Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.
"Come on, Foggy, we're gonna be late."
Matt does a poor job trying to mask his frustration as he taps his feet nervously against the floor by his bed. Foggy's answer is an unintelligible grunt Matt only barely registers over the heavy bass pumping through Foggy's speakers. Matt rolls his eyes and Foggy continues digging in his closet for some clean clothes. They've only been at school for a week, and for any other person, finding acceptable clothing would not be such a monumental task. But Foggy seems perfectly content to let his clean and dirty clothes cohabitate in artfully-constructed and impressively large piles throughout the room-many of which have already taken up residence on Matt's dresser, or desk, or floor space. Matt hasn't really minded so far. He's living with the man, after all, so his smell is everywhere anyway; it doesn't really matter where his clothes go. But today...
Matt checks his watch again and frowns. From across the room, he can hear Foggy's heartbeat jump slightly, having finally caught on to Matt's impatience.
"Sorry, man," Foggy says, as he pulls a shirt over his head, "I'm not really a morning person."
Matt can't resist a smile. "It's 10:45 AM."
"Like I said, not really a morning person." His voice is closer now, and Matt can hear him slipping his backpack onto his shoulders. "Hey, you want an umbrella or something? I think I've got an extra one in here somewhere."
Matt grimaces. He'd felt the change in air pressure earlier in the morning, so he'd known that rain was a possibility. But he'd lost track of the weather the moment Foggy turned on his music, which filled the tiny space of their shared room with sound waves so heavy that Matt could feel them bouncing off his skin.
"It's raining?" Matt asks. Foggy nods and then waits expectantly for Matt's response. The corner of Matt's mouth twists up into a grin. "You just nodded, didn't you?"
"Shit." Heat rises to Foggy's face as he nods again. "Shit. Dammit. Yes, sorry. It just started… the rain, I mean." Matt laughs and stands up from the bed. He can smell it now that he's concentrating-the wet pavement, the water collecting in tiny pools on leaves, the muddy trail trickling past the building… It's not a heavy rain, but judging by the way the flag across campus is beating against its pole with every-increasing intensity, Matt suspects that the weather will get worse as the day goes on.
"I'll grab a jacket," he sighs, clapping Foggy on the back as he navigates the clothing minefield to his closet.
"You sure? I know I've got another umbrella around here. Or, you know… I could help you look for yours?" Matt pushes aside some clothes in his closet, trying to hide his discomfort. They've been living together for a week now, but Matt is still not used to Foggy's kindness. Until this point, the closest thing Matt has experienced to kindness in the past nine years has been when the priest at the orphanage placed the communion wafer into Matt's hand, the body of Christ and the amen making Matt feel as though-just for a moment-someone else in the world knew-and possibly even cared-that he exists.
But Foggy… Foggy seems inexplicably incapable of being anything other than kind. As though it's nothing at all. As though it's something Matt's entitled to simply by virtue of the fact that the two of them exist in the same world.
It's been a week, and Matt still doesn't know what to do with this. Every time it comes up (which is always), he hears Stick's voice in his head. Stupid boy. He just feels sorry for you because he thinks you're weak. And you are-weak. The only reason you're here is so the university can fill its diversity quota. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve any of this.
And so on.
So Matt makes up some excuse about why he can't go to a bar, or can't go to the library, or can't take a walk around campus, or can't can't can't. And when Foggy leaves, Matt immerses himself in textbooks for classes that haven't even started yet, telling himself that studying is the only way he can make someone-anyone-proud, even if that someone is dead.
Matt turns and waves Foggy off. "Nah, I'll find it. Go on ahead, I'll catch up."
"Suit yourself," Foggy says, turning off his speakers on his way out the door.
Matt sighs as the door closes, taking a moment to revel in the weightlessness that accompanies the room's sudden silence before trying to remember where he'd left his jacket. It takes him longer than it should to find it. There are half-opened suitcases and boxes everywhere, and in this unfamiliar space, Matt finds himself tripping over things more often than usual.
Finally, he finds his jacket on his desk chair, underneath a box containing two-day old pizza. He touches his watch and groans in frustration when he realizes that there's no way they can make it to class on time. Still, he pulls the door open and rushes out of the room, struggling into his jacket as he enters the hallway.
He realizes his mistake the moment he makes it-which is at least half a second too late. He turns left out of his room, expecting to step on solid, linoleum floor. Instead, his foot finds only air, and his forward momentum carries over the top of the stairwell that-in his haste to get to class on time-he'd forgotten was there.
Instinctively, he reaches out his hands to break his fall. Except that he doesn't fall. Instead, as he tumbles forward, he feels the firm, steady grip of someone's hand catching him under his elbow. His cane, which slipped from his hand the moment he stepped out onto nothing, clatters harmlessly down the stairs. Whatever's left of his pride follows behind it, echoing hollowly against the cinderblock walls.
"Whoa, dude. Stairs."
Matt steadies himself using Foggy for support. Stick snarls in his ear: Poor little blind kid, can't even make it down a flight of stairs by himself. Didn't I teach you anything? When did you get so soft?
Matt hangs his head and leans against the banister. Foggy jogs down the stairs to retrieve Matt's cane. When he brings it back up again, he's laughing. Laughing. Matt feels his shame in his blood now, wriggling and writhing through his veins with every beat of his heart.
Foggy brushes the cane against Matt's fingers, apparently unaware of Matt's embarrassment. "Thanks," Matt mumbles, grabbing the cane from Foggy a little too roughly. He turns and continues down the stairs. "Let's go."
Foggy chuckles again and hurries down the stairs after Matt. "Dude, I think Columbia will only appreciate your punctuality insofar as they avoid getting sued by the blind kid they roomed at the top of the stairs."
Foggy's bluntness is disarming. Stick has no response to humor, and Matt smiles in spite of himself. He slows his step as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, allowing Foggy to catch up.
As they step outside into the drizzle, Matt feels an elbow in his side. At first he thinks it's an accident, so he doesn't respond. But then he feels it again-more insistent this time. He turns to face Foggy, who keeps his crooked elbow outstretched.
Realization finally dawns on him. People have offered to guide Matt a few times in the past; without exception, these people have been women who have been guiding Matt around their apartments, or-more accurately-out of their apartments in the mornings. When Matt allows this to happen-which is rarely-it's always to distract the women from realizing that he hasn't asked for their number. No one else has ever offered, and because Matt doesn't actually need the help, he's never asked.
He quirks his eyebrow at Foggy, wondering if he's misinterpreting the gesture.
Foggy shrugs. "I looked it up on the Internet."
"That's really… not necessary," Matt says, Stick's voice starting to ring more loudly in his ears.
Foggy's elbow connects with Matt's rib again, harder this time. "Dude, I've got more phone numbers from women in the past week than I have in my entire life. I'm not about to give that up because you decide to go all Exorcist down the stairs."
Stick is still sneering words like pity, and pussy, and worthless. But Matt is laughing, and against that laughter Stick's voice is weak, barely audible. He folds his cane and reaches for the back of Foggy's arm.
"The Internet, huh?"
"Yeah, man," Foggy says, leading Matt forward. "They have entire YouTube channels devoted to this shit. I've watched all the videos. I don't want to brag or anything, but I'm pretty much a pro."
Matt grins and inconspicuously steps over a puddle Foggy failed to mention. "Does the Internet happen to say anything about the importance of cleanliness in shared spaces?"
