Title: Firsts, Seconds, and Thirds
Author: Prentice
Rating: Mature
Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Eventual Romance
Pairing: Eventual Matt/Foggy; references to canon-compliant Matt/Claire and Foggy/Others
Warnings: Adult language and sexual situations.
Summary: Foggy's life has always been made up of a series of firsts, seconds, and thirds.

Author's Note: This was inspired by a prompt on the daredevil kink meme asking for Matt and Foggy sharing a first kiss. Obviously, this doesn't exactly answer the prompt since it eventually goes beyond a simple friendship fic and it's not exactly a 'first' they're sharing in the traditional sense. Even so, I really liked the idea and wanted to write something exploratory for it.

The next part will be posted next Thursday. Enjoy!

Part 1

Foggy is nine years old the first time he kisses a girl. Or, well, okay, he's nine years old the first time a girl kisses him. It's a distinction that his nine year old self isn't really capable of making, but his older self feels the need to point out if only because, as far as first kisses go, that one had been pretty – well, not awful, exactly, but then again not great either.

Average, maybe. Mediocre. Right on par with everyone else's first kiss.

He doesn't remember the girl's name now – Jenny, maybe? Jessica? – but he remembers the kiss. Remembers the way she'd smashed her mouth against his own; her lips just kind of there all of a sudden, pushing against his. They'd been dry and strangely soft, the awkward angle she'd forced their lips together pushing them harder against one side of his mouth than the other and making them drag against his cheek as she pulls away.

He doesn't remember what happened after that. He thinks maybe she'd run away – or he had – or maybe they both had. He doesn't know and can't remember; the only clear memory being of the kiss itself.

It's not a big deal though.

He thinks maybe that's just how it is for everyone: remembering but not remembering. Time and age pulling away at the finer details until the only thing left is vague impressions and imprecise recollections. Things that you try to remember when someone or something reminds you of it.

Only, that idea doesn't really work, does it, because Foggy remembers his second kiss – his second first kiss – as clearly as the day it happened. Which is – kind of telling in retrospect. Kind of really telling in retrospect, but he's never claimed to be anything other than profoundly normal and because of that, he – like almost every other kid – doesn't really get what that means until later.

Much – much – later.

Foggy is twelve years old the first time he kisses a boy. This time he's the one doing the kissing. Another distinction that's weirdly important to his older self if only because it goes both better and worse than his other first kiss.

Better because it feels good. Great. Better than he ever imagined it would.

He remembers it's with Brett because of course it's with Brett. It would always have to be with Brett because, up until high school, Brett is his best friend. Also, kind of his worst enemy, but mostly his best friend, and that seems to be good enough for both of them until those rocky years where puberty and high school hierarchy tear them apart.

Their friendship – already kind of crumbling around the edges by this point – suffers a further collapse from the kiss. Though it's not for the reasons some people might think it would be. Brett is surprisingly cool and calm about the kiss, for all that he doesn't seem to particularly enjoy it. Not like Foggy does.

He's willing to try it again, though, when Foggy asks him to – and, yeah, it feels just as good the second time. Brett's lips are warm and soft and a little bit damp from where he'd been sipping on his lemonade. He tastes tartly sweet and oddly spicy and…

It's – good. Really good. Almost too good. But…

Only for Foggy, because Brett doesn't – didn't – want to do it anymore. Not after that second time, when Foggy tries to press his tongue clumsily against Brett's mouth and use his teeth the way he'd seen that guy do in the movie his sister had been watching last night when she thought he was asleep.

It doesn't work out.

At least, not like it had in the movie.

Far from falling into his arms like the girl from the movie had, Brett pushes him away, bottom lip sluggishly bleeding, the look on his face somewhere between confused anger and uneasy betrayal. He doesn't like that, he says, tone conveying a weirdly wounded finality because he doesn't understand why Foggy bit him.

Looking back on it, Foggy doesn't know why he did either. It's not like he knew what he was doing. It had just seemed like a good idea at the time and he'd followed the impulse when Brett had said 'yes' because – well, he'd wanted to try it and Brett was his friend – his best friend, even.

Well, best worst friend. Worst best friend. Whatever.

Only, not anymore, and while Foggy knows that that kiss isn't exactly the cause of their growing apart, he still can't help but feel like it pushed them a little quicker towards the inevitable. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, he thinks, because life tends to be a series of choices and consequences and this is just another result from one of them. Still, though, he remembers that kiss – those two kisses – far better than the other one.

It's inevitable, really, that that kiss – well those two kisses – come back to him sometime later, after things start going a little sideways in his life. The memory flows over him like water, washing away the exhaustion, the tears and reminding him of how sometimes choices are made, and consequences are paid. That's just the way life is.

For him, anyway.