Matt Murdock. Matthew Murdock. Matt. Matthew. Matt...hew. No no don't do that Just go with Matt. It's shorter. Matt pressed his hands flat against the desk in front of him. They weren't shaking.
You're faking it, a voice hissed. Faking liar. Just want their attention. It wasn't Stick. Matt wished it was. He hated how much that voice sounded like his own. He forced his attention outside his skull. Foggy was chatting with a couple of girls. He'd complained to Matt about not having any luck with the ladies but Matt, even though he hadn't known Foggy long enough for an evidence-based conclusion, had doubted that.
A burst of giggling from behind caught him off-guard. Stick scolded him for the lapse, the mistake. The giggling stopped, and there was no further conversation that might help him explain the laughter. They're laughing at you, the voice said, so sure of itself that Matt just accepted the statement. Of course they were laughing at him. Tension knotted itself between his shoulder blades. He felt small and vulnerable, regretting the surge of confidence that encouraged him to not sit in the back corner of the room closest to the door. He couldn't move now.
Well he could. He could physically move himself and his backpack from his current seat and relocate to the empty seat in the back corner. Wouldn't take more than what...thirty seconds? And all the while people would be sneaking furtive glances (staring openly) as he made too much noise moving. He folded his hands in his lap, squeezed his arms close to his sides, and kept his head down.
Rationally he knew no one was laughing at him. No one was even paying much attention to him. They were preoccupied with their conversations and getting themselves organized. If anyone noticed him moving seats, they'd forget quickly. The tension between his shoulder blades and the burning cold thrumming in his veins were incapable of ration. All he knew was that staying where he was lessened the anxiety. Next class he would take that back corner seat. In the switch-up of seats that Matt would later learn was common on the second day of a class, no one would notice him moving; it'd just be normal. Until then, he would stay small. The class was only 50 minutes. He dared move enough to check his watch.
The tone of the room shifted as the professor finally stumbled in fifteen minutes late. There were no introductions, no attention hyperfocused on him. The tension between his shoulder blades lessened. By the end of the class, it had settled into a dull ache. Despite the professor's poor first impression, the course was engaging. Rationally he knew he would be okay. If he could convince the rest of his brain of that, he knew he'd be fine.
xxxxxxxx
A/N: I don't remember what sparked it at this point but I do have a headcanon that Matt suffers from undiagnosed anxiety. He takes it in stride the same way he does getting his ass kicked and just keeps getting back up. If you pretend to be confident enough maybe no one will notice you.