A/n -

Kinkmeme prompt: Gen or M/F Matt has no idea what Foggy looks like
So, in Daredevil #33, Matt has an incredibly angsty dream about him and Foggy. He sees himself as the same age he was when he was blinded, and he has to admit to dream!Foggy that how he looks is really subconscious guesswork because even after all the years they've been friends, Matt doesn't really know what Foggy looks like.

Anything with this. Do Matt and Foggy get drunk one night and Matt tries to describe what he thinks Foggy maybe looks like? If he has a 'picture in his head', what is it? Does someone describe Foggy to him for some reason and he doesn't click that they're describing his best friend, because it's completely different to his mental image? Go wild anons.

"Go on, just try! I'm curious. You can't blame a guy for being curious!"

Foggy is drunk. Matt is drunk too, but not quite as far gone as his best friend. Midterms are over and although it will be a long time before they get their results, celebrations are in order. Months of studying, weeks of intensive cramming trying to squeeze so much information into their brains that it felt like they might explode. It is time to relieve some of the pressure.

"I can't," Matt tells him.

They are in a bar just off campus, full of students with similar ideas. Matt doesn't enjoy crowds, they are difficult to navigate, hard to keep track of who is who. They make him feel less than capable, and that is not a feeling he enjoys.

The body heat and heartbeat that is Foggy sways noticeably, then laughs out loud at his own drunkenness. "Sure you can, buddy," he says. "You can do anything."

Matt frowns and takes another swig of his beer. The music is loud and overbearing and not particularly good. Someone bumps into him from his left side, slamming him unexpectedly into the bar. The alcohol is doing it's job, he should have been able to avoid that.

"Not everything," he shouts back over the music. "Not that."

Pictures don't mean a lot to Matt any more. Memories of his early childhood are photographs seared into his brain. Central Park on a bright summer's day; watching his dad in the ring; the interior of his church filled with parishioners on a Sunday morning. The brilliant blue of the sky broken by a single, pure white cloud. Then he had lost his sight, and slowly the pictures had begun to fade, flake away at the edges, grow yellow with age. Most nights, he doesn't even dream in pictures any more.

They stagger home slowly. Foggy starts to sing the lyrics from whatever song was playing when they left the bar. He sounds terrible, and Matt can't stop laughing. His laughter intensifies when Foggy trips over nothing at all and lands in a heap on the ground.

"Hey," Foggy is trying to sound offended through his own amusement, but it isn't convincing. "I'm injured over here. Not that you'd know, Mr doesn't-even-know-what-I-look-like."

Matt offers him a hand to pull him to his feet. Foggy takes it, but instead of pulling himself up, tugs hard, bringing Matt down on top of him.

"Ow!" Matt says pointedly.

Foggy laughs again. "Serves you right for laughing at me."

Matt tries to get to his feet, but the combination of beer and whiskey in his system keeps him down. In the end he gives up and resigns himself to a night on the grass somewhere that may, or may not, be on the campus. A giggle escapes from his lips again.

"Hey! You're laughing at me again!" Foggy complains.

Matt shakes his head. "I'm laughing at myself," he says. "I just realized I have no idea where I am. I'm totally lost."

"And that's funny?"

Matt giggles again. The world feels like it is spinning quickly to the left. "It's hilarious," he confirms.

"Come here," Foggy pulls him down again onto the grass, he finds himself laying on his back, Foggy's arm wrapped around him, facing upward to where he should be able to see the sky. The grass tickles his neck.

"Are there any stars out tonight?" Matt asks. "I can remember the stars. Never learned their names, though. Did you?"

Foggy shakes his head. "Nah, never interested."

"Me neither," Matt tells him. "Not till it was too late." He takes a breath and stares upward into the blank space above him. He imagines a sky full of stars, shining down just for him, and if he could he would name each and every one for Foggy. "I'm sorry I don't know what you look like," he says, suddenly overcome with grief at the thought.

"S'ok," Foggy slurs.

Matt rolls onto his side. "I bet you look amazing," he says.

Foggy snorts. "Guess again."

"Long hair," Matt tells him. He knows that for a fact, unless Foggy has cut it and neglected to mention the fact. "What color is it? No, don't tell me, I think it's a light color, blond or light brown."

Foggy opens his mouth to respond, Matt presses a finger to his lips to quiet him.

"Your skin is so soft," he says. "All of it." He brushes Foggy's lips with his fingertips, "but your lips are chapped," he adds. "You smell of apples, from your shampoo. It's nice, reminds me of summer. And there's mint from your toothpaste, and beer from tonight."

He can hear Foggy's heartbeat, slow and steady, relaxed under the tide of alcohol. He presses one hand to Foggy's chest and with the other taps out the rhythm of his beating heart onto his stomach. "Your heartbeat," he says. "I can feel it through your chest. Your body heat right now. The sound of your voice, the way you babble when you find yourself talking to someone you like… The way you make me feel like I'm just a regular guy. You're the only one who can do that, Foggy. Did you know that?"

Foggy shakes his head. He knows Matt can't see it, but he finds himself suddenly unable to speak.

"I know exactly what you look like," Matt tells him. He rolls onto his back again, he can still feel Foggy's familiar body heat, his heart beat, and his exact location, but the picture is so much clearer than that. "You look like my best friend," he says.

Foggy begins to move. The grass is comfortable, but the sun is beginning to rise and very soon there will be people starting to go about their daily business. He pushes himself up with considerable effort. "And you look terrible," he mutters. "But not as bad as you're going to feel tomorrow. And somehow you still look much more attractive than me."

He fights the way the world is spinning, and forces himself to his feet. Matt is still laying on the ground, his cane abandoned when he fell, glasses removed at some point and placed on the grass next to him. Foggy collects them both, pockets the glasses then grabs Matt's hand. He pulls him gently to his feet, snakes an arm around him and begins to move towards the dorm.

"You're beautiful, Foggy," Matt mutters as they walk.

Foggy shakes his head. "You're lucky you can't see, buddy. You'd be in for one hell of a disappointment."