A/N: Ah, no disrespect to the elderly intended - Matt and Foggy are drunk college students going into this, and not being entirely reverent.
Matt Murdock is stupidly attractive.
In fairness, Matt Murdock should know this. Even without the eyes to tell, Foggy made an idiot out of himself by blurting out this fact during their very first meeting. He can't be alone, either. That face is ridiculous.
It's not like Matt doesn't date, either. He seems to run through women as the months change, and Foggy can't decide if it's impressive or sad. They're always beautiful, too, and that he really can't fathom, how a blind man always seems to attract the most startlingly gorgeous women in the room. Maybe it's just because Matt is so beautiful. Like attracts like, and all.
But aside from the mystery of Matt's wooing powers, there's this; Matt dates women. A lot of women. So, Foggy never really considers the idea that he could date men, too.
And maybe this says something more about Foggy, or heteronormativity or whatever people call it, but basically he assumes that Matt is straight. He doesn't even think about it, really. They go out for drinks sometimes or walk around campus, and whenever they talk it's, "Damn, Matt, how do you always get the pretty girls?" and, "I think Lucy in Civil Procedure was flirting with you, Foggy".
So how is he supposed to know?
The first time it happens they're at a new bar because Foggy wants to 'experiment with his palate', as he puts it. Matt calls it something else, which is, 'hunting for cougars'.
"These people are all ancient," he says, half-giggling as they enter the bar. They've each had a few drinks already at a more frequent haunt nearby, and are staggering into the place already tipsy. Matt leans into Foggy, one hand circling his elbow, grinning. "Foggy, Foggy, what are you doing."
"They're not, not ancient! How would you know?"
A sour-faced woman with gray-streaked hair turns and glares at him. Foggy balks.
Then Matt whispers, "I can smell them," and Foggy ruins it by bursting into laughter.
"Dude," he says. "Dude."
"No, really," Matt insists. The bartender gives them a dubious glance when they stumble onto their stools, Matt wiggling his fingers over the counter-top to be sure it's clear. "Do you, do you know what old people smell like?"
"Uh, old people or these old people in particular?" asks Foggy, and okay, maybe he has been having a few interesting fantasies of getting it on with an older woman. What, the thought's interesting, okay? College is the time to experiment, and all that. He wants to try it, it could be interesting.
"Well, both," Matt says. "I mean, most really old people smell like a bit like leather and dryer sheets."
"Dryer sheets?"
"Yeah," says Matt, warming to the topic. "Smoke, though, there's a lot of smoke here. Nicotine, I mean, it's very distinct. And this – this sour, lemon-gum smell. And some people smell like..."
Matt trails off.
"Like what?"
Matt's face changes suddenly. He turns his head, and Foggy can see him leaning away, reaching for his cane. His head sways from side to side, like a bloodhound, and then Foggy looks.
The man that approaches them is maybe fifty – at best. Probably older. An easy sixty, even. His hair is mostly white, but shot through with wisps of steel-gray. He's wearing dark pants and a black shirt that leaves the wiry, corded strength of his arms visible, boasting muscles respectable despite the specter of age. But...
He hasn't aged well, is the thing, and that shouldn't really be important – why should Foggy judge? - but somehow it is, it really is, because he's aged mean. There are terse puckers around his mouth, the kind of lines gained from scowling and frowning, and his eyes are edged and hard. His gaze flickers to Foggy, then away, dismissing him, and zeros in on Matt.
And Matt -
Somehow, it's never really occurred to Foggy that aside from looking really, really attractive, Matt also looks very innocent. It's occurring to him now, and it's a strange thought.
He doesn't like it.
"What," he says again, not really asking. Matt doesn't answer.
"Hey," says the old guy. His voice is gruff and low, like the rough edge of gravel scratching on wood. "You want to get a drink with me, boy?"
And, yeah, that's a bad attempt to pick up anyone. Wow. Who calls someone boy when they're trying for a one-nighter? Unless that's a kink, which, bad thought, bad thought.
This guy is setting off every alarm in Foggy's head, but at least he knows Matt won't say -
"Sure."
Foggy stares.
When the man holds out a hand, Matt doesn't even do that thing he does, the thing where he pretends not to expect people's ignorant physical cues. He reaches out and takes the man's arm, and he walks away without glancing back.
Foggy tries to be a good friend. He really does.
He watches, at first, the way the man leans close, daring to reach out and run his fingers down the longest black strands of Matt's hair, palming his cheek. He watches across the bar as the two face each other – and though Matt cannot see the man, cannot even try, he tilts his head up like he's beseeching the sun.
Their knees knock together, and at first this seems inevitable in the cramped space. Then the stranger leans forward, and his leg slips in between Matt's, his knee pressing the younger man's inner thigh.
Foggy wants to be a good friend.
But it's inevitable, really. He can't stand staring at the way Matt ducks his head, grinning under the stranger's raspy whispers and the touch of a withered hand. Can't stand watching how he turns toward eyes that shine with a dull gleam Matt can't even see. Foggy looks away for a minute, because he has to, and between one glance and the next the pair are gone.
People mill around the bar slowly, amiably, as this sinks in.
Foggy stumbles from his seat, half-drunk but brimming with alarm as the implications finally occur to him. His blind friend is gone, alone with a stranger, with no means of transportation – no one knows where he's going -
Foggy tells himself: Matt's a fucking adult. He can take care of himself. He can maneuver around the city fine, too, and does all the time. So why's Foggy worrying?
- Well, Matt's never acted like this, for one thing.
Matt also, he remembers slowly, has a cell-phone...
He fumbles for his own phone with incautious, drunk fingers when this thought comes to him. People curse and push at him for getting in the way. He leaves a voice-message; Matt only responds to texts half the time. This, he thinks, is as an occasion when he really wants Matt to respond.
"Where are you," he asks. "Come on, buddy. This isn't funny. Where the hell did you go."
(And maybe he'll laugh, tomorrow, for sounding so alarmed, so scared, about the fact that Matt disappeared to have sex with a stranger, because he scored and Foggy didn't, ha-fucking-ha, what's this, Foggy, can't take your own game, how funny, right - -
But he probably won't.)
Matt stumbles into the dorm of Columbia University at 3pm the next day without his cane, sporting a ring of bruises around his throat and a limp to his step that Foggy doesn't really want to think about. But this isn't really relevant.
"The fuck, Matt."
Matt tilts his head, shifting his head in Foggy's direction with something like confusion. "Hey," is all he says.
Foggy loses it.
"Hey? Hey? That's it? Hey?"
Matt stops on the threshold of the room, bewildered, then slowly closes the door behind him. "...Hello?" he ventures.
"Where the hell were you?! You can't just – just go off with some strange creep in a bar – and – what the hell, Matt?"
Matt's frowning. "What are you talking about, Foggy?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about! Yesterday! Where were you!"
Almost cautiously, Matt steps out and moves to his bed. He kneels down, sweeping his hand under the frame until he finds what must be a spare cane. He straightens carefully, tapping the stick experimentally against the ground. "You saw me leave, Foggy. I've gone home with people before. So have you."
"Not like that."
"What?" Matt's voice goes tense. "Is it because he was a man?"
"What? I - " Foggy's baffled. "No!"
"Then what?"
"Matt, that guy was at least twice your age!"
"I thought that was the point of that bar," Matt observes wryly. "It's not like I found my soul-mate, Foggy. Calm down."
"How can you – how can you just – did you see that - "
"No, I didn't."
Matt's words are sharp. Foggy is stricken silent long enough that he continues.
"What's the real problem, Foggy?"
"The problem – I, I just - "
The problem is that the guy was disturbing, and wrong, and made Foggy's skin crawl. The problem is he should have disturbed Matt, too, but he didn't. The problem is that Matt found something appealing, alluring, attractive in a rough and old and hard stranger with an eye for a soft young student. The problem... there are a lot of problems, and Foggy, for all the words tripping on his tongue, can't articulate any of them.
But Matt – Matt's being so damned reasonable. How is he making this about Foggy? There's something wrong here. There is. But...
Matt looks toward him, blankly, evenly, hand gripping and twisting slow circles around the head of his cane.
"...Forget it," Foggy says at last. He takes a breath. Forces himself to relax his shoulders, to unclench. Exhales. "Just... just tell me you're safe next time, okay, man? I worry."
"...Alright, mother," Matt says, acting bemused. But Foggy frowns. The tone is wrong.
He waits, but Matt turns and starts looking for his books. The moment is gone.
And, still, he has no answers.