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Foggy waits by the taxi rank for Karen, watching fabulously dressed guests arrive and march into the restaurant. He fiddles with his dress shirt, making sure it’s tucked in as he stands awkwardly on the paved sidewalk. He feels incredibly out of place even though the restaurant is smack in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. It’s his home town but the very fact that a nation-wide famous chef has chosen to run his own restaurant here in Hell’s Kitchen just reeks of gentrification.
He fishes out his phone and double checks the vouchers are still sitting in his inbox. He still couldn’t believe he won a table for two at the most talked about restaurant in the country. Ever since he was a kid his parents had encouraged him to enter any prize-winning competitions he could. When he was younger he didn’t realize it meant a lifetime of junk mail and extra charges. It might also have been part of his inspiration to become a lawyer, to make sure the little guys get what they deserve. Still, he wasn’t about to throw away free seats to a free dinner. And despite the thought that Hell’s Kitchen is going to change drastically because of the restaurant’s notoriety, he’s honestly excited to use this chance to try it out for himself, like he’d ever be able to afford it anyway.
A taxi pulls up in front of him and Foggy stands back to watch Karen slink out of the taxi. She hitches her wine red dress up as she steps out onto the pavement, her arms hugging her waist. She immediately embraces Foggy and the two stand beside each other as her taxi drives off.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Karen asks, “do I look fancy enough? I rented this dress, I hope no one will be able to tell.”
“You look beautiful,” Foggy tells her.
Karen bites her lip, flattening her hands over the silk dress and she shivers. Foggy takes her arm and they walk towards the restaurant. The exterior of the building calls back to the architecture of Irish pubs, dark green wooden panelling with a row of arched windows either side of the entrance, cut back into a little alcove. Warm yellow light glows through the windows and as Foggy and Karen walk in, they see that the walls are layered sandstone, the decorations kept to a bare minimum and the seating in fact, quite plain. However, the place is packed and if it wasn’t for almost every single table being seated with guests, the restaurant would look quite under embellished, not what you’d expect considering its intricate exterior.
Before they can make a comment about the minimalist interior, they’re approached by a waitress. Her uniform consists of a black long sleeved shirt rolled up to her elbows, dark blue jeans and a black apron tied around her waist. She wears black sneakers, jewellery around her wrists, and her hair is tied up in a ponytail to show off one side shaved short. To anyone else she would have seemed like an entirely inappropriate candidate for a waitress at a high-end restaurant, but to Foggy and Karen, she was just what they needed.
Her smile is catching when she speaks, “Good evening, do you have a booking?”
Foggy unhooks his arm from Karen to fish for his phone. He produces the phone to the waitress, allowing her to scan a QR code. The waitress examines her scanner and her face lights up when it beeps.
“Excellent! Mr. Franklin Nelson and Ms. Karen Page, your booking checks out,” she begins, placing her scanner on a little end table by the entrance, “Well, I better introduce myself! I’m Claire, I’ll be your dedicated waitress this evening. Come on, I’ll show you to your table.”
Karen exhales sharply and Foggy shares an excited grin with her as they’re lead to their table. Claire takes them to a table square in the middle of the restaurant. She pulls out a chair for Karen, then Foggy, and as he sits down he tries to stop himself from trembling. He can hear people chattering around him and he’s afraid someone’s going to comment on his unironed shirt or the fact that the hems of his pants have frayed or maybe from their seats they could spot his unpolished shoes. It was totally absurd, especially considering not a single guest could see due to the blindfolds.
“Now that you’re seated, I’ll let you get used to your surroundings while I prepare your blindfolds,” Claire informs them, then scoots off to the back of the restaurant.
Karen holds her right hand to her left arm, asks, “you doing okay Foggy?”
Foggy nods grimly, “yeah, you?”
Karen tilts her head to the side, “yes, it’s a lot different than what I expected… but it is free food.”
Foggy laughs. He picks up his serviette, flapping it open to spread out on his lap. “Hey, aren’t we meant to be memorising where the glasses and the forks and stuff all are?”
Claire emerges by his side, causing him to jump.
“Sorry, didn’t meant to scare you,” Claire says, holding up her hands, “I’ve got your blind folds, freshly torn from authentic cotton. Who wants to go first?”
Karen smiles meekly, holding up her hand. Claire laughs and rounds the table to her. She grabs the blindfold and ties it over Karen’s eyes, adjusting it to suit her comfort. Foggy watches a grin scar Karen’s face and when Claire’s done she wriggles in her seat like an excited puppy. Foggy sees Claire pick up the spare blindfold and he hesitates.
“Don’t worry, you can take it off at any time, although it will reduce your dining experience,” Claire says. She sees Foggy frown and continues, “hey, you’ll feel much more at ease with it on. Trust me.”
Foggy nods. He sits straight and lets Claire tie the black blindfold over his eyes, informing her on his tightness preference. And she’s right, the moment she covers his eyes there’s a flicker of uneasiness, but which is soon replaced by the relief of invisibility. Knowing that every other guest in the room cannot see him is a weight lifted off his shoulders.
With his sight blocked off he relies on his other senses. Claire moves to a point between him and Karen, standing equally apart from the both of them.
Claire lets a few minutes pass before she speaks, “now, what was the first thing your senses picked up on Ms. Page?”
“It’s uh, it’s Karen,” she stammers.
“Okay,” Claire says softly, “what was the first thing you smelled, or felt, or touched, when I put your blindfold on, Karen?”
Karen hums, “herbs, from the kitchen… lavender… rosemary.”
“Good, good, and Mr. Nelson, or do you prefer I call you Franklin?” Claire asks, her voice louder now that she’s facing him.
“Call me Foggy, please.”
Claire hums quietly, “alright. And the first thing for you?”
Foggy falters, “the uh…”
“Go on,” Claire encourages him, “the blindfolds allow you to speak without judgement. Be honest as you like.”
“Um… I noticed the way our voices became quieter… everyone around us speaks in hushed circles, like we’re in a library… or something.”
Claire smiles in the form of a sigh, “it’s okay, there are no wrong answers. Here at the Devil’s Kitchen we endeavour to break down the walls which divide social classes in three. If you’re upper, middle or lower class… in here, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is your shared experience of your meals. Now, shall I run through the menu with you both?”
x x x
Three courses later, Foggy stumbles out of the almost completely empty restaurant with Karen at his side. With the blindfold off everything seems brighter, more vivid. The colours on the street explode in yellows and reds and blues against the dull greys of the cityscape. Karen swings her arm over Foggy’s shoulders as they walk over the pavement towards the taxi rank. Her hair is golden in the moonlight and her mostly worn off red lipstick as deep as the red wine they drank so much of. Karen leaps forward to hail a taxi, her dress billows in the wind and she wraps one arm around her waist. The taxi pulls up to the curb and Karen leaps inside, keeping the door open for Foggy.
“You coming?” She shouts over the noise of the street.
Foggy shakes his head, “I’ll walk, I’m not far.”
“What do you live at the office or something?” Karen jokes.
Foggy laughs heartily but it’s the truth, and he hopes he’s not giving it away.
Karen shrugs, “suit yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she closes the door of the taxi and winds the window down, “wait, boss?”
“Yeah Karen?”
“Let’s have a half day tomorrow huh?”
Foggy smirks, “good idea, we’re both going to need it.”
Karen grins and Foggy sends her off, watches the taxi scream off down the road until Karen retracts her waving hand from the window. He turns his back on the restaurant and makes his way down the street. He nonchalantly rubs his belly, letting his dress shirt hang untucked. Admittedly he’s actually pretty glad he lives at the office. He’s so full and so tired he probably wouldn’t make the drive home if he lived anywhere else.
Moving away from the busy lights of the restaurant his eyes adjust to the tones of grey in the office section of the city. Alcohol laces his tongue and mind still and he walks toward a familiar destination, closing his eyes briefly, smelling the night, the steam rolling out of the gutters, the buzz of the street lamps, the rummaging between garbage bags and bins. It’s probably a rat or something but he can’t shake a weird feeling. Shivering he squints through the night, hugging his chest and suddenly he’s all too aware of how alone he is.
Seemingly out of nowhere a gang of youths emerge out of the darkness, growling and shouting and tossing around a baseball bat. Foggy stops in his tracks and he can’t help but chuckle, his night was almost perfect.
“You laughing at me, dude?” One of the youths spit.
Another one yells, “give us your wallet!”
Another holds up a baseball bat threateningly, “give us all your money!”
Foggy holds his arms up, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness of this side of town, “I don’t have any money!”
The one with the bat whacks a garbage bin, the lid spinning off down the alleyway, “liar! We just saw you come out of that fucking rich people restaurant!”
Foggy shakes his head, stepping back slowly as they encroach him, “no seriously, I have no money! I got in for free!” the gang close a circle around him and he desperately tries to defend himself, “I live in my office! Just look at me, do you think I’d be the type of person who would be able to afford going to a restaurant like that?”
“Shut up! We saw you come out. Only rich fuckers go there which means: You. Have. Big. Bucks.” One of them snarls, rubbing his fingers together.
Suddenly Foggy feels weightless, the world tilts upwards and he falls to the ground, hitting his head hard on the pavement. This is it. This is the end. His vision blurs into a sea of lines and dots and through the murkiness of it all he hears activity beyond him. Slamming and punching and the low thud of boots connecting with skin, breaking bones. There’s this horrible sound of shredding cloth, tearing flesh against cement and screams and grunts and Foggy attempts to sit up, even for just a second and he’s only briefly able to see a shadowy figure get punched right in the face. He collapses on the ground again and wonders who’s winning, who’s losing, who’s going to scrape him off the ground when it all comes to a close. The shouts fade and he’s almost off the edge, almost fallen into complete darkness when the darkness moves, forms into the shape of a person and Karen’s right, who’s going to believe he got saved by Daredevil?
x x x
A shifting swamp starts to settle and Foggy finds himself waking up. At first, he’s expecting to find himself in the office on his blow up mattress, the cracks and the mould stains on the ceiling a welcoming sight. Except as he opens his eyes he sees concrete stretching out before him then stone and steel slicing up into a sheer slope creating office buildings around him. He pushes himself off the ground and sags against the wall behind him. His world spins, the shouts and howls from those kids before echo in a cyclical nature in his mind, like the broken musical track of a merry-go-round, something out of a horror movie.
His mind is sloshy still, turned to mush from good alcohol and good food and yeah, it’s passed his usual bed time alright? While the spinning seems to tessellate he peers down the alleyway. He clearly remembers walking down the pathway, he’d just walked past the alleyway which meant someone must have dragged him aside. The shapes of the city connect together and he spots a person walking on the pathway. The person suddenly stops and does a sort of double take, comically tilting his head towards Foggy propped up against the wall.
“Is there someone there?” A man calls out.
Foggy contemplates staying silent. He’s still feeling the after effects of hitting his head on the ground and for all he knew this guy could be part of the gang, or have the same idea to rob him. But he also didn’t want to scare the guy, some mangy looking dude in an alleyway could either be a homeless person or a serial killer. You know, it happens. So he tries to stand up but he ends up slipping to the ground again, letting out an involuntary huff of air.
The person darts toward him, tapping, and that’s when Foggy notices the stick, and the uniform, and hey, is that blood on his skin? The guy gets closer and Foggy recognises his face from magazines and TV shows and okay, he likes to watch the cooking shows even though he doesn’t have the equipment let alone the ingredients to even make half the shit they say is easy. But Matt Murdock’s show is his favourite because presentation is not what matters. He could make a dish that looked like barf and make it taste like heaven.
And God did Matt’s food taste divine.
Matt reaches him and Foggy takes a stab in the dark.
“Hey, aren’t you the chef?” Foggy questions as the guy get closer.
Matt tugs at the dark sleeves of his uniform, “huh, what gave it away?”
Foggy shakes his head making his world spin. He clutches his forehead as he speaks, “sorry for… for staying so long. I think we were the last to leave.”
“It’s fine,” Matt says simply.
Foggy pauses, then kicks his knees up and presses his weight down on his feet as he tries to stand up again, this time with aid. When he’s standing up right he glances at Matt’s face. Even cast in a shadow he can spot blood speckling his skin.
Looking away, Foggy says, “I’m not meant to see your face, or something, right?” Matt’s hands curl around his waist, helping him back to the sidewalk, “the invisible chef, the unseen…”
Matt laughs and Foggy can feel the laugh in Matt’s chest pressed against his, and he quietly takes note of Matt’s firm muscles.
“I like the way that sounds, like I have super powers.”
“You kinda do, I mean the way you make your food is… it has to be supernatural, it’s too good.”
Matt laughs again, shaking his head. They get to the pavement and Foggy pauses, running his hands through his hair, tugging on the strands a little hard just to make sure. It’s absolutely unbelievable. He’s got to make sure he’s not dreaming. Free dinner at amazing restaurant, saved from being mugged by the man in the mask who is undoubtedly the secret identity of Matt Murdock, world fucking famous chef.
A taxi screeches down the road and Foggy shivers, his damp dress shirt clinging to his body. He should get back, it’s not far back to the office. But there’s something about Matt that’s compelling him to stick around. Maybe it’s his reputation, maybe it’s because Matt’s actually pretty cute. But it’s mostly because the situation is so bizarre that he wants to see how it plays out. What possible reason could this guy want to even bother protecting him from losing what vouchers he had in his wallet?
Foggy stretches his arms over his head, acutely noticing Matt standing within inches of his personal body space. He drawls, “oh man, I wish I could afford to eat at your place all the time.”
“Maybe you could,” Matt says with a curve in his lips, “I could give you a VIP seat.”
And there it is. Foggy squints, “are you – did you just flirt with me? Headline: Matt Murdock, world famous chef hitting on scrappy homeless person.”
Matt smiles and shrugs, “I wouldn’t say that I’m world famous.”
Foggy folds his arms, baffled, and watches Matt hail a taxi.
He adds, “and you’re not homeless tonight.”
Foggy’s mouth drops. The taxi pulls up and Matt opens the door for Foggy. His jaw still hanging wide open, Foggy pulls himself into the warmth of the taxi, air puffing out of the padded seats as he plonks himself down. Matt sidles in beside him, grinning. With Matt’s directions, the taxi pulls out and Foggy lays his head on the headrest, staring out at the passing lights.
x x x
The last thing he remembers seeing is the meticulously spaced out street lights merging into a single line until blackness dominated his sight. Now, as he cracks open his eyes, he sees natural sunlight losing against the pink and blue neon lights from a giant billboard situated on the lower side of an apartment building. There must have been riots over the installation of it. The man-made light is so fierce, it blares through the large windows of this unfamiliar room.
He rolls over on the bed, the white sheets silken on his skin and he actually feels guilty about it. His sister had always told him to moisturise every day and here he is lying with unhealthy and probably dry and scratchy skin on the softest sheets he’s ever felt in his life. Feeling unworthy, he kicks the sheet off his body and curls into a ball, wrapping his hands around his knees and he realizes he’s only in his underpants.
“You’re awake, is everything alright?” Matt calls from outside the bedroom.
Chair legs scrape across cement and Foggy wipes hair away from his face to see better. The apartment is open plan, warehouse style and totally hipster. The bedroom is divided from the living room/kitchen by a plaster panel, a large archway in the centre. Through the archway Foggy spots Matt sitting at a small round table, a stack of thick pages in front of him. The blue and pink shines on him in square partitions, his hair outlined by the neon lights and Foggy bites his lower lip.
Foggy clears his throat before speaking, “yeah… what’s the time?”
Matt pushes the chair a little further out, stands up and walks toward the bedroom. The closer Matt gets the faster Foggy’s heart flutters tight in his chest. Matt comes to a stop beside the bed and reaches for the clock on the bedside table. Foggy watches him, the way the man’s torso arches, his perfectly ironed and perfectly fitting dress shirt rising slightly over his hips. He traces the curve with his eyes, across Matt’s shoulders, his strong arms reaching for the clock, bandaged fingers running across the small bumps on the face of the flip clock.
“It’s uh, ten thirty,” Matt says in a husky voice, and as if picking up on Foggy’s change of breathing, he adds, “do you need to be somewhere?”
Foggy twitches his feet, “nah, I mean, I have a day job but it’s my own business. And I only have one other employee. And… we decided… last night… that we’d have a half day.”
“Good foresight,” Matt grins.
Foggy’s heart melts at the sight of Matt’s toothy smile stretching ear to ear, touching his eyes. Light bruises mark flecks across his face, clustering purple around his nose.
“What ugh… happened after we got in the taxi… I can’t remember,” Foggy asks quietly.
Matt smirks, “you fell asleep. Somehow I got you to bed without hurting you.”
Foggy pulls a pillow over his head and garbles, “oh my God how embarrassing.”
Matt laughs, “it’s fine, the wine you chose was very strong.”
Foggy groans into the pillow, his head throbbing still. He pulls the pillow to his chest, looking at Matt standing awkwardly beside him.
After a few minutes Matt speaks up, “well, I could make you breakfast?”
Foggy’s mouth salivates at the thought of more, hopefully free, food whipped up by this master chef of a guy. He goes to get up but Matt reaches for him with his knuckles, connects gently with Foggy’s shoulder and gives it a soft squeeze.
“You stay here, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” Matt says warmly.
Curling his toes, Foggy rejects the offer, “no I couldn’t ask you to do that man, breakfast in bed? I’d make a mess in your priceless sheets!”
“I really don’t mind,” Matt chuckles, and Foggy does a mental snapshot of the way Matt looks, his smiling wrinkles into his temples and his eyes look like brown sugar glaze, shiny and molten.
“I mind,” Foggy says firmly and he thinks about getting up and looking out at Matt’s minimalist apartment in pristine condition, he feels like anywhere he’d go he’d leave a trail of grime behind him. “I need a shower.”
Matt’s warm expression falters and he frowns, the bruise across his nose wrinkling, “I’m sorry, I only want to treat you…”
Foggy wraps his arms around his knees, pressing against the plump pillows behind him, “why though? Dude, we barely know each other. For all I know you could be feeding me so well only to eat me later, Hansel and Gretel style.”
The honest smile returns on Matt’s face and he says reassuringly, “I’m not a cannibal, Foggy.”
Foggy blinks when he hears his name come out of Matt’s mouth, “how do you know my name… I never… introduced myself…”
Matt sits on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. As Matt speaks, Foggy feels Matt’s focus on his lips, “I run a restaurant, I have to know the names of all my patrons.”
Foggy nods slowly, “but why all this? Why me?”
Matt folds his hands in his lap and pauses before replying, “I… have been thinking about this a lot and I think the only way I can explain it to you in terms that would make sense to you… is that… it wasn’t love at first sight, but love at first sniff.”
Foggy howls with laughter, “love at first sniff?!”
“Well, in truth it was what I heard from you first, but ‘love at first sniff’ has a certain ring to it,” Matt explains, sticking his tongue between his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Foggy says, clutching his chest, his cheeks wet with tears, “I shouldn’t laugh but I was not expecting that, it’s different you know.”
“This is,” Matt begins, pinching the bridge of his nose, “so corny but there is something different about you, something special. I was… immediately drawn to you the moment I knew you were in my restaurant. Drawn to your voice… to your,” he sighs, “your scent.”
Foggy grins and rests his chin on his knees, “well then, I hope it doesn’t wash away when I shower.”
Matt chuckles, “I’m confident it won’t,” He pushes off the bed and disappears off to the right behind the plaster dividers, then returns with a white towel over his arm, “I’ll show you to the bathroom.”
Foggy bites his tongue as he swings his legs off the bed, and he tries to drop his weight on his feet but the moment he stands up he falls back on the bed, his head spinning. He clutches his forehead, “ugh, that wine really did a number on me.”
Matt rushes over to him, helping him stand. Matt leads him to the bathroom, the cool air tickling the hairs on his legs. The bathroom is as pristine as the rest of the house and Foggy wonders if Matt does the cleaning all himself or if he gets someone in for it. Then he imagines Matt scrubbing away marks on the floor on all fours and he has to not think about that and not think about Matt’s arm around his waist either, and instead focus on the shiny silver faucet of the bathtub.
“Oh man,” Foggy says breathily, “you have a tub? I haven’t had a bath in years.”
Matt hangs the towel over a rack and that moment of break between connection and disconnection leaves Foggy swaying on his feet. Matt returns to Foggy’s side and holds onto his arm, says quietly, “I could run you one now, if you’d like?”
Foggy swallows, his eyes wide, “not gonna pass up this opportunity.”
Matt grins and he leaves Foggy to lean against the tile wall beside the bath. He kneels down on the floor and squeezes in some bath liquid, then turns on the taps.
“Do you like it hot?” Matt asks.
“Steamy,” Foggy replies, his heart caught in his throat as he watched Matt stretch over the bath.
The water gushes out of the faucet, thundering against the porcelain tub. Steam roils off the cold surface, sliding against the white tiles and disappearing up in the air vents. The bath fills up fast, but it’s enough time for the tiles to lather him in a layer of cold. Matt drops his fingers into the bath and curves his wrist on the surface, testing the temperature.
As he turns off the taps, he says, “it’s ready.”
Foggy pushes off the tiled wall and stumbles the few steps over to Matt, clutching onto his shoulder.
“Ugh sorry, I’m still feeling a little groggy,” Foggy admits, soaking in the feel of Matt’s muscled shoulder.
Matt hesitates, “did… you need me to stay?”
Foggy leans on Matt for a moment, contemplating, then says without faltering, “yes.”
Matt covers Foggy’s hand on his shoulder and Foggy sees the purple and brown bruises swelling across his skin, patches of red staining the bandages.
“On one condition,” Foggy begins, feeling Matt’s body tense, “take off your shirt. I mean,” he blushes, “I don’t want to splash water on it...”
Matt’s shoulders visibly relax and he grins, “done.”
Matt stands up, Foggy’s hand slipping away, and he goes over to the sink to peel off his bandages, wash his hands. Foggy uses Matt’s distracted focus to kick off his underpants and clamber into the bath. The water is extremely hot against his freezing skin and he violently hisses when he plonks himself down in the bath, water splashing over the edge.
Matt swivels, a worried look on his face. Heat rushes to Foggy’s cheeks and he holds up his hands, water slipping off them, “I’m good!”
Foggy breathes evenly, acclimatising to the temperature of the bath. His skin tingles violently and he pushes the bubbles away from his face, eyeing Matt as he slowly unbuttons his dress shirt and folds it in a neat pile, resting it on the floor near the door. He comes over to the bath with a towel and a wash cloth. He folds the towel and kneels on it, then soaks the wash cloth in the bath water.
Heat encompasses Foggy and somehow through his hangover he’s acutely aware of all movement, of the slight ripples Matt makes in the water as he wets the cloth and the hollow vibrations of Matt clinging to the edge of the bath for support.
Matt pauses, water dripping off the cloth hovering over the surface of the bath, “is this alright?”
Foggy nods, swallowing hard, and he remembers Matt’s blind so he croaks out, “yeah.”
Matt smiles slightly and takes the cloth over to Foggy’s shoulder, rubbing gently in small circles. Matt moves from there across to Foggy’s collarbone, repeating the circular motion and gradually moving up to the nape of Foggy’s neck. Foggy pulls aside his hair, craning his neck to Matt’s touch. Matt removes the cloth from his skin to resoak it, wringing out excess water, and he presses the cloth just under Foggy’s jawline.
“Can I… touch your face?” Foggy frowns and Matt back tracks, “it’s uh, it’s how I find out what you look like.”
Foggy nods, croaks out “go ahead,” and Matt repositions himself, drawing both hands out to Foggy.
He starts with his left and runs his fingertips from Foggy’s jawline to his ear lobe, then up the side of his face to his temples, all the while followed by soft sponging of the cloth. He curves over Foggy’s forehead, careful not to drip water on Foggy’s face as he does so, and Foggy turns his face to grant Matt access to the other side. On the opposite side, Matt draws over Foggy’s cheek bone, to his nose and circles over the bridge, across his eyebrows, and finds the other side again, repeats the process. Matt drops to his nose again, then takes the cloth away as he runs his fingers over Foggy’s lips, slick and twitching. Foggy tries to remain calm but in the end his submits to the passion, the guy’s blind, how’s he to know he’s got a raging boner beneath the water’s surface?
“Can I kiss you?” Matt rasps, his fingers hovering over Foggy’s lips.
Foggy blinks for a second and then he leans toward Matt and obliges, is that enough of an answer? Matt hums in surprise, dropping the cloth into the bath water. Foggy grips onto Matt’s shoulders, water sliding across skin, beading amongst Matt’s freckles. Matt’s tongue is plump and warm and he kisses Matt slow, getting to know the shape of Matt’s lips, of his perfectly straight teeth, of his tongue and he lets Matt do the same, feels Matt’s tongue exploring his mouth. His fingers tingle, like his blood is boiling inside of him and he sits up, water sloshing from the movement and he combs a hand through Matt’s thick hair, trying to get closer, wishing to yank the guy into the bath there with him. But suddenly Matt pulls back, breathing heavily and Foggy bites his lip watching Matt push at his cock in his pants, moving it out of an uncomfortable position.
He then rubs his face and breathes, “sorry,” his tongue between his teeth as he catches his breath, “it’s too much,” he breathes sharply, “no, wrong wording. I feel… so much.”
Foggy bites his forefinger as he watches Matt heave, then offers, “is it that thing that they say, about losing one sense… the rest get stronger?”
Matt nods, his face flushed. He pants, catching his breath and when Foggy watches him arching his back, flexing his abs, Foggy’s eyes practically roll out of his head.
“Sorry, I’m ah… a little rusty,” Matt pants, “I haven’t been… with someone for a very long time.”
There’s a spike in Foggy’s stomach and he blurts out, “I bet you say that to all your dates.”
He instantly regrets it when he sees a look of genuine hurt flash onto Matt’s face. Matt digs his fingers into his thighs and says crossly, “I’m not lying Foggy. This isn’t a one night stand,” he pushes on the edge of the tub to stand up, “unless you want it to be. I’ll let you finish, I’m not going to force you to stay if you don’t want to.”
Matt slides out of the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him and moments later, jazz music erupts from a stereo. Foggy sits back in the bath, perplexed, his boner softening in the warm water and his headache reduces to a dull throb, a distant worry. He sifts his hand through the bubbles until he can find the cloth and finishes washing himself. He finds it hard to believe that this all started because he’d decided to enter a competition he didn’t think he’d win, because it feels like he’s won more than free seats at the most popular restaurant in town. It feels like he’s won the fucking lottery, but the money hasn’t quite hit his bank accounts and he’s acting like a fool, taking his luck for granted. This guy’s seriously into him and yeah he wasn’t expecting to get laid and he doesn’t really mind if it doesn’t happen, but he also wasn’t expecting to fucking dig him so much. Of course, he knew he was a little charming and moderately handsome but he calculates that he’s been trying about 0.5% to impress, which translates to not trying at all. Plus, the guy can’t even see, so it’s only logical for him to be suspicious about why a super handsome and super successful dude would even be at all interested in him. He supposes, no matter the reasoning, it’s the outcome that he’s interested in. So he’s just going to have to see how things play out.
Foggy toes the plug out and water screeches down the drain, the now lukewarm water suctioning off him. As the level of the water reduces, it begins to gurgle hoarsely down the pipes and Foggy can hear the water gushing along the old pipes until it disappears in the plumbing, loud like the passing of a train in the subway. He peels himself out of the tub and towels himself dry, wringing out his hair. He then wraps the towel around his waist and opens the bathroom door.
Steam roils off him in a thick mist which quickly dissipates in the juxtaposition of room temperatures. The music plays loud, the lights previously pink and blue have changed to yellow and orange creating a faux kind of sunset projection at midday. He picks up on the scent of bacon and eggs and he spots Matt in the kitchen, sizzling breakfast, or rather brunch, over the stove. His heart sinks a bit when he notices Matt’s put a new shirt on, a clean white one tucked into his black pants, a red apron tied neatly around his waist. He rotates the bacon and eggs on the pan with his spatula, his legs wide set, focused on the task and Foggy’s not hurting anyone by having a good stare at Matt’s ass.
Water drips on his shoulders and he starts to cool off from the bath, thinking he should probably get into something more presentable, like Matt. He saunters over to the kitchen and tries to speak over the music, “hey, where are my clothes?”
Matt takes the pan off the stove as he fishes out a remote from his pocket, turning down the music, and Foggy repeats himself, thinking Matt hadn’t heard him.
Matt scratches his head, “they’re uh, they’re still drying…”
“I guess I’ll have to stay then,” Foggy sighs sarcastically.
Matt turns off the stove and wipes his hands on his apron, “I’m sorry I… I forgot, y-you need clothes. I don’t think my clothes will fit you, I could run out and buy you something.”
Foggy waves his hands, “no dude, I was joking. I’ll just wait til they dry,” Matt cocks his head and Foggy adds, “that means I’ll stay.”
Matt nods briefly, “good, because I’m making enough for you too. It’s a little way off, you can sit,” he gestures to the small round table, condiments clustered in the centre.
“Thanks, but I think I need to walk around for a bit. Been sitting too long,” Foggy says, yawning.
Foggy watches Matt return to his cooking, looking at the chef’s ass for a minute before he saunters off to explore the apartment. He starts just after the hallway, his eyes drawn to the awards tacked straight onto the brick wall.
“Shouldn’t you frame these?” He calls to Matt, running his fingers over the golden text printed onto high quality paper.
Without missing a beat, Matt calls back, “if they’re covered in glass or even laminated, I can’t read them to remind me how great I am.”
Foggy laughs and he lets the music occupying the space between silence and sizzling breakfast. He moves down the wall, his fingers running across the scratchy bricks. He gets to a large metal door and he bumps his fingers against the heavy, rusted sheet. He’d always questioned the aesthetic, but why’s a blind guy gotta care about aesthetics? His fingers jump and dip between the corrugated iron door until they return to brick again and he moves across the cement floor to the corner of the room, indenting into the staircase. The wood of the stairs look worn and rotten and he cranes his neck to follow the steps, a thick wooden door wedged open. He spots a glimpse of the sky, cloudy, typical.
He moves around the staircase and hovers by the archway by the bedroom. The sheets look dishevelled and he’s about to go and actually make the bed when he hears his phone ringing, fighting the volume of the stereo. He seeks out the source, tracing it back to Matt’s bedroom, his phone almost vibrating off the bedside table. He snatches it up just before the phone call ends, glancing at the caller ID before answering it.
“Hey…” Karen drawls.
“Karen, I was thinking I should call you…” Foggy says, kicking his foot up on the frame of the bed.
“Yeah… sorry… I’m late…” she mumbles.
Foggy takes his phone away from his ear and looks at the time, it’s passed midday.
“I’m uh, this is me… calling in sick,” she drawls.
Foggy shakes his head and mutters, “so glad I didn’t drink as much as you.”
“Mmhmm,” Karen replies, completely ignoring what Foggy had said.
He puts on a stern tone in jest, “I’ll allow it. Now don’t make a habit of this Ms Page.”
Karen thanks him and promptly falls asleep again, snoring through the receiver. Foggy hangs up and places his phone back on the bedside table. He’s thankful Karen called, he was looking for an excuse to stay as long as he could and now that he didn’t have any sort of obligation to rock up to work he felt a bit more at ease. Besides, it wasn’t like his message bank was going to fill up in a day, he’d be lucky to even get a single phone call from someone other than a telemarketer.
He repositions his towel around his hips and wanders back through Matt’s living room, curving around the couch to the little round table. He takes a seat, the legs scraping across the cement floor. He rests his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand as he observes Matt working in the kitchen, sizzling this over the stove, cutting that up on a chopping board, mixing this, tossing that. He should probably be paying more attention to just exactly how Matt makes his food, he could actually learn how to make something other than spaghetti bolognaise. Except that it’s too mesmerising to watch, a man at work on his lauded craft, and Foggy forgets to pay attention to the specifics when he’s caught up in watching the dance of it.
“I’ve decided to take the whole day off,” Foggy announces, tucking hair behind his ear.
A grin erupts over Matt’s face as he pushes the contents of the pan on a plate. The grin seems to be imprinted on his face as he brings a plate and cutlery around the counter. He runs the back of his hand along the front of the counter, then cuts a calculated distance to the table, placing the plate gently down on the wood. Foggy instantly smells bacon, and eggs, and hollandaise sauce over lightly toasted and buttered bread. Cut tomatoes and a mix of herbs garnish the dish and instinctively he pulls the plate toward him. Matt runs his fingers along the wooden surface until he finds Foggy’s hands gripping the plate and he puts a knife and fork either side of the plate, grinning all the while.
He leans over and finds the salt and pepper from the centre of the table, but Foggy shakes his head.
“A good chef would be offended,” Foggy states, picking up the fork.
Matt smiles, biting his lip, and he returns to the counter to grab his plate. Foggy knows the etiquette is to wait until both diners have been seated but he can’t fucking wait. The scent of his brunch makes his stomach audibly grumble and it’s as if he hasn’t eaten in days when he takes his first (enormous) bite. Matt sits down beside him and by the time Matt has eaten about a quarter of his meal, Foggy has already devoured his entire plate. He sits back, his towel a bit tight around his stomach now and he watches Matt eat, messy but in a somehow elegant way.
Between bites, Matt muses, “I read that in France, couples sit beside each other rather than opposite, so that they share the same sight.”
“That’s cute but you’re blind and all I see is a brick wall covered in your awards.” Matt laughs and Foggy adds, “for a guy who can’t see how good looking you are, you’re pretty vain.”
Shrugging, Matt says, “it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
Matt bumps against Foggy’s shoulder and a flutter runs through his chest. He watches Matt eat as he works up the courage to speak the sentence that’s been caught in his throat since Matt helped him up in the alleyway.
As if sensing Foggy’s disquiet, Matt puts down his fork and feels around for Foggy, finding his arm and then covers his hand over Foggy’s, “how’s that hangover going?”
Blinking rapidly, Foggy’s hand feels not like his own under Matt’s touch, a ghost limb. It feels stiff and hot and his fingers tingle, like he’s been out in the cold and suddenly thrust his hands under running hot water.
“I’ve actually had worse. Having a good breakfast really helps,” Foggy replies, rubbing his stomach with his free hand.
Matt goes back to eating his breakfast and the moment he takes his hand off Foggy’s, it’s like the plug has been yanked out.
“You seriously don’t mind that I’ve seen your face?” Foggy asks, his cheeks reddening as he predicts the outcome of his questionings.
He chuckles, “I’ve heard you can search my name on this thing called Google Images. It doesn’t matter though, it’s the experience within the restaurant that matters, not whether or not a photographer gets a quality candid of my face.”
Foggy swallows hard, persevering, “I mean that I know you’re the face behind both your secret identities.”
Hovering his last scrape of food on his fork over his plate, Matt breathes, “both?”
Sitting up, Foggy continues, “you’re the guy in the mask.”
Matt places the fork back in his plate and slowly sits back, furrowing his brow.
“Dude, it was pretty obvious” Foggy begins, and trying to lighten the mood he says, “but man, you’ve seriously gotta get those kids sorted. Can’t let a thieving gang accost your patrons right outside your restaurant.”
Matt stays silent, completely still and it only makes Foggy even more nervous. He sits up straight, gripping the table, ready to push off it in case Matt actually turns out to be a serial killer cannibal. Glancing over at Matt, he’s expecting the guy to look furious, a face set to kill, but it’s quite the opposite. Matt hangs his shoulders, a soft smile on his face and he actually looks relieved.
Foggy pushes back his chair and stands up, starting to gather all the plates and cutlery together and he thought he should add, “don’t worry, I won’t be telling anyone else, it will be our secret.”
His eyes go wide as he brings the dishes over to the counter and it doesn’t really make sense to him but the words he’s just said, out loud, seem so honest to him. Completely the truth despite a supposedly inherent desire in humans to share their news with the world. And it’s then that he comes to terms with what Matt had said to him earlier. There’s some connection between them, some invisible coil strung between them that’s been pulling them together, fated to meet, and perhaps he was destined to win that competition.
Suddenly Matt leaps off his chair and rounds the counter to Foggy, swiping the dishes out of his hands and into the sink. He says “you don’t have to-“
“-I want to,” Foggy interrupts, trying to push Matt’s hands out of the way so he can get to the dishes.
Matt steps close and he covers Foggy’s hands with his, lifting them out of the sink and he says firmly, “I’ll clean up.”
Foggy’s hands twitch in Matt’s and he moves them to Matt’s hips, feeling the fine fabric of his pants. He brings his hands up either side Matt’s waist, finds the waist strap of the apron and traces it to Matt’s back, pulling at the strap to cut the distance between them. He should probably feel ridiculous that he’s still in only a towel in Matt’s kitchen but instead he feels totally at ease, the words he’d been worried would grant him a free ticket to a horrible death in Matt’s oven now out in the open, accepted.
“Let’s leave it til later,” Foggy breathes as he brings his hands over Matt’s sides, up to his shoulders, to the collar of Matt’s shirt.
He unbuttons the top button, granting access to his neck and he presses his lips against the nape of Matt’s neck, closing his eyes as he feels Matt sigh quietly into the touch. His body feels hot, from the bath, from the food, from being pressed up against Matt’s muscled chest and he feels Matt’s hands curve around his bare waist. He’s unsure if it’s Matt who pulls him in or if he’s magnetised to Matt’s body, but one way or another the gaps close between them, and he feels Matt’s bulge against his own, shamelessly swelling under the thin layer of towel. Foggy lifts Matt’s chin up dragging a thumb over Matt’s stubble, kissing his jawline and a tingly shiver waves through him. He finds it difficult to breathe through his nose so he pants unevenly through his mouth, planting breathy kisses over Matt’s cheek until he finds his lips.
Foggy closes his eyes, reminding himself to keep it slow. He curves his fingers around the back of Matt’s ears, folding them through his thick hair as he kisses Matt. His cock throbs beneath the towel and he teethes Matt’s tongue, taking his fingers down to the apron tied around Matt’s neck, tugging at the strings. The apron slips down Matt’s front and Foggy feels Matt’s hands around his waist, lifting him up on the counter beside the sink.
Surprised, he lets out a little gasp and hooks his chin over Matt’s shoulder as Matt kisses down the side of his neck. Foggy works on untying the waist strap of the apron, chucking it aside. He straightens his back, holding Matt’s chin in his forefingers and he pecks Matt’s lips, watching the way Matt licks the remnants of Foggy off his lips.
“This is way better than cleaning up,” Matt rasps.
Heat flushes Foggy’s cheeks as Matt hooks his fingers beneath the towel, runs them along his skin until he finds the ends of the towel and unwraps it, hoisting Foggy’s legs to pull him in close. Foggy moans, arching into Matt and his boner twitches, straining against the fabric of Matt’s dress shirt.
“Let’s make this a little more fair huh?” Foggy suggests, starting to unbutton the shirt.
Matt hums and he kisses Foggy’s neck as he moves down the buttons, nibbling small portions of skin as he goes. Foggy peels off Matt’s shirt, tosses it to the side and he slides his hungry hands over Matt’s sculpted torso. He circles his fingers around Matt’s nipples, then dips down to lick one, sucking gently. Matt breathes heavily and he places one hand over Matt’s heart as he takes the pink nipple in his teeth. Foggy can feel Matt’s heart thundering in his chest, the chef’s breathing erratic and Foggy hums as Matt presses his lips to Foggy’s head. Clutching Foggy’s shoulders, Matt snarls into Foggy’s hair, arching into the touch. Hot breathes skate over Foggy’s head and he feels Matt clawing at his shoulders so he sits back, just in time to see Matt entirely give up on trying to clench his teeth shut.
Foggy grips Matt’s taut bicep and asks, “is this too much?”
Matt shudders, shaking his head in a jolted fashion and he lets out a heavy moan, rubbing Foggy’s thigh. After a few moments of this, he licks his lips as he peels himself away from Foggy, unbuckling his belt.
“No,” he begins, leaving Foggy to perch on the counter as he yanks off his pants, “well, I’m a bit… sensitive,” he continues, moving his clothes together in a pile before returning to the sink beside Foggy. He flicks on the tap and Foggy cranes to check out Matt’s ass as the guy washes his hands. Matt drags his hand over his dick and washes off a mess and Foggy suddenly gets why Matt needed a breather in the bathroom.
“Oh,” Foggy mouths. He gently pulls Matt away from the sink, drinking in the sight of Matt’s flushed face, lips wet and parted.
When he thinks he’s got the sight imprinted in his memory, he peels himself off the marble counter to envelope Matt in a hug, his ear pressed against Matt’s chest, listening to him cool off. Matt’s arms curve around his waist and shortly after he feels Matt’s dick swelling against his abdomen. He presses his forehead against Matt’s chest and grins, trailing a hand down to Matt’s cock, slowly dragging his fingers over the skin of his shaft. Matt’s dick twitches in his touch and Foggy looks up at Matt, scanning his face.
“Ready for round two?” Foggy drawls, then presses a line of kisses from Matt’s ear down his jawline, to his chin, up to his lips.
Matt pants into his mouth, his hands feverish on Foggy’s back, feeling the bumps in his spine, down to his lower back and encircling his back dimples. Matt’s hips buck, jamming Foggy’s hand between them and Foggy laughs, wrenching it out and turns to slide his hands over Matt’s butt cheeks, pulling him in close. His hands act like suction cups over Matt’s skin, trying to suck the life out of him. It almost hurts to have both their cocks pressed so hard against each other, and Foggy playfully bites Matt’s shoulder.
Matt hangs his head, craning his neck to the heavens and he moans, “fuck, foggy…”
Grinning, Foggy watches Matt, draped in the orange glow of the billboard outside, his outline tinted in gold. He kisses Matt’s neck, softly bumping his adam’s apple and he trails wet kisses down Matt’s collarbone, across his chest, his sternum, down around his belly button and tickles the skin around his abdomen. He places his hands on Matt’s hips and swaps places, pushing Matt against the counter and he drops to his knees as he takes Matt’s dick in his mouth.
He sucks and tries to take in as much of Matt’s dick as his gag reflex could handle but Matt pushes hard against Foggy’s shoulders, wincing out an incoherent jumble of words. Just as he lets matt’s dick slide out of his mouth, Matt comes, a short spurt, and Matt claws through Foggy’s hair, moaning. Foggy catches a trail on his lips and he wipes it off with his hands, sitting back on his heels, watching Matt breathe through his ride.
Through his incessant panting, Matt finds Foggy’s arms, lifts him up and he turns for Foggy, pressing his ass against Foggy’s still hard dick.
“I’m sorry…” Matt breathes, stretching out on the counter and pushing away any clutter that might get in the way.
Foggy presses a kiss in the small of Matt’s back and says, “it’s fine, it’s, um,” he pauses, biting his lip, “really fucking hot to be honest. You sure you want me to fuck you?”
Matt nods viciously, spreading his legs and Foggy swears Matt’s flexing his ass muscles.
“Do you have lube in your bedroom?” Foggy says, rubbing circled in Matt’s back.
“Olive oil, shelf above the stove.”
Foggy swivels, spots the glass bottle and grabs it, “is this safe?”
“Yeah, it’s top quality,” Matt rasps and Foggy sees his hands turning white as they grip the counter.
“Only the best for the best chef in the world!” Foggy announces, pouring out a dollop on his right hand.
Matt tilts his head to the side and Foggy can tell he’s about to reply but Foggy interrupts him by finding Matt’s hole, lathering the oil inside. Matt gasps at the touch and Foggy feels Matt’s ass clench around his finger as he pushes the oil down Matt’s walls. His dick bumps against Matt’s thigh as he prepares Matt, slowly coaxing his muscles to loosen, teasing moans out of Matt as he twists another finger in. Heat coils in Matt’s throat, extending through his airways and veins and it gets to the point where he can’t tell if he’s lost his blood circulation or not because his body feels overcome with a tingling sensation.
The scent of olive oil lathers his nose and he presses a kiss on Matt’s back before he tackles his straining dick and presses it at Matt’s entrance, pushing in slowly. Foggy feels Matt’s muscles tense all over and Foggy secures his hands on Matt’s hips, plastering them in place with sweat. He thrusts his dick deep inside Matt, his eyes rolling back in his head as the heat around his dick triumphs over the heat boiling in the rest of his body. He pulls out almost all the way, feeling his dick slide against Matt’s hole and he stops his tip at the entrance, the temperature of the room a cool whisper on his shaft.
He pushes in again, still trying to take it slow but suddenly Matt jolts, shuddering, and Foggy bites his lip as Matt comes for a third time. The dude’s got a lot in him. Matt shakes his head, his hands on his neck and he tells Foggy not to stop, to keep going, keep fucking him, he’ll be fine. And Foggy watches Matt’s muscles clench as he slides out, pushes in, repeats, the golden glow casts over the gold medal, the trophy he’s not going to let anyone take from him. He hoists his hips, gets a better angle and he feels Matt’s ass loosen, feels his butt cheeks tighten, hears Matt gasp and pant and he reaches over Matt’s waist as far as he can reach, the sensitive skin just beside Matt’s cock. He massages that portion of skin, arms to long enough to jerk Matt off while he fucks the guy but close enough to tease, close enough to get that dick hard and weeping faster.
Matt pushes up against his dick every time, thirsting for more, suggesting a speed and Foggy takes it on board, starts to rut into Matt a little faster, a little deeper. He wrinkles his nose, teeth clenching as he finds Matt’s sweet spot, a guttural moan and Foggy hits it time and time again so that noise never stops, so that’s all Matt can do, panting and growling and he feels Matt trying to widen his stance, trying to get an inch closer but he steps on Foggy’s foot and this time it’s Foggy’s turn to come unexpectedly.
Matt moves his foot off Foggy’s and moans with him as Foggy comes, slowly coming off the high as he rides it out, three last pounds in the caverns of Matt Murdock. He slips out almost immediately afterwards, sliding down to the cold floor and he turns around, leans against the cupboards beneath the counter. He unintentionally slams his head back on the cupboards, wincing and Matt slips down beside him, rubs the back of Foggy’s head.
Foggy’s utterly wrecked, debauched, his hair sticking to his neck and his brow sweaty and the world seems like a dot painting, shifting and interlacing. He feels Matt beside him and he wraps his arms around him, their breathing erratic but somehow in sync and Foggy starts off smiling, then can’t stop laughing.
Matt stands on all fours on the ground, not ready to sit on any hard surfaces just yet, and Foggy presses his forehead against Matt’s, shaking his head. He can’t wipe a grin off his face, his cheeks are getting sore but it’s worth it because Matt’s mirroring him, a stupid grin on his face too and Foggy should pinch himself, just to make sure this isn’t all a dream. Buckling to his side, Matt rests his head against Foggy’s thigh and Foggy combs his fingers through Matt’s hair, humming in disbelief. Because yeah, Karen’s never going to believe this one.
Matt curls his legs together and asks, “will you stay tonight?”
Foggy blinks, baffled, “you… want me to? Don’t you have to work?”
Matt presses a kiss against Foggy’s thigh before replying, “I’m going to call in sick.”
Foggy playfully slaps Matt’s cheek, “you can’t do that, you’re the chef, you’re the reason the restaurant exists!”
“…I don’t want this to end,” Matt admits. He sits up, wincing, and Foggy feels Matt’s hand run across his stomach, up his chest, collarbone, neck, chin, pulls him in for a short kiss.
Foggy’s eyes flutter shut and he hums into Matt’s mouth. His heart beats out of his chest when Matt parts from him. He finds Matt’s hand and holds onto it tight, letting the chef rest his head on Foggy’s thigh again.
Patting Matt’s hair, Foggy whispers, “me neither,” then he clears his throat and loudly adds, “and I just want to clarify that I’m not really homeless. I mean, technically I am, but people live out of their work spaces all the time. It’s perfectly normal.”
Matt coos over his shoulder, “says the naked guy in my kitchen.”
x x x
Fanart by captainreverie
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