"I can't breathe."
Foggy knew the night had been going too well. The alcohol was usually enough to soothe whatever beasts were lying in wait in the back of Matt’s mind (creatures Foggy still doesn’t have names or faces for, let alone tools to fight, but he’s starting to learn, to craft the weapons needed to save them both.) Tonight, however, it seems they were too careless, too relaxed, the promise of just one more drink and the silk sheets are still in the closet enough to earn Foggy another night in Matt’s presence. Another night he knows the man isn’t out risking his life in vain. They had gone to ground well over an hour ago, Foggy’s mind refusing to settle with the knowledge Matt was so close (yet still too far). He strained his ears, as if he could be the one to hear Matt’s breathing for once. It was that vigilance that left him hearing the sudden gasp, the scrabbling of hands against fabric, feet on hardwood, that was Matt’s quick and sudden escape.
It’s a testament to their friendship, the cobblestones of shared experience and trust still working themselves back into their predestined path, that Matt runs for Foggy’s bathroom, as opposed to his front door. Matt is too private to show his pain easily, and for so long, Foggy had been left behind a wall of half-truths and I’m fines that had him ready to scream. Now, though, Foggy’s left leaning with his forehead against the wood of the door, hand clasped uselessly around cold metal, just missing Matt pull the door shut behind him.
The door isn’t locked-- it doesn’t-- but Foggy refuses to just barge in. The trust they have is a wounded thing, it doesn’t need any more scars. He waits a few precious seconds, listening to Matt breathe, trying to calm his own frayed nerves.
“Matty, it’s me. I’m right here, partner. Can I come in?”
