Chapter Text
Summer heat formed visible heat waves just beyond the window to Foggy’s family butcher shop, Nelson’s Meats. Just the thought of stepping outside was enough to melt the soles of his sneakers.
Leaning against the glass case, he wished he were the chop of beef resting in its beautiful air-conditioned containment. Mrs. Johnson stood on the other end, her beady eyes narrowing on the price sign propped up against it, as if staring would magically lower the price. He’d lost track of how many times she did the same act throughout the summer. Nearly clockwork, the welcome bell would chime, and she’d show up ready to haggle for a discount.
“Hot dogs are much cheaper, you know,” she tutted.
“Frank’s Weenies is very busy this time of year,” he agreed with a smile.
Her finger tapped towards the cold cuts. “Wasn’t this a dollar cheaper last week?”
“You must be mistaken.”
Huffing, she wiped a sweat from her brow.
Beneath his apron, he was a pool of sweat. If I took off my shirt, I'd drown all of Hell’s Kitchen, he thought, pulling on the aprons’ straps.
Hopeful, he looked to the door.
A group of children screamed as they ran by. Craining his neck, he spotted a man with a salt and pepper beard striking a wrench to the fire hydrant across the street. As a soon-to-be lawyer, he should’ve called the police against the blatant unsanctioned access to the water, as a Hell’s Kitchen resident, he gleefully turned a blind eye. Memories of running through a busted fire hydrant as a kid played in the back of his head as his present self tried not to run into the spray of refreshing water.
Mrs. Johnson tapped her chin. “I need a moment.”
“Take your time.”
There wasn’t much business today. A few hours ago a teen came in, probably looking for a place to cool off, then promptly left when it was apparent it was equally hot inside the building as outside. Since then, it had only been Mrs. Johnson’s patronage that required him to watch the storefront.
Again, he looked to the door.
The searing heat was a perfectly rational reason why Karen or Matt wouldn’t visit today.
“Why don’t I get your usual?” he offered with a wink.
Pleased, Mrs. Johnson watched him load up a mix of meats punched in figures that were nearly double before adding the special discount she earned from her returned business.
It was the least shady practice any business in Hell’s Kitchen would do, one that he’d worked hard to justify. The discounts Mrs. Johnson truly wanted would not keep Nelson’s Meats afloat.
“You were always the best worker here,” she said, happily carting her things away.
Plastered smile dropping, he walked into the back room. The meat locker's cold embrace was heaven against the sticky mess he'd been puddling into for the last few hours.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked, securing the fridge’s door. “You know he rules.” His foot tapped against the doorstop.
“Is it my fault that our family prioritizes keeping the meat cooler than their own children?” he groaned.
“Are you going to do something about it or just complain?”
“Maybe I should write a strongly worded letter to the city about this infringement against humane working conditions.”
Dean scoffed.
“Fine. When I win my first trial, I’m buying AC for the whole house! It’ll be so cold we could rent it out as an ice skating rink!”
“That’ll be nice.”
Reaching into his pocket, Foggy checked on his phone. No new messages filled his inbox.
Dean’s arms folded. “Foggy... you good?”
“Yeah.”
The last text he had was from Karen, a few days after little Aimee was born. The invite to spend the night had been shut down for a summer camp job she’d taken on. He still wasn’t sure if he believed that was the truth. As for Matt’s whereabouts, he had no clue. It would be a complete lie if he said that he wasn’t disheartened by their absence.
“Those friends of yours,”
Jolting his eyes away from the screen back to Dean, he silently warned not to say a word.
Matt and Karen had their own lives; it didn’t take a genius to know that. They weren’t kids anymore, free to run around the neighborhood until the street lights came on. Foggy had decided the lack of visits from his friends was just an unfortunate side effect of growing up and not an indicator that somehow he had been simultaneously dumped and forgotten.
“I was just going to ask if things were okay.”
“Of course they are. They’re just busy.”
The end of last year assured at least two things: one, he’d be in a few classes with his friends, and two, Matt was going to be his roommate.
Dean raised his brow, clearly not convinced that he wasn’t hiding something.
Hiding anything from his family was nothing short than a disaster waiting to happen. Each of his family members had different methods to wring out the truth.
Hiding that he asked Matt out had never been the plan. After Matt accepted his proposal, he was ready to make one of Liz’s grand announcement dinners, had crafted ten different surprise I’m gay and have a boyfriend speeches, and began building up the courage to ask Dean and Liz for support throughout the whole thing. But everything had to be set to the side as attention drew to little Aimee going in and out of doctor's appointments. With the added realization that it was much harder to find Matt in Hell’s Kitchen than at the university, it made more sense to hold off on announcements of technically dating Matt.
It’s not like I know what I’m doing, he thought. Catching himself picking at his nails, he shook his hands apart.
“Foggy,” Dean sighed, the warm air forming small puffs in their cold surroundings. “You’re being stubborn.”
“You have a vendetta against my friends,” he playfully accused.
Dean smirked. “No one’s good enough for my little bro,” he ruffled his head.
“No one? You said Karen was growing on you.”
“Like mold. She's trouble.” Again, he crossed his arms over his chest. “And Matt,”
His heart clattered to the floor.
“Are you still trying to figure that out?”
“A bit,” he swallowed hard around the half-truth. Dean would deftly make a big deal that his technical boyfriend hadn't visited once all summer. The blame wasn’t Matt’s alone. Foggy knew he wasn’t exactly innocent in all this; he could’ve made efforts to see Matt, could’ve pushed through the irrational fear that he would burst into flames for staking out a church.
Dean tapped his shoulder. “You don’t need to rush things.”
“Please dont pack any reading material in my backpack.”
“It could come in handy.”
“Gross.” He pushed Dean’s arm away.
“Perfectly natural part of life.”
Making a T shape with his hand, he called a timeout. “I don’t need to hear all that right now.”
“Okay, but when you do have questions about all that, you should ask. Things are different when you’re with a guy.”
“Noted.” He felt his whole body temperature rise. “I’m a thousand billion light-years away from that, so please stop.”
Throwing his hands up, Dean stepped back. “Had to give some brotherly advice before you head back tomorrow.”
****
Tomorrow was all Matt could think of as he sat through mass. Imagining what Foggy would say when they reunited instead of following the priest’s homily was an action teetering on blasphemous. The mere thought of Foggy’s smile was more than enough to turn a deaf ear to the teachings reverberating around him.
“Finally got bored hearing the same bible stories?” Eddie whispered once the majority of the crowd had disbursed.
“Afraid I’m about to be struck by lightning?”
Eddie hummed in a way that he’d correlated with amusement.
Summer’s Sunday masses had cemented the truce between them. A part of him wanted to thank Eddie for putting into clarity how far he still needed to go to become, as Eddie put it, “less of an asshole”. Although Father Lantom’s heart did a disappointed dip each time he spotted them together in the pews, Matt was sure the man appreciated his renewed devotion to his faith.
The kind thing would be to reassure Father Lantom that he and Eddie were not returning to how things once were, but confidence in believing things were truly different was shaky. He was still working at The Scratch Club, still returning to the orphanage with cuts or bruises here and there when Elektra approved his dog fighting, and still shackled with guilt and shame that watched over his daily deceptions. The only difference this time around was the held promise that he would put more effort into not severing the tentative bonds he held, especially with Karen and Foggy.
A small smile tugged on his lips just thinking of Foggy.
All summer, he had restrained himself from detouring along the way to The Scratch Club just to listen in on the events of the Nelson’s household. After the newborn scare, he was sure Foggy was in full protective uncle mode. Vividly, he could imagine Foggy’s fortress of pillows against every sharp object around the house.
“You can’t be that excited to get back to school,” Eddie said, rising from his seat. The tap against his shoe signaled that he should get up as well.
“Some people do enjoy gaining knowledge through academics.”
Leather wafted in the air as Eddie shook out his gloves. “I prefer learning on the job.”
“Reporting going well?”
“This is New York, plenty to write about.” Eddie actually sounded happy, even when they were “together”, that was a rarity. “What?” Eddie asked.
“Nothing.”
He knew Eddie would be the first to call bullshit if he told him that their truce was nice. It was more than nice how they could sit for hours without barbed words or fists. With every mass or small talk shared, he could feel the beginnings of actually rebuilding the bridge he’d burned down between them.
Eddie's back straightened, letting him know that he was most likely glaring at the small group of old ladies gawking at this motorcycle. The scent of caramels in musky bags followed their scattering feet.
“Hey.” Eddie pulled out his key.
On the last step, he hesitated
Transitioning their truce beyond these sacred grounds was still a work in progress. Parting every Sunday still held that unspoken tension of this being the start of another fight. He still didn't know how to fortify these olive branches.
“You want a ride?”
It had been years since he’d last been on a ride with Eddie; those times had been filled with exhilaration and copious amounts of recklessness. If he was remembering correctly, the last time he’d been on that motorcycle was a few nights before...
Gripping the hilt of his cane, he prodded it at the minuscule drop from step to street level. “Raincheck?”
A symphony of crinkled leather announced Eddie’s shrug. “If you’re late tonight, I’m not covering your,” Eddie’s head turned to look past him. “A-s-s.”
Smiling at the attempt to withhold swearing near church, he settled more firmly on the last step. “I won’t be.”
Fisting his helmet, Eddie swung a leg over the seat. Hesitation dripped off every move. The distinct smell of stress peppered into his pores.
Tugging at the edge of his collar, Matt tried to lessen the sun’s magnifying attention.
Seeming to change his mind about something, Eddie put on his helmet and drove off.
Maneuvering through the iron gates, he swept his white cane over the uneven rock path to the small church garden. The orphanage was so close, yet today the distance felt nearly as daunting as when he received his acceptance letter to Columbia University. It was ironic how last year he dreaded being away from the orphanage, and now he couldn’t handle remaining in the room he'd occupied since a child.
By every measurement he painstakingly made that room exactly to his liking, desk facing towards the window to catch what little breeze past during studying, bedding light and washed in the one detergent that didn’t set the sensation of fire ants biting at his skin, closet sorted precisely to avoid accidental color clashing, and even his floor space was divided to allow for noon workouts. Up until last year, he had considered it to be the most perfect thing in his life.
Now stepping inside highlighted all that was missing: the smell of coconut shampoo, boxes stacked in the corner, the flapping of posters against the wall, and the constant sound of humming or pacing. The first nights of summer, he’d been unable to sleep without Foggy’s heartbeat accompanying him in the room. For two weeks straight, he had to remind himself not to wait around for Foggy whenever his watch informed him of the time.
I’ll see him soon, he thought.
“Matthew!” Father Lantom's voice called out. Soil crumpled off his gloves as he motioned for him. “Care to spare a helping hand?”
“Of course.” Left hand outstretched, he found the edge of the flower bed. “Needs more water,” he pointed to the middle pot. Tracing up the stem, he tracked each leaf. Even with his light touch, he could feel the beginning of wilting from the scorching heat.
“To have a green thumb,” Father Lantom began.
“-You need to know what to look for,” he finished the man’s sentence.
“Exactly. People are more like plants than we think. They require proper care. If we listen to the needs, they grow; one might need water, a turn of soil, or a larger pot to grow into.”
“If this is your way of kicking me out of the orphanage,”
A strong hold clasped around his shoulder. “You are purposefully misinterpreting my words.”
That was only partially true. Reality was that he couldn’t spend his entire life on the charity Father Lantom provided. How much longer could he overstay his welcome had to be a common thought amongst the church. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. He hadn’t been in a long time.
“I’m working towards getting my own place.” The second he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.
Shame crawled up onto his back. “Ungrateful leech,” it muttered in his ear.
“When,” Father Lantom said with a careful calmness, “you do get a place for yourself, I'll celebrate that achievement, but know that you are not being forced out, Matthew.” Tapping on his shoulder, Father Lantom turned to face the flower bed once more. “It's important to learn what you need to thrive. You've grown since last year, be wary not to regress.”
“I understand.”
***
“Basement, sweet basement!” Karen greeted her cramp home. Toeing off her boots, she face planted into the bed that had gone untouched all summer. Its slight moldy smell was heaven compared to the overtly perfumed rooms of Felicia’s place. Every muscle ached, protesting even scrounging for the abandoned flipphone that was not allowed in the Nine Lives meetings.
Jamming in the charger, she opened the lengthy list of messages: two came from her dad, five from telemarketers, and ten from Foggy.
Smiling, she clicked on the first dated two months ago.
“Hey, it’s Foggy...” Hearing his voice was like a cool bath. “Guess you're still at summer camp. Call me back when you can.”
Clicking the down button, she let the next voicemail play.
“Hypothetically, if I were to get to this summer camp, would there be openings as a counselor? Do I have any experience? No, but what I lack I make up for with enthusiasm. Plus, I have a large group of people who could write a character reference letter. Does that help my chances? I’m great with kids, at least I think I would be great with kids. Did I tell you that they named their little girl Aimee? I was worried they’d never pick one. Could you imagine that? I-” the voice mail cut off.
“Didn’t realize I got cut off. I talk too much, don’t I? Bet you don’t miss all my yammering. This will be my last voicemail. Just hoping that you’re doing alright.”
“Okay, so I’m a huge liar,” the following voicemail started. “But you should call me back sometime. What camp doesn’t allow phones?”
“I’ve been thinking about this whole no phone situation. Isn’t that dangerous? What if there’s a serial killer in the woods? If I knew the address, I’d come get you right away! Stay away from guys with machetes in hockey masks!”
“If you are reported missing, I’m suing the camp! I’m going to full-on tear that place apart!”
Voicemail number seven consisted of lots of muffled sounds.
“Sorry about that last voicemail. Completely buttdialed you.”
“By now, you have to have made it out of that summer death camp. I bet you completely took down that machete-wielding murderer. You’re going to show up to school boasting about it, aren’t you... Maybe I’ll make a cake. I make cakes now. Nothing too fancy.”
Finally, the last message played.
“Is there AC where you're at? I’m living in a sauna. Next time you see me, I’ll have to be carried in a jar. You think Matt would date me if I were a jar of jelly?” Foggy laughed to himself. “Sorry, it’s the heat. I shouldn’t be blowing up your phone. I’ll see you soon?”
Flipping over, she watched the voicemail train come to an end.
Tomorrow seemed so far away while the months apart had come and gone in a blink.
“I can’t wait to hear everything,” She smiled, imagining the sticky-sweet summer Foggy had planned out for Matt. Despite exhaustion, she got up from the bed.
Leaving her car to rest, she walked along the street towards Nelson's Meats.
The carefully crafted world she’d spent the summer in had lacked all the charm her portion of the city had to offer. Hell’s Kitchen air was thick with hot garbage. Her nose crinkled at the swarm of rats lounging in sweating garbage bags. Runny streaks from a cracked egg sloshed towards the shoes of children succeeding at cooking it on the sidewalk. Every window of every building she passed was wide open, fans oscillating helplessly.
That makes it so easy to break in, she thought.
The revving of an engine sped through the street. Just glancing at the motorcyclist clad in leather was enough to drench her in renewed sweat.
“Idiot,” muttered a woman waiting at the crosswalk.
Turning her head, Karen’s heart stopped at the sight of the woman. Her tank top showed off her defined shoulders as she leaned against the busted traffic right button. Tension followed her every move like a drawn bow ready to fire. The high ponytail of her midnight black hair complemented the splashes of red eyeshadow and red form-fitting pants.
I’m so gay, she thought, fighting to keep her looking respectful. I swore off hot women, she reminded herself begrudgingly.
The bell on her bracelet rang.
“Is that an agreement or an argument?” she muttered.
The woman gave a scant glance towards her before crossing the street. Cars honked, but the woman invincibly walked on.
Heart dropping to the floor, Karen cursed herself for not checking the woman’s wrists.
“Why would Felicia stop at nine minions? The whole cat aesthetic is so dumb anyway!” she grumbled. “Cat burglar. So on the nose it’s almost embarrassing.” Shaking her head, she filed away the interaction for later dissection. New York was filled with all sorts of people, and if that woman was another one of Felicia’s so-called partners, it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed again.
Jumping over large puddles of water, she safely crossed over to the beautiful, chipped painted exterior of Nelson’s Meats. The closed sign flipped in the window didn't deter her. A couple of jiggles of her lock picks let her right in.
“Oh!” Mrs. Nelson’s head jutted out from the backroom. Her hands wiped against her apron as her eyes looked to the door. “I was sure I locked that.”
“You have to be careful with older doors...I could leave.” She took a step back.
“And have my son upset that I chased his friend away?” There was a slight dig in Mrs. Nelson’s voice. Even as she motioned her in, Karen was sure she was keeping a close eye on her.
I should add no breaking in to the friendship rule, she thought. “Did you have a good summer?” she asked, breaking the weird tension between them. Mrs. Nelson was a kind woman, but there was a strong underlying current that screamed, “I don’t trust you”.
From that first meeting at Christmas, Karen was sure Mrs. Nelson knew something. That somehow all it took was one look to reveal the narcissistic user she was deep down. Or worse, that Mrs. Nelson knew of her family. Even now, she wanted to ask which was it. The answer to that question was nothing short of opening Pandora's box. She didn’t know the full extent of the Page’s influence in Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t as if her family were some mob-level entity, but what little she did know of her brother’s actions had created a lot of pain.
I’m not like them.
“Something on your mind?” Mrs. Nelson asked, instead of leading her upstairs, she motioned toward one of the back rooms where some spare meat had been left on the chopping block.
“New school year. Lots to do.”
Nodding, Mrs. Nelson picked up her meat cleaver. “Do not hurt my boy. I hope that I’ll only have to tell you once.”
Gripping her bracelet, she nodded. Just as shame settled in her chest, anger began to bubble. A Page has no right to be here, that’s what you think, isn’t it? Whatever they did to your family, I’ll fix it.
The meat cleaver hitting the chopping block filled the silence.
“Mrs. Nelson,” Tampering down her anger, she pulled conviction into her voice. “I love Foggy.”
Mrs. Nelson’s eyes widened.
“If I ever hurt him, I’ll let you sever me up.” She motioned towards the meat grinder.
Face scrunching slightly, Mrs. Nelson turned away. “I didn't realize you were so morbid,” she chuckled a little. “Though I suppose I started it... I’m sorry.”
“I’ve been threatened worse,” she said before able to stop herself. “Foggy is always threatening to take me to court.”
Mrs. Nelson’s face paled a little. “Is it horrible that I want him to change his mind about that?” she whispered.
“Not at all.” Knowing how soft-hearted Foggy was made it hard to imagine him as a ruthless lawyer. “Though if you saw him in mock trials he has with Matt, you’d be very impressed.”
“Mom, who are-” Foggy’s voice preceded his steps into the room.
Strangely, she expected him to somehow look drastically different, but he’d kept a clean-shaven face, his long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and those gorgeous eyes were so large she couldn't help saying: “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In two quick strides, he enveloped her in a crushing hug that stung every bruise that hadn’t quiet healed over yet. Dealing with the slight pain she gave her all into reciprocating the hug. Like the rest of the room, he smelled like meat and was a bit too warm, but still, she didn’t dare tear away from the hands pressed against her back, swaying them.
Thousands of questions flashed across his face when the hug did come to an end. She hadn’t created a believable story to explain it all yet, but that didn't matter.
“What are you doing here?”
“Having a chat with your mom.” She tilted her head towards the rather pink-faced woman.
An equally embarrassed huff snuck out of Foggy. “Do you need any help with that, Mom?”
Face turned downward, Mrs. Nelson waved them away.
Karen wasn’t sure if the action was considered a good or bad thing. Deciding to deal with the slight animosity later, she let Foggy drag her upstairs straight into his room. Aside from the wall-to-wall covering of posters and stacked shelves, it wasn’t all that different from the dorm room. It even had the boxes all set to take up the dorm’s corners tomorrow. Walking around, she tried to find clues of Matt’s influence on the space.
“Brought back your Fleetwood Mac CD.”
“I never lent it to you.” Walking towards his CD display, Foggy ran a finger down the spines of each one in his collection.
Giving an innocent pout, she batted her eyelashes. “I distinctly remember you saying what’s mine in yours.”
“Do you have any evidence of this supposed conversation?”
“Do you have any to contradict my impeccable memory?”
“My own memory.”
“Well, I took it.” She waved it around. “Got me throughout summer and now I’m returning it.” Lightly, she tapped the CD on his nose.
“For future reference, borrowing implies an agreement to take and then return an item.”
“Are we starting trials already?” she smirked. “I’m way more interested in what you did all summer.” She nudged his shoulder.
“Well,” Foggy began to mess with his hair.
“Shh, no, not yet. I want details which I know you will not give me here,” she motioned to his room. “So save it for tomorrow. I can interrogate you both at the same time.”
Foggy’s eyes looked slightly down, his chest rising with a deep breath before looking at her again. “It’s good to see you again.”
She squeezed his hand tight. “Still worried about me?”
“Constantly.”
“I got all those voicemails. And still alive.”
Alive was much better than fine. She wasn’t fine, not in the sense that Foggy could accept. Things had been brutal, awkward, and for a brief moment, terrifying. All that Foggy could never know. She was alive, here, and so happy to see his face.
Playfully, she tapped his cheek. “You should do one more shave tonight. Don’t want to be cutting up someone’s face when you’re smooching.” Dramatically, she puckered her lips.
Soft, careful hands cradled around her cheeks, then a prickly chin rubbed against her face.
Laughing, she tried to avoid the sandpaper texture. “Stop!”
Right away, Foggy ceased his torment. “You can't just show up and insult me.”
“It’s not an insult, it's advice,” she countered.
“Just like how you borrow my things,” he said with air quotes.
“Now you're insulting me?” she mocked shock. “After I braved the sweltering heat to see you, this is how I’m treated?” Pressing a hand against her forehead, she stumbled. “Oh, I’m feeling faint.”
Falling backward, large soft hands caught her. Cracking one eye open, she caught Foggy shaking his head.
“We both should’ve gone into drama.” Slowly, Foggy lowered them so that her head now rested against his thighs as he sat on the floor. From this angle, the light above gave him a glowing ring around his blond hair.
“Not too late to rope Matt into it. Give me a few minutes in the database, and I can change our majors.”
“I’m sure Matt will know something’s up once we're told to recite Shakespeare.”
“You said he sculpts, therefore he’s a secret artsy kid.”
Foggy seemed to actually think over her words. Mindlessly, his fingers raked through her hair. Tired eyes begged to close.
“Any sculpting sessions lately?” She pressed a hand against his open mouth. “No, save it for tomorrow. Damn, I should’ve dragged him over too.”
Taking her hand off his mouth, Foggy sighed, “That would’ve been nice.”
“Easy, lover boy. How long has it been since you’ve seen him last, a few hours?”
Again, Foggy’s eyes averted hers. “Do you want to stay the night?”
Yes, she thought even as she regretfully removed herself from the comfortable position. “If I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from interrogating you. Plus, you’re going to be sooooo sick of seeing me this year. Oh, we should think of a new friend code word to use when I should give you and Matt some alone time.” She wriggled her eyebrows up and down.
“Karen!”
“Think about it. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Meet at the cafe?”
She nodded. “Our spot.”