A/N: I always seem to read fics where it is Foggy who pines away for Matt. It's rare to find one where it's the other way around. And so this. Also because this pairing hurts me. May be subject to revisions.

Has a companion mix : 8tracks dot com/ halcyonsound /a-higher-love

the distance between you and me / the value of x.
—matt x foggy—

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variations on distance / where x = infinity

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« arsenous elation »

dis·tance \ˈdis-tən(t)s\, n.

: the degree or amount of separation between two points, lines, surfaces, or object

: separation in time

: the quality or state of being distant; spatial remoteness

: an extent of advance from a beginning

1.

How do you measure distance?

The loudness, Stick taught him once, of something. When it makes a sound. Listen for the echoes, boy. Map out the vibrations. The louder the sound, the shorter the distance; fainter, and the distance stretches. Count it by the breath or by the step. Then you'll know when you're close enough.

Point A to Point B. Matt learns distance by relying on sound and displacement, in which he will always be one of the points. He becomes good at it, a normal breath equates to a step, a step equates to two-and-a-half heartbeats. With a starting place and an ending, distance is measurable. Quantifiable.

But that is not always true. There are bound to be anomalies, incongruities. Matt discovers this for himself one night as he (Point A) sits listening to Foggy's heartbeat (Point B), from across the room. Foggy's heart is too loud in his ears and yet, if Matt is to measure that in steps, he would be walking forever. And if he tries to measure the distance between them with his breath, Matt always loses his count, always falls short. Distance from Point A to Point B: infinity.

Matt also discovers that you don't need distance to tell you you're not close enough.

2.

"Come on, Matt. Just do it already!" Foggy urges, laughter in his voice.

Matt smiles and hopes that it betrays nothing. For some reason his fingers are cold, his gums numb (what) and it's not like he hasn't done this before. Come on, he tells himself, this is Foggy. It's not like you're going to kiss him…right?

Ah, there lies the problem.

He does not know how they get here (but he does, really). One moment they are walking towards their dormitory, still high from the euphoria of passing the Criminal Procedure midterm exam, the cold night nipping at their skin, and then this. Standing beside a building, just under the reach of a lamppost's halogen light, with Foggy wanting to touch his face. To know what handsome looks like, he jokes. So.

Matt bites the tip of his own tongue, lifts uncertain hands. And maybe he hesitates for too long because Foggy groans in impatience and reaches out, his movement a burst of gold and fire in Matt's vision. He yelps when Foggy grabs his hands, the warmth shocking him down to the bottom of his ribs.

"Here," Foggy murmurs, slows down in his movement, guides Matt's hands to his face.

His fingers registers the ridge of Foggy's ears, the curve of Foggy's smile cupped in his palms. The air stutters out of Matt's lungs.

Foggy's skin is dry and rough, pockmarked. Matt skims his thumbs across the miniature flaws, memorizing, until they touch the sides of Foggy's nose. The rest of his fingers move inward, just as the smile slowly fades from Foggy's mouth. Matt traces the line of his nose, feels the ridge of bone, moving upwards until he reaches Foggy's brows. Foggy closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against Matt's skin. He follows the curve of forehead, and then continues the travel of his hands downwards now, retraces what he has discovered.

Matt tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, tongue tasting the spike of heat coming Foggy's chest and cheeks. Which, by the way, is not caused by his touch. Not really, no. And definitely not the dip in Foggy's breathing when the tips of his fingers skate down over Foggy's mouth, touching a bit of his front teeth. Matt's thumb draws across Foggy's chapped lips slowly, heart doing somersaults that he might die from. Foggy exhales shakily.

There is only a weak half-step gap between their shoes. The distance is a meager thing, a weak pretense that will not put up a fight should Matt choose to close it. And Matt, Matt does not deny himself this; he is a fool for tremble that passes along Foggy's spine. His hands fall away, heavy with unwillingness, already missing the contact.

"So..." Foggy begins, voice unsure but still light, breaks the tension Matt is sure only he can feel, "Now you know why the girls can't resist me."

Matt forces out a laugh, his throat strangely dry, his chest tight.

3.

The corridor is too loud and too hot for his liking. Matt tries to stay still as much as possible, tuning everything out while he waits for Foggy to get out of his class. It is a practice in patience and sanity, an active effort not to drown in the cacophony. The heartbeats collect themselves like a thundering storm, the footsteps and voices a roaring sea, the movements a bright rendition of what inferno must look like. Matt grips his cane harder, anchors himself against the wall. Wills himself not to drown.

When he hears the curve of a familiar voice, the noise parts to give way for relief. Matt focuses on that person, on his feet traipsing around people, heartbeat jumping in on itself, breathing pattern containing that familiar laughter, hands pushing against the crowd. Fighting to make his way to him.

"Matt!"

The voice is clearer now. Matt turns his head towards it. Waits until the silhouette of Foggy breaks through the lake of fire, waits until Foggy Nelson is standing before him as everything else falls away into white noise.

"Hey there, buddy."

Foggy's face is a halo of gold and fireworks, lit up with a brightness Matt hasn't encountered anywhere. And of this Matt is sure, that even if he could see with his eyes, Foggy's face would just be as bright.
(and looking at him would always hurt.)

4.

At the train station, dawn.

They stand quietly on the platform, breaths coming out in furious puffs of white.

"It's cold," Matt mumbles, buries his chin into his scarf. The fingers of his left hand are half-frozen around his cane, his right hand clutching Foggy's arm like a lifeline. Foggy breathes deeply, his temperature struggling to keep afloat. The air shifts when he turns his head to Matt, fabric rustling, tendrils of his hair passing near Matt's cheek. Foggy adjusts Matt's scarf so that it is wrapped a little snugger. His breath is a warm gush over Matt's face, his heartbeat a contemplative tempo in his ears. They are closer like this. The distance from Point A to Point B not more than a little turn of the head. And if Matt does it now, he is sure—

"Don't move, okay buddy?" Foggy whispers, removing Matt's hand from his arm, already stepping away. "Don't move. There's a coffee machine somewhere here. I'm gonna save us both from this evil cold."

Don't go far off, Matt says silently. Hand drifting forward, almost catching Foggy's retreating back. Don't go.

He listens to Foggy's heartbeat gradually get fainter, his footsteps the rhythmic alternation of left, right, left. This is where an epiphany hits Matt Murdock, alone at the train station, half-freezing to death. Foggy is now twenty steps away and if Matt tries, he can still catch up. Catch up, turn Foggy around, tell him, be with me, always. But he does not. He waits for Foggy to return.

Here, distance is relative. Relative to each passing time that he chooses not to do anything, to the words he does not say. This is to maintain the equilibrium between them (the friendship), to keep Foggy close even if it is not enough. Distance is a choice Matt Murdock makes.