

You left him alone.

Is that the best you can do?

Keeping his hands flat, he hoped for another round of well-deserved slaps.

"Are you two even boyfriends?" Karen's question went off like a bomb.

Foggy's head whipped towards him so fast he could hear the painful cracks in his neck. The table shook, knocking his yogurt onto his eggs.

How can Foggy even stomach to see you right now? Guilt asked.

You were never good for him. Why pretend? Let him go. Shame pleaded.

Air refused to fill his lungs. Tendrils of shame stretched throughout his limbs, rooting him in place.

Who would want to date you?

You corrupt everything you touch.

Head spinning, he clumsily reached for his cane.

The room was too hot.

Knuckles grazing against glass, misdirected his hand's force. With an earth-shattering crash, it hit the ground. Palms pressed against his ears did little to muffle the crescendoing of every little sound around him. Chairs gouged against the floor, voices harshly chastized his actions, scrapes of utensils against plates were enough to set off avalanches in his head. Painfully tight, he sealed his eyes shut.

Flinching, his hand connected with something solid that hovered next to his shoulder.

"Matt," Karen's voice whispered.

Something cool pressed against his forehead.

Bristles of a broom marched over trumpeting shards of glass.

****

Shit, Karen thought, attempting to redirect Matt's overstimulated attention onto her. I shouldn't have pushed so hard. All the time around Felicia has messed up my patience, she chided, pressing a glass of water against Matt's head.

Lips sewn into a slince, Foggy carefully attended to the mess around them while warning off anyone else from coming closer.

She was so sure these idiots had figured out how to communicate enough to at the very least have one date during the summer.

Hesitantly, Matt's hand tapped hers.

"Should we go outside?" she asked softly.

"No … it's the heat."

"And the pushy friend. Minus a few friendship points for me for running the reunion."

"I've lost points not trying to hang out," Matt responded equally quietly.

"I lose points for not making efforts either," Foggy added, still protectively standing over Matt.

"How did we all get so bad at this friend thing?" she chuckled.

"Can we blame the heat for frying our brains?" Foggy suggested.

"I second that motion," Matt agreed.

"Ditto."

"Wanna go back to the dorm?" Foggy asked.

Matt slowly nodded.

"I'll meet you up there."

Taking the hint, she gathered up her things.

Sighing deeply, Matt rubbed the back of his neck before flicking his cane into position.

"I messed things up, didn't I?" he asked along the way, feet dragging with every step.

"Not as much as I have… I should've known you both would be taking your time."

"I didn't even expect him to visit me." Fears etched onto Matt's usual stoic face.

Opening the door to the dorm, she frowned at its bare presentation. Neither of them had unpacked, leaving a suitcase and boxes to the side. Instantly fell onto the only personal touch on the blank walls.

"Give me your hand."

"Are you going to hit me again?" Matt asked almost pleadingly.

"No."

Lying his cane onto the side of his desk, Matt gave her his hand.

"Come." Gently, she led him to the edge of Foggy's bed.

"What are you doing?"

Knees creaking against springs, she tapped the mattress.

"Foggy is not going to be happy if we mess up his bed."

"It isn't even made yet." Pulling at his wrist, she laid his palm flat against the small Polaroid.

"What is it?"

"A photo of you and Foggy. You're both eating ice cream, Foggy's got some whipped cream on his nose, and you look like you've been told the world's best joke."

Matt's frown curved upwards. "That was the ice cream social last year."

"He's had that photo up all last year."

Matt cocked his head. "He did?"

"Yes. An obvious sign that he was crushing so hard on you."

"Was, past tense," Matt pointed out.

"Must you misinterpret my words? Foggy loves you, past, present, and future. You have to know that by now."

Matt's hand ran across the wall again. "What's this photo?"

"The three of us. At the bottom, Foggy's face is giving you the most lovestruck look. I'm hanging onto his side, you of course have that adorable crooked smile whenever he's nearby."

Head snapping towards the door, Matt froze right as Foggy stepped in.

It's almost scary how you know when he's around, she thought.

"What are you two doing on my bed?" Foggy asked, annoyance not completely wiping away his 'is everything alright' look.

Wrapping her arms around Matt, she pulled him close. "We're making out obviously, so close the door."

Chuckling, Foggy shook his head.

In her grasp, she felt Matt relax at that sound.

Placing down a few to-go containers, Foggy silently joined them. His arms stretched to contain them both in a hug. The mattress protested against their shared bodyweight, yet no one untangled.

I could get used to these hug fests, she thought. After a month of intense training from Felicia, lingering in the calming embrace was a soothing balm.

*****

I don't want to let go, Foggy thought. He was sure that staying like this would prevent one of them from saying the wrong thing again.

The question still hung unanswered: were he and Matt still boyfriends?

Considering the circumstances of how we got together, it wouldn't surprise me if Matt needed the whole summer to really think about it; he thought squeezing even tighter. I don't mind if you need more time. I still love you.

Breaking through the silence, a stomach growled.

"Sorry," Matt sheepishly smiled.

"I say we eat breakfast, then set up this place," Karen suggested.

"These blank walls are freakeing me out a bit," he agreed.

"Did you pack the lava lamp?" Matt asked.

Jumping off the bed, he tore open the top box, which he had actually labeled. "It's like your favorite thing, of course, I packed it. If you want, I could set it up on your side of the room."

"I'd like that," Matt sincerely smiled.

"I love your smile," the words slipped out earnestly.

Slightly, Matt's head turned away, the corner of his mouth livening up even more.

I can still say those things to you, he thought, heart making quick laps through his rib cage. As long as you're by my side, I'll accept your decision. I'll follow your lead.

*****

Opening his to-go container, Matt realized how expertly everything had been divided. Fruit was spread between two separate sections, and the eggs were isolated far from the covered yogurt cup.

"I hope I got some good fruit in there. I know you're picky."

It was hard not to be "picky" when his nose could identify specks of dirt or the first sprouts of mold. Some days, textures were a nightmarish plague against his tongue. It was a hassle that no one had given consideration to before. The nuns insisted he clean his plate regardless of whether he "supposedly thought something was past its expiration". To complain about what you were given was to be ungrateful. His stomach had suffered many times over for complying with the nuns' strict rules.

An odd tightness formed in his throat.

Foggy leaned forward, his knee lightly pressing against his. "Is it alright?"

"Practically perfect," he said, pulling out a single strawberry that wasn't ripe enough. "Thank you."

"Any time," Foggy said, as if it truly was that easy a task.

The fluttering in his stomach made it nearly impossible to eat.

 CD player blasting music, posters tacked to walls, and the ambient glow of a lava lamp reshaped the once standard living space into a sense of safety. Eight flattened boxes now occupied under the bed, the slight tension in Foggy's steps released, and the evening-cooled air pushed through the cracked window. The restoration of their sanctuary ended with waving Karen off and a promise to walk into their first class together.

"So," Foggy said around the toothbrush in his mouth. "You're ready for this year?"

"I'm fairly confident I can maintain focus even with both of you in class."

"Ouch." Foggy placed his hand against his chest with a hard thack. "I'm offended."

"Don't you and Karen talk during class?"

Minty toothpaste trickled down Foggy's chin. "Well," his voice briefly muffled as he caught the dripple from falling to the ground. The bathroom door creaked, then the faucet ran before he continued. "We'll try not to."

He tilted his head.

"Ok, so we talk." Hands reached towards the ceiling. "That's not a crime, Matt. It's slander the way you make me out to be a terrible student."

"That's not what I meant," he said a little too sharply.

Footsteps walked towards the room's center.

Rising from his chair, he reached out until his fingertips brushed against large hands. Palms lying flat, he covered his hands over his. Light warmth cascaded from his palm to his fingertips.

Not enough, he thought. Feet shuffled closer until their knees were almost touching. Inhaling, he lingered on traces of coconut, mint, and the prominent smell of the butcher shop that had seemingly sunk into the majority of Foggy's clothes.

"You're hands are rough," Foggy whispered. "Must be all that summer gardening."

Swallowing down the sour taste of deception, he nodded.

Straining his eyes, he peered through the kaleidoscopic swirls of red and orange. Even so close, he couldn't for certain discern what sort of face Foggy was making. A migraine began to form right behind his eyes, but still, he tried to get confirmation that this was alright. In their last recording, Foggy had promised that he'd show that he was deserving of the love Foggy effortlessly provided.

Do I deserve this? he wondered. Do you still love me, even though I've already begun to fail you?

"I..." Foggy spoke so softly.

He already regrets asking to date you, Shame whispered.

Bunching up his face, he tried to silence Shame's insistence.

"You're in pain." A hand warily brushed aside his bangs. "Your head is still hurting, isn't it?"

"It's fine," he said with a little too much bite. Closing his eyes, he took a breath. "Just need to adjust."

"Okay." Foggy lowered his volume even more. Hands slipped away.

The pain behind his eyes doubled. Rubbing his temples, he slipped into the bathroom. When he stepped out of his shower, he could tell the room had darkened. Only the slight springs of foggy's bed informed that he was still awake, watching him cross in the darkness.

A bottle of water had been placed on his desk alongside a few pills. Taking it, he settled into bed. "Good night, Foggy."

Foggy heart stopped before returning an equally quiet, "Good night, Matt."

Chapter Text

Morning light beamed directly into Foggy’s tired eyes. Somewhere in the middle of the night, his brain had been swapped out with a radio station that played nothing but breakup songs. The lyrics of It Must Have Been Love by Roxette had played for the last hour now. 

If this is a sign from the Universe, can I at least get the full song and not just the chorus, he thought. Rolling to his side, envy pointed at the still peacefully sleeping Matt.

Quietly as he could, he cracked open his phone to check the time, 5:30. He’d been up for at least three hours battling against the mental noise that acted as commercial breaks to his radio station. The early morning thoughts ranged from Should I learn how to make bread to recounting the fallout with Debbie Anne. 

Oblivious to his mental turmoil, Matt’s face firmly buried itself into his pillow.

Shrugging off his blanket, Foggy dragged his backpack onto his desk. Looking over his shoulder, he pinched the zipper, stopping at every notch. When the sound didn’t immediately yank Matt out of sleep, he was able to look away. 

Craining his neck, he adjusted his planner so that the street light’s rays could illuminate patches of the paper. With each slow motion, he prepared his things for class, writing out his schedule in bright ink and even mapping out the best route to take so that he wasn’t racing across campus. Next to all the classes he had with Matt, he put a little heart, and the classes with all three of them, he drew happy faces.

Shaking out his hands, he squinted to admire his work. Sighing, he picked up his whiteout. 

Will this wake you up? he wondered, pausing to open the lid of the liquid’s container. 

Matt’s super-sensitive nose was something that he tried to put more effort into accommodating this year. He knew that garlic was strictly off the table, chowder, and Brussels sprouts. The awful smell of whiteout had to be on the do not put around Matt list he was compiling. 

Shaking the bottle, he stared at the hearts on the page. 

***

The lulling sound of Foggy’s heart had kept Matt in the most peaceful sleep he had int the last three months. Waking refreshed, he was tempted to ask for a recording of the sound. Deciding that the request might be too much, he pressed on his alarm clock before it went off. Weary of another migraine, he wasted no time putting on his glasses. Behind its red tint, the kaleidoscope world did its familiar dance. Heat trickled into the room from the bright patch that was the window. Amongst the early bird chirps, Foggy’s heart continued at a steady beat... but not from the bed across from him. 

Titling his head, he double checked his orientation. 

Instead of lying in bed, Foggy was sitting at his desk.

“Foggy?”

Foggy’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath.

Slipping from bed, he walked over. “Foggy?” The tips of fingers grazed across Foggy’s shoulder.

Jolting the chair skidded, followed by a very hard thud.

“Matt!” Adrenaline surged, warping the once calm heartbeat into a swarm of bees.

“Are you alright?” he asked, offering a hand.

Groaning, Foggy rubbed his side. “I think we should invest in padding the floors if you're going to scare me like that.” 

Firmly, he helped Foggy settle back onto his feet.

“It was not my intention to scare you.” A runaway highlighter rolled against his foot. Frowning, he picked it up. “What were you doing?”

Paper crumpled. A book slammed shut. “Nothing for you to look at.”

Waving a hand over his glasses, he smirked. 

“With your super senses, how do I know that you can't hear the ink?”

He barely held back his laugh. “And what would the ink say if I could hear it?”

“Profanities.” 

Smiling, he held out his hand. “Should we test out your theory?”

What he once thought was a book turned out to be a planner. As it rested in his hands, he could identify it by its plastic and three-ring prongs.  Maintaining a serious look, he lightly ran his fingers across the nearly soggy patches. There were small differences in texture from where Foggy had pressed a bit too hard, but it wasn’t significant enough, like braille, to let him know exactly what was written. Through his kaleidoscopic view, he could tell that it was colorful. Graphite and ink framed specific portions of the planner. Based on the still tacky parts, he could tell the highlighter had gone over the page a few too many times. 

To his right, Foggy’s heart fluttered when his finger glossed over a specific inked area. Giving it a bit more attention, he identified an indent where ink had gotten too heavy. Following the curvature, it ran upwards into two bumps, then connected back in a vague V shape. 

This is either a heart of something childishly inappropriate, he thought, laughing under his breath. 

“Well?” Foggy asked.

“Can’t hear the ink. You might want to go easy on the highlights next time,” he said, holding up his stained hands.

***

Karen could feel her brows practically fly off her face as she watched her boys walking towards her. Their typical side-by-side, arm hooked to elbow, had been swapped out for Matt taking the lead, cane rhythmically navigating across the cement path while Foggy acted as his shadow. Matt’s usual sour face was now a happy half smile. Foggy, on the other hand, appeared to be regretting stumbling out of bed.

“Did you two switch bodies or something?”

Tilting his head, Matt leaned against his cane. “Good morning to you, too, Ms. Page.”

“That is something the real Matt would say.” She tapped her chin. Realizing that was a Felicia-type of action, she stopped. 

Foggy’s tired eyes simply blinked at her.

“Rough night?”

Matt turned to face Foggy, confusion clear in his slight pout.

“It’s fine. The street light kept me up,” he yawned.

“Why didn’t you close the blinds?”

“It slips between them. I think that light is against me. Right when I get a good spot, I swear it grows legs and moves.”

“We’ll get curtains, thick ones,” Matt said as if his word was enough to solve the issue.

It’s more than street lights, she thought, assessing the way Foggy’s shoulders curved in on himself the second Matt began moving ahead of them.

Taking Foggy’s hand, she squeezed it tight. “Need to talk?”

“Later?” He yawned even louder.

“I’m all yours whenever you need me.” Lightly, she tugged him through the building door.

***

There were two things Foggy realized sitting between Matt and Karen: one, it was difficult not to give in to the temptation to talk with her while the professor made her introductions, and two, if he didn’t sit as stiff as a board, he was running the risk of ruining Matt’s recording. The added pressure of needing to sit in the front row was not helping either issue. 

Since middle school, he’d been a strictly middle-of-the-room type of guy. Sitting in the way back made all distractions too easy to catch his attention. Being in the front reminded him of elementary teachers snapping at him while they prodded at the blackboard that he was supposed to pay attention to. Middle row was the sweet spot, just enough engagement and a good distance in case a teacher decided throwing chalk-dusted erasers was warranted.

Karen didn’t seem to mind being front and center, her eyes casually glancing at his decked-out planner. Halfway through, she would try to sneak over a note, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. Front row meant hands clasped tight so he wouldn’t knock anything, eyes forward, and absolutely no sounds. That she did seem to mind if the way she clamped down on her bracelet was any indication.

Catching the motion in the corner of his eye for a fifth time, his gaze wandered away from the grainy projection.

Up close, he could see that today Karen hadn’t perfectly blended out the makeup below her eyes, leaving a small rim of dark puffiness that matched his own exhausted face. There were a lot of small changes he’d never put much thought into until now. Like what she was wearing; a long-sleeve shirt and a skirt that rose enough to show bruising on her knees. 

Tugging on his own long sleeve, he tried not to spiral what she was covering up.

It was hard not to worry about her. Worrying had somehow become a rather large part of his personality now. Before it was the general worries that came from living in Hell’s Kitchen: the nerves that sprouted when he had to take out the garbage at night or when a car backfired. Now, if he wasn’t careful, his mind would endlessly create what-ifs. 

What if Karen or Matt were stuck in a subway? 

What if they got mugged? 

What if he was useless to help them?

What if they were hiding something? 

What if something bad had happened over summer?

I shouldnt be thinking like that, he mentally scolded himself. 

Shifting his gaze, he looked at Matt’s right hand. As it skimmed across a braille version of their shared syllabus, he realised that every finger had its own scars.

Did you have those last year? 

Adjusting in his seat, he tried to tune back into the lecture.

The toe of Karen’s shoe brushed against his leg. Her brow curved in its famous ‘what’s wrong’ expression.

Nothing’s wrong, he told himself. Nothing bad had happened to them during the summer. We’re all here. We’re still friends. Matt and I are...we’re okay.

“Dismissed,” the professor announced.

***

Distractibility was contagious. Matt kept finding himself counting the seconds until break, attention scouring the classroom for a better use of his inability to focus on the lecture. Not focusing on the comfortable body heat besides him or the light sway of long hair against cotton was an act of self-discipline. For all his teasing about Foggy and Karen spending all of class talking, he hadn’t meant to turn Foggy into a statue. There was a tremor of nerves during the lecture, but nothing out of the norm for Foggy.

He is far too quiet, he thought, systematically placing his things into his satchel. 

  Unable to part from their trio, the odd distractible pattern of stiff silence continued into their next shared class. Foggy barely even lifted his pencil when he wrote in slow strokes instead of the fast scribbling that had accompanied last year's study sessions. To his left, his recorder took on the brunt of the work, its tape clicking along to the slight huffs from students behind them. 

I want to hear your voice, he thought. Why are you so quiet today? Are you really just tired?  Sliding his hand over the desk, the edge of his pinky grazed against Foggy’s.

A strangled yelp flinched the touch away.

Holding back a frown, he pretended not to notice the reaction or the way Foggy’s head turned downwards.

Hands clasped, no movement, barely breathing, Foggy finished out the class. 

Stopping the recording, he rubbed his temples. 

A bottle of pills rattled onto the desk in front of him.

He shook his head.

“I’m stealing Matt for a bit,” Karen announced, steamrolling over the growing need to figure out what was wrong. “Better check if the student help center got those braille textbooks in. Professor Jones already is assigning readings.”

“I’ll see you both in the cafe later.” Foggy’s normal upbeat tone returned. “Fingers crossed, I get more cashier days than dish duty this year.”

He crossed his fingers on both hands.

The sky brightened, confirming that Foggy was smiling again.

“Later,” Karen waved him off. 

Together, they began walking in the opposite direction. 

“I've been thinking,” Karen began, nervousness wrapped around her words. “I've been a bit unfair to you, Matt.” 

Slowing his walk, he cocked his head.

“Which is why I've decided to become your coach.”

“My coach? What exactly am I training for?”

“Love obviously. I admit my advice was primarily directed to Foggy last year, so this time I’m going to help you out much more.”

“What are your qualifications?”

“Unlike someone, I have gone on many dates. My track record is filled with people who were hot, but... emotionally unavailable.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Are you confused about the hot or emotionally unavailable part?”

The white cane grew heavy in his hand.

“This can not be the first time you’ve been told that.”

You lure people in, make them think they matter to you, then drop them, he recalled the heated exchange he had with Eddie last year. After all the work he put into mending that tear, he wasn’t sure if Eddie’s words still held truth. 

Am I still just luring people in? 

To have someone good and constant in his life, like Foggy or Karen, was new. 

Frighteningly too new.

“Most people have the decency not to say that sort of thing to my face,” he said, when the truth was most people thought of him as an ass. Before he truly didn’t care if that was the case.

“I am not most people. As your coach and friend, I’m going to be straight about that kind of  thing.” Lightly, she tapped his shoulder. “You are not the easiest person to read; it's all frowning and stuck inside your head. Which I completely get. We’re alike in that way,” she sighed. “Blessed and cursed with a resting bitch face.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed. You seem so approachable,” he said genuinely. 

She could be brash, boisterous, and at times terrifying, but she moved through campus with the ease of someone knowing exactly who she was. She owned the space she occupied, boldly stamping her name on it wherever she went. Unabashedly, she could self-insert into a group and within moments seem as if a group had been built around her. There was a hefty amount of envy for her chameleon-like ability to blend in. 

***

Approachable was not the way she’d describe her true self. The real Karen Page was an obstacle course in need of repair. There had yet to be someone who had gone through it unscathed or made it to the finish line. Foggy and Matt were the only contestants currently willing to leap the hurdles that she lowered for them.  

“Here’s the secret; it’s all an act,” she laughed. “Think of it as societal customer service. Believe me, I'd punch so many people in the face if I could. And what I wouldn’t give to speak my mind to certain people.” She huffed. “It’s alright though, Foggy loves us even when we’re not at our best. Yesterday proved that...”

The shitty feeling ground against her throat. More than anyone, she knew that the past couldn’t be rewritten. She’d been a shitty friend in the past, but now she had to work extra hard to make up for it.

“We both have to work on keeping last year's promises.”

“Matt, Foggy deserves honesty, you both do.” Hand clamped over her bracelet, she studied the way Matt’s mouth had sewn itself into a thin line.

What are you involved in? The hypocritical question remained firmly in her head. It had to remain unsaid. 

“Which is why I have to tell you,” she said slowly. “Foggy was completely checking me out during class. It might be the skirt. You'd better step up your game.”

“What exactly do you suggest?”

“Use that Murdock charm. Flirt a little, call him boyfriend, make out in the cafeteria! I don’t mind at all.”

Scoffing, Matt shook his head. “I’m sure you would be delighted to see us embarrass ourselves.”

“You’re overthinking it. Foggy is a great kisser.”

Behind the red-tinted glasses, Matt’s eyes widened slightly, his lips puckering into a jealous pout.

That should put some fire under your ass, she thought as she held the door open to the student center.

 Clacking against her assigned computer, she put extra effort into checking the status of the necessary textbooks. She hoped that Matt’s silence meant he was actually giving her words some thought.  “Brailler should be here by next week.” 

“You actually got one?” Matt’s face paled. “They’re rather expensive.”

Her wallet knew that fact. It had also been a hassle finding a place that sold the machine in working condition. It was perhaps the only good deed shed done all summer long.

“You'd better take care of it,” she warned. “I had to bust my ass to get it donated.”

Matt’s head tilted slightly as if to hear something he couldn't.

“I appreciate all your effort. Thank you.”

***

What is she telling him, Foggy wondered, eyes rising to the clock ticking away. Knowing her, she’s giving him advice. 

Advice that might not even be warranted if the mental radio station playing Don’t Dream It’s Over was accurate. 

“Back for another year,” Sophia smiled, moving the stacks of clean trays to their place.

“Missed me?” 

“I shouldn’t say this, but,” Sophia looked around, her salt pepper hair bouncing.  “you are one of the best workers, student or otherwise.”

“No one is better than Martine,” he countered. 

“Whose talking about be?” Martine, the best egg sandwich maker in all of New York,  asked. A large ladle dripping with the unmistakable smell of clam chowder waved in his hand.

His face soured.

“When will you get used to it?” Martine laughed.

“Maybe never. Ever since Matt pointed out how gross chowder is, I can't handle it.” Taking the ladle, he gave it a quick wash. “Chowder aside, why didn’t you become a five-star chef? You’re way too talented for this place.”

“Shouldn’t say that too loud, might have to kick you out for lack of school pride,” he said, pointing to Columbia’s mascot on his shirt.

“I do mean it, though.”

“You’re still young. You don’t fully understand that life happens so quickly.” Martine flashed a knowing smile, the wrinkles under his eyes scrunching up as if to show the years that did distance them. “A few steps here or there can change things from how you think your life will turn out, and that’s not always a bad thing. This wasn't my dream, but I have a good job, good coworkers, great family; what more can a man ask for?” Martine tapped him on his back.

As his coworkers returned to their tasks, he thought it over.

Many things had changed and would continue to. Little serious thought had been given to his future. There were the big dreams of being a good lawyer with a hefty salary, but he hadn’t factored in anything beyond that. It was one of his many flaws; seeing how the final destination could be without knowing the proper steps to get there. All dreams, no plans, had gotten him this far.

Until last year, there seemed to be no sense in imagining anything but the scenario of making a name for himself as a lawyer or failing miserably and falling back onto the family business. He hadn’t factored in his groundbreaking self-discovery or falling in love with Matt.

Tunnel vision of this new future stood intimidatingly so far ahead, but regardless of what dreams became reality, he knew one undeniable fact: 

I want him to be in my life for as long as possible. 

Suddenly, his eyes were covered. “Karen,” he rolled his eyes in the pitch blackness.

“Boo! How’d you know it was me?” she asked, refusing to remove her hands.

“Who else would it be?”

Pressure lay between his shoulder blades. Craining his neck, he tried to see what she was doing but could only make out blond hair pouring out behind him.

I want to keep you in my life, too, he thought, tapping her hand. “Secret meeting not go well?”

Deeply, she sighed. “No calls from Felicia yet.”

“I meant with Matt.”

  “Oh, he’s fine. Left him to think things over.”

“About Felicia-”

“-Nope. Not time to talk about that.” Side-stepping, she trailed after him while he began wiping down the tables. “You have to tell me what's with the weirdness.”

“Can’t I just blame sleep deprivation?”

“That excuse won’t cut it forever. It doesn’t explain why you  were checking me out in class.”

“I was not.”

“You were looking at me more than Matt, and he’s dating you.”

Tapping on the floor behind sent him spinning around, nearly splashing Karen with his bucket of water.

Matt’s mouth twitched slightly. “Your shift almost over?” he asked, tersely. 

“A few more tables to wipe down. Sucks that we can only have dinner together,” he looked to Karen.

Loudly, her phone buzzed. “I hate you, Foggy Nelson!” Turning her caller ID towards him, it read Felicia. 

Matt’s hands tightened around his cane.

Non-too-lightly, her hand smacked his shoulder. “I was looking forward to dinner, but no someone had to go and jinx me.”

“I’ll grab you a bagel tomorrow, cream cheese, the works,” he offered apologetically.

“The works.” She nodded in agreement. “Try to get some sleep tonight,” she whispered in his ear before running off. 

Teeth pressed down on his bottom lip, Matt sat on their usual table. His fingers scurried up and down his folded cane. Everything from the way his shoulders curved in to the occasional adjustment of his sunglasses gave off the impression of someone waiting at a dentist appointment. Other students began to trickle in for the dinner hours. Matt's mood seemed to worsen with the influx of noise. By the time he got off work, grabbed food, and sat down, Matt’s scrunched expression had stuck.

“What happened to syllabus week?” he lightly complained. “Most of my professors assigned work today. One even said they might give us a quiz tomorrow. Can you believe that? We didn’t know how good we had it last year.”

Nodding, Matt took a bite of lasagna.

“Seriously, I don’t know how you don’t fall asleep during lectures. Front row is so stressful,” he rambled on. “Professor Brooke was giving me the evil eye the whole time. I, for one, am glad they’ve done away with the whole students do push-ups or run laps if they’re caught snoozing.  How’s your recording? You got a chance to listen to them yet? Let me know if I’m being way too loud. I'll be quieter next time, I promise.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“It’s no biggie. Seriously, I can keep my mouth shut for a few hours.”

Placing his cutlery down, Matt adjusted his head so that their gaze would line up.  “I'd prefer it if you weren't so still in class. You can talk or fidget like normal.”

“You say that now, wait until I get into pen clicking. You’ll be ready to ship me off to Timbuktu.” 

“I’ll find a way to manage without all that.”

“The postage would probably be hefty.”

“If it’s more beneficial, you don’t have to sit right next to me.”

“I want to sit next to you. It's only two classes with the three of us. You need the front row.”

“And you need to be relaxed enough to retain lectures, at the very least to take notes.”

“Counteroffer: you share with me those class recordings and I continue to improve my mime career.”

“Addendum to that offer: front row sitting, where you are allowed to talk or fidget, we share my recordings, and if you think you're getting too loud, you could give me a sign.”

“Like what?” He couldn’t stop himself from getting loud again. “That would be way too distracting. I don’t want to get you in trouble if I’m-”

Matt’s hand lay on top of his. “We can hold hands.” A callused thumb ran over the back of his hand.

“What if that doesn’t work?” he whispered.

“It’s working right now.” Smirking, Matt interlocked their fingers.

“Yeah,” he chuckled softly.  “You’re right. But... isn’t that...” he steadied his nerves, “too embarrassing?”

“Why would it be embarrassing to hold my boyfriend’s hand?”

“Boyfriend?” he repeated, hoping that he hadn’t misheard.

“Would you prefer partner or sweetheart?”

Uncomfortably, he shivered. “I’m vetoing sweetheart forever. It just doesn’t sound good at all. Reminds me of uber-cheesey Valentine's cards.”

“What about baby or babe?”

“Extra veto on that. Do you want me to sound like a douche? ‘Hey, babe, let’s get to Civil Law class,’”  he said in his most douche voice. Scoffing he returned to his usual voice. “You would not be okay with me calling you baby. Right, Matt, baby? Does that do anything for you, because I feel like I’m bullying you.”  

Matt shook his head. “Your aversion to pet names seems so unlike you.”

“I am a complex person, Matthew,” he playfully warned.

“I suppose you are Franklin. I also veto sweetheart and any form of baby. That leaves partner, unless you think it gives off the impression we’re constantly working on a group project together.”

“Partner is a perfectly good pet name,” he defended. “But,”

“But?”

“ I think we should save partner for when we start a firm together.”

Matt’s hand twitched slightly. “You would want to go into business together?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Wouldn’t it be nepotism if you hired me to your firm?”

“It would be o-u-r, our firm. Co-owners, no nepotism involved,” he paused to give a quick think. “unless Karen wants to join us, too. It would be great! We’ll have your brains, her scheming, and my impeccable social skills.”

“That does actually sound rather nice.”

“One of these days, I’m going to get all this into writing. Eighty years of friendship, Nelson Christmases every year,”

“Attending Christmas mass together,” Matt reminded.

“And future law firm partners.”

“Draft the papers, and I'll sign that agreement.”