Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, do you know a good place to get a cup of coffee around here?” Foggy asks from his twin bed across to his roommate.

“No.” Matt answers simply.

“Well lucky for you, I do. And it’s filled with luscious co-eds!” He smiles as he emphasises the latter sentence. He pauses, “shall we?”

Matt smiles and shakes his head with open arms. “Lead the way.”

Objective set, Foggy shuts and throws his laptop to the end of his bed.

“Let’s explore!” He gushes as he stands and moves toward the door, opening it for his new roommate.

“So, what’s the deal? What’s your major?” He inquires as they meander down the hallway, reflexively looking toward Matt.

Matt looks ahead, his cane guiding their way through the dorm corridors. He smiles as he speaks.

“Philosophy. But my ultimate goal is law school. I’ll be starting as soon as I finish my undergrad here.” Now looking forward, Foggy nods.

“Oh nice. I’m trying for law school too. Doing political science now and I’ll take the LSAT in my last year. Could be good to study together? If you’re a study group kinda guy. I like to think I am… but if I’m honest… just because I like it doesn’t mean it does me any good. I’ll definitely make friends, but I don’t think I’ll make any actual progress academically speaking. But hey, that’s the college experience right? Meeting people? Making friends?”

“I mean… yeah I agree… making friends and meeting new people is absolutely part of the college experience. But academics is important too, no? Especially if we want to get into law school.”

“We? Maybe we should be study buddies after all. I’ll concede that, yes… maybe we should keep it to two. You know… for academic reasons. After all, law school is the ultimate goal. Friends can be gathered elsewhere.”

“I think I like that idea. I’ll admit I have a bit more of an independent approach to study. But body-doubling can’t hurt.”

They reach the end of the corridor and the edge of Matt’s cane drops. Foggy looks to Matt again.

“Third floor isn’t too bad. Only one set of stairs for us to conquer.” Matt nods, before adjusting his glasses and opening his mouth to speak.

“Hey, do you mind…. if I-uh… if I go down the left side? I just prefer to hold the railing so I don’t go tumbling down the stairs. Wouldn’t make for the best first impression.” Foggy’s eyes widen as he steps back.

“Oh absolutely! Sorry… didn’t even think about that. I’m right-handed anyway.” He steps back allowing Matt to swap spots. They walk down the stairs and Foggy is confronted by a girl walking up the stairs, boxes in hand.

“Oh sorry! Wasn’t even looking.” She says, taking one step backward. Matt stops too as Foggy steps up and behind him.

“Nah don’t worry. You’re the one with the boxes. I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“Thanks.” She mutters toward Foggy as she continues up the stairs. Foggy watches her while he rejoins Matt and they finish their way down the stairs. Before they walk through the common room and toward the exit, Matt stops and looks toward Foggy.

“Hey, sorry if this is weird but would you mind if I hold on to your arm? I’m not super familiar with this space yet and don’t want my shins to find tables.”

Foggy gestures his arm toward Matt, “Not weird at all.” Matt smiles sheepishly as he looks down and reaches toward Foggy’s elbow. Foggy leads the two of them through the common room and pushes the double glass doors open.

“She was pretty.” Foggy announces as he stops on the concrete just outside the entrance.

“The girl with the boxes?” Matt responds.

“That’s the one. Wonder if she’s on our floor. Guess we’ll find out eventually.”

“Hmm… for now, the ‘luscious co-eds’?” Matt asks, forming quotation marks with his hands as his cane rests against his stomach.

“Absolutely absolutely. Can’t lose sight of our goal. Let’s head this way, to your left.” Foggy nods and, again, extends out his arm.

It’s still warm and sticky in New York as they explore campus. Foggy takes in the greenery growing harmoniously among the historic buildings. Matt breathes in deeply as a subtle breeze drifts through the trees. He hears giggling between friends as they pass him and Foggy. Hasty footsteps from someone probably desperate to find their dorm. Slow and heavy stomps followed by a thud, then a sigh, as someone presumably drops a box of possessions destined for their room. Matt hums to himself as Foggy’s arm pulls him in a different direction.

“Alright, here we are. Shall we?” Foggy theatrically gestures his right arm toward the door for no one’s benefit- aside from his own- as he reaches and pulls the door handle.

“Let’s do it.” Matt agrees as he follows suit. The hum of a coffee grinder, the screaming of steaming milk, the chattering of ‘coeds’ and the occasional “Flat White for Claire. Flat White for Claire? Claire?” bounce around the walls of the cafe. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath as the door shuts behind them.

Now consciously aware, he closes his eyes and pushes out a deep exhale.

It’s loud.

He expected this. He really did. He knew college would be very very… loud. While this may not be surprising, it is still jarring. But Matt will adjust. He always has, and there’s no excuse nor reason why he can’t adjust now. Stick would say the same thing.

“What’s your order?” Foggy cuts through the messy soundscape and Matt focuses his hearing onto each of Foggy’s syllables. It wasn’t as loud now.

“Long black. Americano. No milk or anything like that.”

“Simple. I need a bit of half-and-half myself; tend to go for a latte. Queue’s short, let’s order.”

They walk forward and wait just 5 minutes before Foggy gestures for Matt to go first. He orders. Foggy orders. They’re not far from the bench for long before “Long black for Matthew” and “Latte for Franklin” cut through the tumultuous soundscape.

Matt pockets his folded cane and grabs his coffee. Foggy by his side, Matt holds his elbow and is lead back outside.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit.” Matt suggests. Nodding, Foggy pulls him forward and they, in tandem, walk through campus.

“This is a good spot. There’s a bench just to your right there.”

Together, they sit and sip their coffees. An inevitable question is raised.

“So, tell me about yourself!”

Matt takes a sip from his coffee and adjusts his glasses. He breathes in, then out, before deciding how to answer that question.

Chapter Text

Matt looks ahead and holds his coffee in both hands as he begins to answer that fateful question.

“I ah- I feel like you already know quite a bit.” He nods his head toward Foggy and shifts upright, as he forces out an airy laugh and adjusts his glasses. “I mean… you know I’m from Hell’s Kitchen. You know that my dad was ah- my dad was Battlin’ Jack- Jack Murdock.” He swallows. “I lost my sight when I was nine. Or as you said ‘got my peepers knocked out’ when I pushed that guy out of the way of a truck.” He smiles at the floor. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, still smiling weakly. “There’s not really much more to tell if I’m honest.” He’s deflecting. “What about you, Foggy? I know nothing about you!” Matt clears his throat and lifts the coffee to his lips again as he shifts uncomfortably on the bench.

Foggy pauses before he speaks, looking Matt up and down as he watches him fiddle with his glasses once again. He’s not convinced, there’s absolutely more to Matt than that. Paradoxically, the lack of elaboration convinced Foggy even further that there would be a lot more to learn about his new roommate. Not now though. That wouldn’t be fair. For today, that’s as much as he’s going to learn.

“Well, same as you: from Hell’s Kitchen. Lived there all my life and my family is still there. My dad owns a butchery down there. Up until…” he interrupts himself, “When did we apply for college admissions? God it wasn’t that long ago I should remember… I guess I’m just cloudy on details. Oh well, I don’t know maybe this time last year during senior year? Let’s go with that.” He gets back on track. “Anyway anyway, that butchery was going to be mine. Well not mine, but I was going to take it over once my dad retires. Which will likely be very soon. Though I have strayed a little from what they expected, wanting to go to law school and everything, they’re not mad at all. My younger brother is working with dad now, he’ll take it over from him. I may not be in charge but I know I’m entitled to some cheap ham. I can hook you up!”

Matt chuckles at that and finishes his coffee.

“That’s a pretty good reason to keep you around. I might just take you up on that offer.”

Foggy chortled in response. He stretched his arms out above his head and scratched his scalp with a yawn.

“Well, it’s been a long day and this Latte is yet to kick in. Finished yours?” He gestures toward the cup in Matt’s hand.

“Mhm.” He answers. “Head back to our dorm? I’ve got to check on my classes again- make sure I’ve done everything right.”

Foggy sighs. “Oh yeah good idea. I guess I’ll do a final check too. Let’s get going. I can take that.” He points toward Matt’s hand though realises he probably doesn’t know what he’s referring to. “Oh uh I can take that cup I mean.”

Matt grins and laughs, “I figured”, while handing the cup to Foggy. He stands and offers his hand to Matt. Matt reaches into his pocket for his cane and stands unassisted. ‘Obviously’ Foggy notes. Snapping his cane out Matt reaches for his elbow and asserts to Foggy,

“Lead the way.”

They’re walking again. Foggy’s still admiring the campus and Matt notices that it’s quieter now. Other students are meandering not scurrying. Footfalls are softer and intermittent. The breeze drifting through the greenery and buildings is still subtle, but now cooler.

Once the glass doors of the dorm are opened, Matt is confronted by a tidal wave of chattering, giggling and shouting. The common room was at capacity.

“Want to stick around?” Foggy asks Matt. Flicking the handle strap of his cane between his fingers and looking down he replies,

“I kind of need to check those classes… You’re welcome to stay though. I’m a bit more familiar with the space now. I can find my way back.”

“Ok ok I do kind of want to stay… let me take you to our room first though.”

“Thanks Foggy, I appreciate that.”

Foggy leads Matt through the growing crowd and they’re back at the stairwell. He stops abruptly. Consequently, so does Matt.

“Oh! Ah sorry… just heading down…” A female voice meets them.

“You’re good. Hold on… we bumped into you earlier right? Opposite directions and box-less this time.” Foggy responds.

“I mean… yeah… I think so.”

Matt stands at Foggy’s side and smiles while looking in her general direction.

“Right! Is this your dorm? Third floor? I’m Foggy. This is Matt. We’re roommates.”

“Oh, cool. I’m Mira. Third floor as well. Maybe I’ll see you around?” She smiles at Foggy and slips past the two of them. “Excuse me.”

Foggy smiles as she passes and pauses again as she disappears into the crowded common room. Matt pulls on his elbow.

“You’ve absolutely gotta stay now. You bumped into her twice, could be something there? I’m good to go up the stairs.”

“No no there’s no way you can guess which room is ours. I’ll still take you.”

“Ok fine. Let’s be quick then.”

Foggy practically runs through the hallway and Matt is forced to match his pace. Matt learns the location of their room once they halt.

“We should put something on the ground here to let you know you’re at your room. Maybe one of those rubber marker things?”

“Yeah, maybe. That’s a problem for later. Go! Socialise!”

Foggy smiles as he skips backwards down the corridor, pointing back to Matt.

“Thanks buddy! You have to join me next time. I’ve gotta be your wingman!”

“See ya Foggy.” He smiles and turns to their door, pushing down on the handle.

Chapter Text

Matt shuts the door with a deep breath.

In.

Out.

Left hand on the door.

In.

Out.

A tap of his cane on the poorly maintained carpet.

In.

Out.

Get to work Matty.

He folds up his cane and walks forward, throwing it directly onto his twin bed. Pausing, he drops his head back with a sigh and pulls off his glasses. Now hanging at his side, he wipes his other hand across his face and puffs out his cheeks with a loud exhale.

He walks toward his bed and carefully places his glasses on the sturdy wooden bedside table. He undoes his watch, grabs his cane, and both join his glass. Now sitting on his bed he runs his hand through his hair as he looks toward the ceiling, eyes fluttering closed. Another breath.

In.

Out.

Wiping his face with both hands he stands and turns toward the black duffel on his bed. Looking at the wall ahead as he carefully unzips the main compartment.

Reaching in he pulls out each of his possessions.

Two pairs of black jeans.

1 pair of slacks.

Grey sweatpants.

3 black t-shirts. 1 white. 2 red. 3 navy.

7 pairs of socks, various underwear.

A toiletry bag: toothbrush, mild peppermint toothpaste, an electric razor, hair brush, deodorant, and scent-free face wash, body wash, shampoo and conditioner.

Black sneakers.

An old Samsung with no saved numbers nor call history and it’s required charging cable and block.

These- additional to the dark denim jeans, grey t-shirt, light jacket and sneakers he was currently wearing, and the cane, glasses and watch to his right- were all that he owned.

He admitted it was a small collection of assets, but it was all he really needed. Really. The room he stood in: the bed, the bathroom, desks, windows- these alone were enough. The sheer fact that his possessions now existed within such a private space (shared, only, with one person) was, until recently, practically unfathomable.

Notwithstanding, he did always have a bed. Somewhere to live. But these “somewheres” meant very different things.

His first bed- that he remembers at least- was at home. ‘Home’ home. Home with his dad. Matt’s bed was behind the kitchen in his bedroom, at home. Dad had a bed too. In his room next to the bathroom, at home. Home was where he did his homework. Where dad cooked dinner. Where he’d wait for dad to get back from work. Where he’d watch dad at work. Where he’d watch dad fight. And fight. And fight. Where dad taught him how to fix wounds after those fights. Stitch up his face, arms, legs, torso, whatever. Clean up the blood. Bring out frozen meat for the bruises. Home was always exactly what he expected.

His next bed was in the hospital. This bed was scary. Loud. It hurt. Constantly. It was not safe. Dad was there, sometimes. He could feel, smell and hear him. How he felt, sounded and smelt was a reminder of home. But the monotony and predictability of home couldn’t completely actualise. Not for the fact that he could no longer see his home nor his current bed, but because it had fundamentally changed. Now to him, his first bed no longer existed. This bed in the hospital was only in his life temporarily, though. A few weeks, maybe. And eventually, he did return to what once was his first bed.

It hadn’t changed. It was still in his room, behind the kitchen, at home. His dad’s bed was in his room, next to the bathroom, at home. Home had not changed.

But Matthew had.

Dad had.

For a while, this bed was becoming familiar. Home started to feel like home even though he couldn’t see whether it was or not. Instead, he still did his homework, ate his dinner, waited for dad to get back from work, listened to dad fight and fight and fight, help clean his wounds. Home was becoming predictable again.

Like every other day, he waited for dad to get back from work. He listened to him fight and fight and fight. He heard him win.

He also heard an ear splitting bang that disrupted the monotony. The monotony of home.

He was outside.

Dad was lying on the ground.

Not in his bed.

Not at home.

He would never return home.

Neither would Matt.

‘Home’ home no longer existed.

The next bed was in a new home. One that only imitated what home meant. He didn’t have dad but he had fathers. He had sisters. He didn’t have siblings. But he lived with other children. The room his bed was in wasn’t behind the kitchen and was, instead, next to other bedrooms. It wasn’t his room. It was his and six other boys’ room.

Matt, he rejected this home. His body simply refused to settle here. His bed was not for sleeping but for screaming. For waiting for dad to come home. For finding dad not in his own bed.

The fathers. The sisters. They tried their best to help but they couldn’t. Matt’s uncontrollable rejection of this home could not be hampered.

A new man challenged this rejection. He taught Matt to adapt to this home. Nothing could change, except for him. And he did. This man, Stick, changed him. Despite ultimately abandoning Matt, a new monotony and predictability developed. He did his homework. He ate his dinner. But he fought with the other children as there wasn’t much else to do. No one could prove he had anyway. He read. He studied. He consumed the bible. He learnt what he could.

He grew up here. He lived here. His bed was here. His orphanage was his next home.

And now he stands here, at his newest bed, where he will be sleeping for the next three years. He’s not sure if he needs a new home right now, but he knows he needs this bed.

Home will never be ‘home’ home again. And maybe Matt will be okay with that. Maybe this bed, this room, this campus, will become exactly what he needs. Not home. Or at least, not what home was.

His reality is now here. He will never sleep on his first, second or third bed. This one right here is where he will sleep.

He will live here. He wants to live here.

This bed is where he should be.

He picks up his empty bag and throws it into the open closet behind him. His jacket, once shrugged off, joins it. He crawls onto his new bed, over his possessions and pushes himself right next to the wall. Lying down, he closes his eyes and gently listens in to the commotion downstairs. Gently, because he’s alone right now and is permitted the power to decide if it’s too loud or not. It’s not. Therefore, probably less of a commotion he admits. Instead, the laughter, cheering and music downstairs are merely a pleasant whisper. Foggy’s laughter emerges through the intertwined sounds. He’s having a good time.

Matt smiles to himself and keeps his eyes closed. Slowly, he melts into the linen under him.

This bed feels comfortable. It is certainly one for sleeping.

Chapter Text

Matt is bolt upright just as Foggy’s keys battle with the lock. Like Foggy’s arm, Matt reaches to his left to find and put on his glasses.

The door slams open.

“Roomie!!!” Foggy cheers.

The door slams closed.

“Dude! Best. Night. Ever. You know Mira? The one on the stairs? With the boxes? And then without? Yeah? You remember? Anyway, okay so she is… incredible! And she is taking Punjabi right? Well, I registered for Spanish… but now? Dude, NOW I’ve gotta change right? It’s not like it’s a useless language ya know? And… honestly… who CARES! Mira is doing Punjabi and now so am I. I am passionate about Punjabi. Anyway anyway that’s on my list to do first thing tomorrow… or today. What time is it? Man I feel like I was downstairs for like 20 minutes but like… also 6 hours? Time is crazy man… Best night though.” He pauses to finally take a breath as he stops pacing. Matt simply smiles, nods and slowly reclines on his pillow as he follows along. There’s not really much else he can do, Foggy well and truly has the floor.

“Honestly man, would’ve been super fun to have you there.” He walks to his bed, plopping himself down with a huff and throwing the room key to his bedside table. Foggy eyes Matt.

“Looks like you got busy.” He points to each of Matt’s possessions laid neatly across his bed.

Recognising that it is now his turn to speak, he sits up again and adjusts his glasses.

“I uh- yeah. Didn’t get to checking my subjects. Thought I’d unpack instead. Got a little tired I guess and, well, laid down for a bit.” He pauses and forces out a laugh. “Not as exciting as your night by the sounds of it.”

“Dude… you’re so right.” He looks to the glowing alarm clock at his bedside. “Shit… 2am… should probably get to sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” Matt looks down. “Hey uh- I didn’t get a chance to take a shower earlier. Would it be okay with you if I took one now? It’s totally cool if it’s too late. I can wait until tomorrow… or later today I guess.” He pushes his folded clothes into a pile at the end of his bed and gets to standing.

“Oh my God! Dude, go have a shower. I could sleep through anything. Explosion in the library across campus? Asleep. Explosion downstairs? Asleep. A gun with endless rounds being shot over my ear and ricocheting around this room? Asleep. A bit of running water is not going to be a problem.” He pauses for a second. “Do you uh- do you need like… help with anything?”

Matt sighs and scratches his scalp. He could navigate this entire room as soon as he entered. Door in the centre, Foggy’s closet to the left, Matt’s to the right. Foggy’s bed to the left along the wall, a bedside table at the foot and his desk just next to the window. Matt’s bed under the window to the right, his bedside table next to it, desk immediately to the right, and entrance to the bathroom between his closet and desk.

But for Foggy’s sake, he answers appropriately.

“Yeah actually… Um… you could just describe the layout to me. That should be enough I think.” He finds his way to the door, left hand skimming the wallpaper.

“Alright, so.” Foggy rubs his hands and describes the room as a flight attendant would. “You’re at the door. Sink directly to your left. Shower to your right. Hot on the left. Cold on the right. Gotta fiddle to get the temperature right. Towels and rack behind the door. Toilet’s right at the back. I’ve already got body wash and toothpaste in there. Feel free to use it. Not my toothbrush though… unless you really want to.”

Matt laughed. “Uh… I think I’ll be okay. I’ve got my own stuff anyway.” He lifts his small leather toiletry bag zipped shut. A loose T shirt and sweatpants folded under his arm.

Foggy nods. “No problem. Good luck. Yell if you need anything.” He pauses, thinking. “Oh actually… there’s a very good chance I will be completely unresponsive in like… 5 minutes. If you need something, make yourself presentable- or don’t- and throw the nearest object at me.”

“Noted.”

Foggy gives him a thumbs up and falls onto his back with a sigh. Matt turns and shuts the door, not saying anything further.

Sink to his left. He places his glasses down, bag next to it. His ‘pyjamas’ are placed just on the edge of the countertop. Matt pulls out his face and body wash, shampoo and conditioner.

Although Foggy forgot to mention, Matt sensed something- he concluded it to be a hamper- to the right of the sink. He undresses and places his clothes inside. Sneakers removed and placed next to it, socks inside.

Towels behind the door. He reaches for one and runs it through his fingertips. It’s worn down and uncomfortable: get a new towel is now on his to-do list. He leaves it hanging on the rack.

Shower to his right, shower paraphernalia in his hand, he discovers it has a glass door that opens outward. Fancy. He pulls it toward himself and steps one foot onto the cool tiles. Foggy’s already got stuff on the shelf in front of him and now his face and body wash are roommates with Foggy’s. He smiles to himself- stupid thought.

Hot on the left. Cold on the right. He starts with the hot tap and twists it slightly to the left. A stream of cold water splashes across his wrist and he leaves it there to test the temperature. He fiddles with both taps as if he were tuning a radio. He smiles- another ridiculous thought- and finally steps in.

The running water is incredible. It’s not like he forgot how much he loved showering. It’s more like he’s reminded every time just how much he loves it. Not for the point of being clean, but because of the serenity that came with standing directly under rushing water. It felt and sounded beautiful. It was unfortunate that it always had to end.

Once it did, he dried himself off, simultaneously reinforcing that this towel needed to be replaced. Once dressed, he closed his leather bag and placed it in the cupboard he found under the sink. Old clothes in the hamper, glasses back on his face, he opens the door.

Foggy was absolutely correct. Not only was he unresponsive, but a freight train was screaming back and forth on a looped track in the room.

Matt laughs as he meanders over to the closet. He lifts his duffle and walks back to his bed, carefully placing each of his possessions inside. Returning to the closet he drops it, and slides the doors closed: he’ll worry about that later.

Foggy continues his serenade as Matt pulls the linen back and slides inside. Glasses back on his side table, he buries himself into the cotton sheets. Like his towel… these will need to be replaced. For now, he will manage. His lids are heavy and he’s lying on his back.

Matt manipulated Foggy’s ‘singing’ into white noise. It’s not completely successful. But for now, he will manage.

In his bed, he will manage.

He sleeps.

Chapter Text

Matt was brushing his teeth when he heard Foggy groan.

“Oh man…” He pushes himself up and looks down at himself, arms flying open and back onto his bed to support him upright.

“Looks like I fell asleep on top of my covers completely dressed.” A sigh and hands wiping at his eyes. “Ahhhhh well, still slept completely fine.” He pauses, then tentatively addresses Matt as his head tilts to the side with his eyes closed in exasperation. “Listen… I was wondering if… you…. I made any… uh-… sounds while I was asleep?” He squints, grimacing.

Matt swishes toothpaste around his mouth before spitting into the sink and laughing.

“Made any sounds while you were asleep?” He speaks through laughter as he moves to lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. “You mean snoring right?”

“… okay yeah… snoring.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Fuck sake. Alright listen. You call me Foggy. My family calls me Foggy. Everybody calls me Foggy. With a name like Franklin you’d expect a nickname like Frank or Frankie. Right? Like for you: Matthew, Matt.”

Matt nods. “Sure.”

“My nickname is not one that is very flattering unfortunately. Snored all my life you see, and that necessitated a nickname.” He rolls his eyes and sighs, “obviously. Anyway, it’s generally understood that snoring sounds like a train horn. This horn is called- you probably know this- a foghorn.”

Matt interrupts him, “Oh I think I know where this is going.”

“I’m sure you do.” He grits his teeth. “Anyway, Foghorn on its own? Doesn’t roll off the tongue so to speak. An endearing nickname often has that ‘ee’ sound.” He claps. “Ergo, Foggy.”

“What an origin story. Gotta say, as unflattering as it may be… it is very accurate.”

He sighs. “Yeah well, I own it now. Me? I am Foggy.”

Matt laughs and walks back toward his bed. Sitting on the edge.

“What’s your plan for today, Fogg-y?” He emphasises each syllable with a shit-eating grin.

He huffs. “Well, as I emphatically stated last night, I need to drop Spanish and register for Punjabi. You remember how my passion for this language blossomed over night.”

Matt retorts, “Mhm… I believe you may mean your ‘passion’ for Mira?”

“That’s more accurate. Regardless, that’s on my agenda. Aside from that, get myself mentally ready for syllabus week. Also master my class-to-class-to-dorm journey. What’s your day look like?”

“Well,” Matt claps his hands together. “First I’ll have to properly organise my things in the closet. But the main thing for me is to get to student services. There’s a few things I need to sort out and pick up.”

Foggy pipes up. “Oh! Actually.” He waves his hands. “We can work through our list together. Two birds one stone sorta thing. Do what we need to do here then explore campus. I learn my journeys, you get to student services. Win win!”

Matt nods, he agrees. “Sounds good.”

Foggy slaps his thighs and stands. “Ok, my turn to shower.” He shuts the bathroom door.

Matt returns to the closet and kneels down on the floor. Black duffle in front of him, he haphazardly pulls everything out to his side. A small unit of shelving now houses his socks, underwear, jeans and sweatpants. He decides to hang his jacket and T shirts and replaces his duffle at the bottom of the closet. His dirty clothes from yesterday remain on the ground for now.

The running water ceases and Matt hears the glass door open and close.

Standing, he returns to his bedside table to unplug the lamp and moves it to his desk- he’ll offer that to Foggy if he wants a spare. His bed is already made, he is already dressed. Foggy’s brushing his teeth as he opens the bathroom door.

“You good to go?” He mumbles through froth. “I’ll get changed and then I’m ready.”

Matt pauses. “Foggy… are you naked right now?” He senses Foggy’s shoulders lift and drop.

“Not completely. I’ve got a towel- I’m semi decent.” He turns to the sink and spits.

Matt scoffs. “Go get dressed, Foggy.”

After meandering to his closet and dressing himself he announces he’s ready to go.

Matt acknowledges that Foggy’s comfort with completely undressing in the shared room was quite… he couldn’t find the word. He knew it was completely logical- Foggy knew that there was absolutely no way Matt would see anything. But it was more about the gesture. It somehow made Matt feel safe, welcome. This was a space where both of them could be comfortable- Foggy definitely made it seem as such. Matt affirms within himself the privilege that such a space offers. Amidst the copious noise that college unleashes, this was a space for quiet, for safety. Somewhere he could set down his glasses, where true vulnerability was allowed.

Foggy didn’t know this of course, he wouldn’t. But Matt was so full of appreciation for the space that Foggy had just established with such a simple gesture.

“Where to first?” Matt queries while unfolding his cane.

“Most important destination first I reckon. Prioritising. Student services?”.

Matt smiles and nods. “That would be great, thanks Foggy.”

Chapter Text

Matt can tell the sun is sluggishly waking up today. A light brush of his fingertips over his watch informs him that it’s 9am and the sunlight only lazily warms his face. Its gentleness was very much welcomed, as it meant the overwhelming blanket of disgustingly moist air was yet to be laid.

While they’re walking, left hand on Foggy’s elbow, Matt looks down smiling to himself as his cane remains folded in the pocket of his jeans. The safety that Foggy invited in their dorm room was not isolated to the four walls. The origin of that safety, after all, was Foggy. He could go anywhere. And when Matt was with him, he could be safe anywhere. Matt absolutely cannot recall when he last experienced this. Of course, his dad was safe. The house was safe, and wherever Matt went with him, he was safe. This became even more marked when Matt lost his sight. While this may have emerged from necessity, its significance was far in excess of that. The importance and impact of his dad’s mere presence was accentuated when that presence disappeared. His home no longer felt safe, because the origin of that safety would never return.

For a while there, Stick felt safe. In a strange way this made sense, he was omnipresent for a decent amount of time. He was the one that quietened the world, that made Matt stronger in more ways than one. He could fight, he could protect himself, he could control himself. The world. The mind controls the body. The mind controls the body.

Stick taught him so much. He felt safe to Matt, because he moulded Matt into someone who mattered. But that safety dissipated when Stick, like his dad, left.

When you’re a kid and lose every source of safety, it’s hard to feel like anywhere- anyone- would ever be safe again.

Foggy was safe.

This safe was different though. Not a father nor any imitative father. Foggy could be a friend, a brother.

What a special, precious prospect.

—————

“We’re here.” Foggy announces, stopping in front of Matt. “I’ll let you do your thing and can wander around a bit. I’ve got a class in a lecture hall nearby and I need to find a computer to change my classes. How long do you think you’ll be?”

Matt considers his question. “I’m not exactly sure how long. Let’s say an hour or so?”

“Okay cool. Meet you here at 10?”

Matt nods. “Sounds good. Report back?”

Foggy gives a thumbs up as he walks away. A pause. He turns to Matt. “Oh man my bad I’m giving you a thumbs up right now. To answer your question: yes, I will report back.”

Matt chuckles and throws his left hand toward him. “Look forward to that report.” Matt gives Foggy a thumbs up. Foggy reciprocates and walks away, sighing to himself. ‘Oops’.

Matt pulls out his cane and turns toward the glass door in front of him.

He pulls.

Then he pushes. This is when the door opens. A friendly voice moves toward him.

“Probably one of the toughest challenges you’ll ever face: push or pull. It’s a 50/50 chance and being successful on the second go isn’t half bad. Even if it were labelled, you still can’t be 100% sure.“

Matt smiles as he stands his cane in front of him, hands rested on top. “Glad I’m not being tested this time, then.”

“You’re lucky.” The friendly man stops ahead of him. “What can I help you with?”

Matt adjust his glasses and gestures his right hand. “I actually have an appointment to discuss disability support.”

“Matthew, right? Murdock?” He points toward him, left hand in his pocket.

Matt nods affirming the man’s question. “Matt.”

“Nice to meet you Matt. I’m Daniel. Your appointment is with me. We’ll head to my office just over to your right. Shall I lead the way?” He walks toward Matt, jutting out his right elbow. Matt accepts his offer.

“Thanks.” He replies simply.

They walk barely a few steps before Daniel extends his left arm to open a door.

“This one’s a push.” He states with a smile. “Chair’s just ahead of you.”

Matt sits, his cane leaning against him with his hands firmly atop the handle. Daniel sits opposite him, a sturdy desk separating them.

“So… welcome to Columbia University! Congratulations! It’s an incredible achievement to get to college and it’s a privilege to have you here.”

Matt nods a few times and smiles, “Thank you. I’m really looking forward to getting started.”

“That’s excellent to hear. Now,” he leans forward, “down to business.” A laptop opens to his right. “Within your offer acceptance you included some details about your support needs while studying here. Here at Columbia we have a few resources for NLP students like yourself. I’ll go through each one individually.”

Matt nods finding a pause in the conversation, “That sounds good to me.”

“Brilliant.” Daniel smiles and pulls his laptop closer. He reads from it. “Our supports generally sit in two categories: support specifically for your classes, exams, assessments, and supports for general living. We’ll start with those academic supports first.”

A pause.

“You will be provided with a laptop that has a braille keyboard and also facilitates a screen reader and optical character recognition.” Matt nods. “I assume you’re familiar, then?”

Matt nods fervently this time.

“Yes, very much so. I used them during high school.”

Daniel smiles and reaches to the side of his desk and pulls a computer bag over toward Matt. Opening it he pulls out a few devices.

“Brilliant. We also have a braille display here for you and this laptop is set up with an electronic notetaker and braille translation software. There is a braille embosser that is free for you to use in the library. The librarian there will direct you to where it is and can run you through how to use it. Your textbooks are all available online and as PDFs but you’re free to print out chapters if you would prefer that over solely listening.”

He pauses and looks to Matt.

“How does that all sound to you?”

“Wow, yeah that all sounds great.”

Daniel nods and tilts his head. “We also offer a peer note taking service where a student in each of your classes takes notes and shares them with you. This is something we offer all students with disabilities. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“I think I’m okay, actually. I’m pretty used to how I take notes and study.”

Daniel chuckles in understanding. “That’s what quite a few students say. Makes sense to me.”

He continues.

“I’ll run you through how this laptop and all of its parts work.”

Daniel steps him through the everything: how the braille display connects and the names of the mentioned programs.

Matt speaks up. “That all makes sense to me.”

Daniel nods and continues.

“Now, for general living support this is more of a ‘you ask and we deliver’ situation. You’ve not been here long, but do you have any requests at this stage? Particularly for your dorm?”

“Everything is pretty fine so far. It might be helpful to have some form of tactile flooring, truncated domes or something like that at the door, though. Means I don’t have to rely on my roommate to get back.”

Daniel nods. “Done and done. You’ve probably noticed that there’s tactile paving all around campus. Might be worth taking a tour to learn the directions to each of your classes, though. That roommate might come in handy there.”

Matt nods and smiles. “I think he’d be more than happy to do that.”

Daniel hums, pleased. “Well, that’s pretty much it from me. Any questions before I let you go?”

Matt shakes his head, no.

“Alright, well, thanks for coming in today, Matt. Anything you need, please get in touch or come and see us.”

“Thanks for your help today, Daniel. I really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem at all! I’ll show you out.” He returns everything into the laptop bag and passes it to Matt after he stands.

Before Matt exits the building, laptop and cane in hand, Daniel calls out to him.

“I hope you enjoy your time here at Columbia!”

Matt smiles, waving, and opens the glass door with his shoulder.

He steps out.

The sun had now well and truly woken up.

Chapter Text

Matt’s return to the outdoors reveals that the now-overwhelmingly moist hot air has been exacerbated by the sun working toward its peak. His watch reflects the status of this trajectory: 9.45am. It was likely, then, that Foggy hadn’t made it back just yet. And the evidence lied in the hushed college life that was uninterrupted by his prospective presence.

A couple feet to his right he feels a cooler pocket of air; the shade under a tree. A welcomed reprieve. He finds a bench and takes a seat, closing his eyes and leaning back, computer bag at his side.

He is once again immersed in the chatter of students, frank (perhaps heated) discussions between academics, whispers of music through headphones, steady footfalls, and echoes of traffic and the city just beyond campus. He liked it here. Hells Kitchen was his home, of course, and it always will be. But for the next few years, here will be home.

After all, home is where his current bed is, where safety is. The physical location does not solely dictate this. Matt is well aware.

Remnants of the city leak through the aural realm. The life of the city was not silenced here, merely dampened. Matt was pleased with this balance: old home, new home.

“Matt!” A cheerful voice calls out as heavy footfalls edge closer and closer to the tree Matt was seeking refuge. “How’d you go? I see you’ve got a bag there.” He points.

“Yeah, pretty good actually. The guy- Daniel- was really great. I like him. He was super helpful and it’s nice to know that there’s someone I can go to if I need anything. Also got my laptop and other resources for classes and readings.” Matt responds, tapping his laptop bag. He pauses before continuing, “How’d your mission go?”

Foggy plants himself adjacent. “Yeah, a success for me too. Main thing: moved to Punjabi. Which was easier than I thought it would be actually. But I then found that lecture hall nearby. Dude, it’s enormous! I literally cannot fathom how that room could possibly fill up with people! Man, it’s also pretty fancy actually. In a, like, aristocratic-classic-academia sort of way.” Smugly, he adds, “You’d agree. Trust me.”

Matt smirks at that.

Foggy continues. “I also explored this part of campus a bit. There’s so many buildings and alleyways and paths everywhere. It’s pretty cool actually. Definitely heaps to explore. Did you have some classes nearby?”

Matt drops his head back. “I think I might? I’ll bring up my class list to check.”

Matt’s cane rests between his legs as he reaches for the phone in his back pocket. His voice navigates through to his student page and the device recites the buildings and room numbers from his class list. He turns to Foggy.

“Do you have a campus map on you by any chance?“

“Not a personal one, no. But there’s a central one just across the path there. I used it just before and it’s got a braille legend and labels. Based on what I just heard, though, I think you have a few lectures and tutorials around here. Let’s check.”

Foggy stands and reaches down to Matt, helping him up. Cane in one hand, phone in the other, the laptop case remains seated. Foggy notices Matt’s dilemma.

“I can take that for you if you like. I’ve got two hands free.” He waves his palms.

Matt stands upright. “That’d actually be really helpful, thank you.”

“No need.” Foggy grabs the bag and nudges Matt with his other elbow, leaning in. “Just ahead.”

Though he doesn’t necessarily need his cane when Foggy’s leading him, he knocks it back and forth nonetheless. It was personally important that he find those truncated domes, and after a few steps the tip finds an aggregation.

Foggy stops.

They’re at the map.

Foggy drops his arm and Matt’s cane rests on his stomach. When Matt opens his phone, Foggy interjects.

“Do you want me to read out the buildings and room numbers for you? I can also show you the general area we’re in and you can navigate the map from there.”

Matt ponders his offer.

Now, independence was and always will be extremely important to Matt. Being treated as weak, vulnerable, breakable, like glass, was something he was always actively avoiding. Exuding confidence in every way he could was a top priority for much of his life after age 9. Stick very much propelled and fuelled this ambition.

Matt first taught himself braille. How to navigate school life. How to help out at home, including treating his dad’s occupational injuries.

Then he was taught how to defend himself. How to navigate the world with senses unique to himself.

It was truly from here on out, following the absence of Stick, that Matt insisted on independently navigating his personally-dictated life-course.

Everything he was taught he mastered himself. But the people who taught him were fundamental to Matt’s ability to even believe he could live independently.

Ultimately, though, Matt upheld a perhaps maladaptive and unshakable belief that he needed to be able to survive completely alone. He should not need anyone.

On the contrary, external support, however, was ultimately necessary. And Matt knew this did not taint his independence. He had reconciled this. Because, ultimately, while knowing someone or something’s position meant he could navigate a physical space, this didn’t mean he could navigate life as a whole.

He needed other people.

Well, maybe not need need, but it certainly makes life much simpler. Definitely more efficient. Especially when it came to reading his college acceptance letter, for example.

Here, with Foggy, Matt was perfectly capable of learning where he was and independently navigating around from there. He believed that Foggy knew this too. So, Matt accepted the help.

“Yes, please.”

Laptop bag at his feet, Matt’s phone in hand, Foggy guides Matt’s pointer finger to the ‘You are Here’ icon. He speaks.

“Okay so you’re here right now.” He taps the metal. “Student services to your left.”

Matt’s fingers find that building.

“Now, your Ethics lectures and tutorials are in Philosophy Hall just ahead, down a path on the right, and forward.” He chuckles. “Creative name.”

Matt laughs as his fingers read ‘Philosophy Hall.’

“I mean, it does describe exactly what it is. Can’t fault them there. And based on your class list here, all of your classes for this semester are in that hall. Makes sense, given you’re a philosophy major and all.”

Matt smiles, agreeing, as his fingers slide along the paths connecting the ‘You are Here’ icon to ‘Philosophy Hall’. The directions are set, he can see exactly how to get from A to B.

He straightens, right hand returning to his cane and shift gazing toward Foggy as he addresses Matt.

“What do you think? Got it mapped out?”

Nodding Matt responds, “I think so, yeah. If we head there now, you mind if I lead the way?”

“Doesn’t bother me at all. As long as I get to look around campus a little more, I’m happy.” He switches Matt’s phone off and passes it back. Matt pockets it. Foggy continues, “I can still carry the laptop bag though. You’ll need your hands more than I do I’d imagine.”

A small grin spreads across Matt’s face. “That would be a correct assumption. Thanks for that.” He steps back. “Okay, let’s head this way.” His body leans forward as his right index finger lifts toward their destination, cane outstretched as it teeters on the tip.

Foggy steps out of Matt’s way.

“After you.”

Chapter Text

Matt’s leading the way, cane oscillating ahead as it navigates the campus’s tactile network. Its teeth chatter feedback as he strides toward his destination.

Foggy’s meandering absentmindedly behind, leisurely swinging Matt’s bag back and forth. He breathes easily, contently, happily following Matt wherever he leads them.

Matt hits an intersection: turn right.

His cane continues alternating, listening in to the directions carefully delivered by the tiles it taps against. A perpendicular intersection announces a destination. Presumably, Philosophy Hall. Grazing his fingers over the letters protruding from the brass plaque to the left of the entrance affirms his location. His lips draw into a small, satisfied smirk.

Foggy’s arms drop to his side. “Philosophy Hall?”

Matt nods as he swivels toward him.

Foggy continues.

“Nicely done. Want to go inside?”

“Ah… yes please… do you have anywhere to be, though? More classes to find?”

Foggy grins.

“I’m easy. Literally so much time to make my way around. We’re here, so let’s go inside.”

Matt’s lips form a small smile as he nods and drops his head. “We’re looking for a few seminar rooms.” He lists them. “201 A, B and D.”

“Level 2…” Foggy’s arm juts out, bumping into Matt’s tricep, “let’s go.”

The tiling is smooth and gentle. A subtle coolness snakes up Matt’s cane as it taps ahead rhythmically. He feels and hears Foggy’s head shifting through the space, no doubt exploring and examining the ‘aristocratic-classic-academia’-style furnishings he had assured Matt would agree, if he could see them for himself.

Matt can see.

Well… in a manner of speaking.

Visual details of the world around him were of no great importance. Awareness of the immediate spatial structure is all that is necessary. Seeing is purely practical.

Wall here.

Chair down there.

Fist over here.

Leg coming from there.

Details are distracting and unnecessarily indulgent. They get in the way. They muddy his view.

To the sighted, though, details meaningfully embellish the space. Make it whole. Make it beautiful. Make it worth looking at.

Matt can see, but he can’t see that way. There’s nothing worth looking at.

And so, an expectation of the sighted to describe their view prevails: Matt’s strained anticipation, and their unspoken obligation.

For a long time following the accident, primarily as a teenager, this unprompted hand-holding was nothing but utterly and disgustingly insulting. This poor pitiful boy. What a tragic existence void of the beauty one can only experience with sight. What a shame. We, as the sighted, must ensure he can experience it in whatever limited, sad, way he can.

“The sky is beautiful tonight, I can even see stars.” One nun once said during his time at the orphanage. “The stars. They’re like… hmm… it’s hard to describe really.” Matt can hear her fingers tapping the biceps of her crossed arms. She breathes carefully, considerate of each word she used. “The stars look like pearls awash a vast expanse of obsidian. A mosaic of nacre glimmering with vitality. Like they have tiny beating hearts, luminous bodies pulsing within the curtain of the sky.” Her body swung toward Matt, expectant of a response. She was met by his 13-year-old face stern and uninspired. Dryly,

“That was egregiously poetic, Sister.”

She rocked back on her heels, arms dropping by her side as she exhaled. “Well…” hands fixing her gown, “be that as it may, I feel the descriptions are actually quite on point.” She smiled to herself, “The stars are particularly beautiful tonight.” She drops her head back, re-experiencing the sky. “I haven’t seen any for weeks.”

Matt hums, nodding slowly as he rocks his cane on its tip. He winced as he dropped his head back, feigning vision of the sky following the Sister’s elaborate description. He huffs.

“Thank you, Sister Maggie. I feel as if I am one with the sky.” He threw a flat smile in her general direction before stepping away. She watched him walk off toward his dorm. The sky draws her gaze upward, she abandons her vision of him.

Matt didn’t know this at the time, but the visceral disdain he felt when people described the world for him unprompted was not out of pride but at loss.

Genuine loss.

He remembers the sky, of course, but he cannot remember the details. He cannot remember how the sky and its stars could be worth looking at. He recalls how the stars seemed to guide himself and his dad out of the city when they would venture away from the artificial stars- the city lights. He remembers sitting outside and squinting upward, his persistence encouraging though not guaranteeing the emergence of a star.

Eventually the sky became unimportant, replaced by the ground. The ground became fundamental to his navigation of the world. Everything he ‘sees’ now is practical. What use is seeing the sky? Nothing could be gained by looking up, there is nothing Matt would find there.

Despite all of this, he quietly mourns the loss of being able to see the sky. See, the Sister’s description was elaborate, even vivid. Even for himself he could picture what she saw. But the actual act of seeing, of experiencing, is something he will never have the privilege of doing again. And while he can ‘see’, and others can help him ‘see’ neither constitute what it means to truly see.

To himself, he knows that he’d give anything to see the sky one more time.

And yet now, he looks up. Inside, he attempts to construct what would constitute a ‘fancy academia-style’ ceiling. He fails to do so, but feels general shapes and rivets of columns. No details, of course. But perhaps one day he will actively seek out someone to divulge those details. Even if they were to do so unprompted. Sometimes, Matt yearns to see through the eyes of those he loves.

For now, together, he, his cane, and Foggy explore the building. They find the seminar rooms and stumble across a library before they return to the stairs, descend them, and exit the building. Matt has established a general directory of Philosophy Hall. Perfectly adequate for tomorrow’s commencement of the semester.

“Alright!” Foggy beams, “Philosophy Hall: found and explored. What do you think about getting some food? I can’t believe we didn’t eat breakfast this morning, I’m starving!”

Matt responds, “That sounds great! Our dorm in the John Jay Hall has its own food, right?“

“That, it does. Let’s go! Onward to the Dining Hall!”

Chapter Text

Matt is once again tuned in to the tactile directory. Foggy propels them both forward as they follow a straight line direct to the dining hall.

They turn left.

A subtle humming swells as they edge closer. The humming evolves into the chattering of intertwined voices engaged in enthusiastic conversation. As they enter the main door, Matt is enveloped by nearly 100 individual vocalisations.

If it were only a couple years ago, being anywhere near this space would have been unbearable.

If he were 9, he would be writhing on the concrete. Hands crushing his ears. Tears carving his cheeks. Body contorted into an excruciating foetal position. Mouth agape with disembodied whimpers clawing up from his raw throat.

He would have been a pathetic embarrassment. Stick would have kicked him to his feet.

If he were 13, he’d be gritting his teeth. Grinding his mandibles and fixedly inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. He’d be asphyxiating the handle of his cane, grinding his grip. His eyes would flutter shut as he steadied himself to breathe deeply.

Stick would have shoved him from behind. He’d scoff at his weakness.

Now, at 18, he has somewhat of a choice. Immediately, he’d dizzy as the gust of cacophony threatens to knock him off balance. But he’d steady himself. He’d grasp his cane and finger its strap before tapping it and adjusting himself upright. He’d clear his throat and fix his glasses. He’d continue on with his day, having mostly overcome this obstacle.

Stick would be indifferent. Perhaps if he had completed Matt’s training, maybe he’d be satisfied.

But for Matt, this response to overwhelming stimuli was adequate. That being said, it was not without great effort.

Foggy’s timbre sliced through the chaos.

“There’s a table down the back. Step to your right and I’ll lead you there.”

Matt folds his cane and squeezes it at his side, index finger tapping intermittently.

Foggy navigates through the ocean of students and Matt is bumped by two on the way. Neither apologise.

“Table just ahead.” Foggy announces as they reach their destination.

He sits.

Foggy sits.

They eat.

It’s good.

—————

Foggy pipes up.

“Alright, well, I’ve got another class to find. Do you want to come with?”

“Actually… I think I’d like to stay around here for a bit. Maybe go up to our dorm or something.”

“No worries. We’ll catch up later then. Want me to lead you out first?”

Matt nods as he rises from his seat.

Again, Foggy is navigating through the receding ocean of students. Matt is bumped into once. They apologise.

Once they reach the common room Foggy passes over Matt’s bag before offering to take him upstairs.

Matt rejects his proposal.

“No need. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the path mapped out. Go find your class!”

Foggy smiles, nodding and stepping away.

Matt’s cane flings out as he retraces his way back to his dorm.

Up two flights of stairs.

Allow two students to pass.

Forward about 20 feet.

A door to the left.

Two knocks.

No response.

A good sign.

Cane against his stomach.

Hand in his pocket.

Keys in the door.

It opens.

He’s made it back.

The door shuts behind him and he leans against it for a second.

He exhales.

Laptop bag is placed on his desk.

He sits on his bed.

Shoes are worked off.

Left.

Right.

Set under his bed.

Cane folded.

On his bedside.

Glasses too.

He feels over his watch.

2.30pm.

It joins his cane and glasses.

His movements feel robotic and absent of thought. This is not uncommon for him. In fact, it’s almost expected following the taxing process of managing overstimulation.

This is where, despite having some choice, any form of stimulation-management incurs a severe cost.

Unlike the party and Foggy’s snoring yesterday and last night, the immense soundscape cannot be manipulated into white noise or quietened. Everything is clear yet convoluted and layered and loud and undecipherable but decipherable and he can hear everything, simultaneously.

Right now, the private mutterings of hesitant sex are rattling through the carpet below him.

Roommates two doors over are expressing their mutual anxieties about the upcoming semester.

Someone dropped a shampoo bottle in the shower.

A professor is chastising their graduate student for falling behind on their thesis two buildings over.

A pair of students are smoking behind John Jay Hall. It’s weed. They’ve been sprung.

Students are debating the intricacies of recent scandals faced by the university over coffee in the cafe outside.

A woman screams after a man brandishes a knife. She runs. He pursues.

Foggy’s found Mira and they’re discussing their class schedule. They’ve discovered they have more than one class in common.

The sirens of three ambulances and five police cars echo from the city. No doubt from anywhere on the island.

A group of high school students are playing streetball. One of them flushed a three-pointer from deep.

A woman throws a glass bottle at her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He surrenders and opens the door to leave her apartment.

A professor just bought coke off a student during a consult in their office.

The vessels in his heart are contracting. Blood is racing through his arteries. His lungs are expanding and retreating, gaining speed.

He scrunches his face and presses his hands over his ears.

He’s rocking back and forth. He’s humming. He’s generated some immediate white noise.

This will induce the required headspace for mediation.

His back is against the back wall.

His legs are crossed.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

He listens, only, to his lungs.

The noise reduces to a simmer.

Chapter Text

A gentle tapping of the shades by Matt’s ear encourages him out of his stupor. Not unlike a child tugging at a pant leg intent on sharing an important anecdote.

He breathes deliberately and his eyes blink open.

Campus is certainly… quieter. Whether a product of the passage of time or the effectiveness of his meditation, the world outside of his room was merely noticeable.

He can hear it.

He can feel it.

But he’s compartmentalised and dulled it.

Matt has regained the choice to do so.

His watch reads 4.30pm revealing a loss of two hours. Duration-wise it’s a lot longer than he would have expected given the relative tameness of his day. He spoke directly to Daniel- that was fine. He navigated campus- that wasn’t overly demanding. Really, the only strain on his senses was the time spent in the Dining Hall. Objectively it wasn’t overly taxing. But it was apparently enough to knock him off-kilter.

Here, at Columbia, he’s found himself in a nesting doll situation: he sits in his dorm within a hall within a college within a city. The sounds at each layer reverberate within their confines and vibrate through to every other until they completely engulf him at the centre. And in all honesty, it’s not wholly different from his life to date: he’s always lived in the city. Arguably, then, he should be over all of this.

Matthew, surely, a little bit of noise can’t possibly debilitate you.

Alas, it appears to have done so.

That being said, he has a much better handle of his senses now. Evidently, he is not writhing on the floor right now, nor is he combatting a need to do so. But he is yet to completely master them. And in Matt’s weakest moments, when everything does become too much, he misses Stick.

Oh how very very complicated.

Put simply, Stick was unkind and ruthless.

Most prominently, though, he absolutely did not care about him.

Matt was simply a thing to be trained.

Something to become useful.

A weapon.

His weapon.

Nothing more.

And what complicates this is that sometimes he actually misses being his thing. He misses being his weapon.

Something with a specific purpose.

With a clear, distinct, unwavering target.

After Stick left, after losing that clear purpose, he felt wobbly about his future. He honestly couldn’t fathom what his adult life would be like.

Would he be able to live alone?

Go to college?

Pursue a career?

Maintain a friendship?

A relationship?

Would he even want any of this?

Would he even want to have an adult life at all?

That latter question would continuously gnaw at his temple, omnipresent and insistent. It would, too, be a source of great concern were he to ever voice that to anyone around him.

But that would never happen.

Much like his moments of overwhelm.

No one can be told.

Matthew can manage. Like he has right now. And like he will continue to do. In fact, he’s ready to immerse himself back into college life.

He moves to his desk and empties his laptop bag as technological paraphernalia scatters around him.

He spends some time pressing buttons, discovering voice-command features, finding relevant software, plugging in devices, rummaging through the bag to retrieve headphones and testing audio.

This most certainly will do.

He is able to find and confirm details about his classes tomorrow.

He can access online work spaces.

He has found his digital textbooks.

And he knows how to turn the computer on and off.

He’s all sorted.

Relieved and satisfied with his preparation for day one, he feels ready to return to the outside world.

—————————

Shoes on his feet and cane in hand, Matt is once again walking down the hallway and stepping out through the front doors.

It’s nice outside.

He was right before: campus is simply quieter now. Conversations and footsteps and birds and insects and cars all swirl into a smooth serenade. He feels warm and welcome. He is reminded that this new home, he likes it. And he is excited to be here.

Just across from the dormitories’ entrance is a central map much like the one he consulted earlier today. Bumps and grooves lead him around the entire scaled campus right where he stands. He visualises the buildings and the paths between them. He navigates back to Philosophy Hall, to student services, to the café he and Foggy visited yesterday, to a library nearby, and back to John Jay Hall. The more familiar he can get with the layout of this campus, the more comfortable and confident he can feel living here. The better he can navigate, the better he can anticipate: he can prepare himself to face whatever he’ll come across. Even deafening congregations.

Anticipation.

Matt’s good at that.

Anticipation is principle for hand-to-hand combat. Stick trained him well in that part.

In place of hand-to-hand combat, though, is navigating the social world of a college campus.

Much of a muchness, really.

He smiles to himself and blinks to the sky.

Much of a muchness.

Stepping away from the map he leads his cane toward a patch of grass. He feels the switch from solid pavement to tufted lawn as a sturdy tree stands before him. Moving forward he turns to sit against it once his cane knocks against the roots.

Legs outstretched and cane by his side, his chest swells and deflates as he lazily leans against the trunk. He drops his head back, looking upward inquisitively. What tree was this? The bark was shedding but it was relatively smooth. It certainly couldn’t be a maple nor a pin oak. He heard and felt the leaves lazily ricocheting off of the breeze, gentle as it was. These leaves were heavy at their base but flickered nonetheless. If he were to guess- and it would be a good one at that- maybe a London Plane. They are the most common in the city, and the patterns of this tree match several of those he’s passed in the city. But he can’t be sure, of course. Hmm…. Maybe he’ll ask Foggy later.

Chapter Text

“Nice tree, that one.” A familiar voice- Foggy’s- skips across the lawn. “May I join you?”

Matt nods as he adjusts himself further upright, “Please.” He gestures around his relaxed form, encouraging Foggy down to his level.

He joins, cross-legged, directly across from him.

“Well!” Foggy perks up, “update for you: I bumped into Mira again…” he smiles sheepishly, “turns out I’ll be seeing her quite… often this semester.”

Matt nods along, insistently, “And…?”

“And?”

“Well… in what capacity will you be seeing her?”

Foggy looks directly to Matt. “Ah.” He understands. “Classes.” He finishes the word abruptly, but he’s not finished speaking- his breath a horribly accurate tell.

“But….?”

“BUT?!”

“Surely not just in that capacity?!” Matt giggles, “no extracurriculars?!”

Foggy huffs, uncrossing his legs as he leans back on his hands. “For now… sticking to the curriculum,” he adds, “unfortunately.”

Matt hums as a silence washes over them but he’s quick to cut through it. “So… when will you ask her out?”

Foggy scratches his head, squinting.

“Yeah… I- I don’t quite have a timeline on that as yet.”

Matt giggles.

“But I’m working on it!! I’m working on it.”

“I have no doubt.”

Foggy smiles. “Thanks for the confidence. Very much appreciated.”

Matt sighs, content.

Foggy speaks up. “That’s my update. What about you?”, he gestures toward Matt, “did you get back to the dorm okay?”

Matt nods hastily. “Easy. Easy. Yes”, a breath, “told you I had it mapped out.” He pauses, head tilting in deliberation, “I still think I’d benefit from something on the floor at our door though. That way I won’t have to ever worry about guessing.”

“We should get that sorted ASAP,” Foggy responds simply.

Silence.

“So…” Foggy clears his throat, “what did you get up to? Anything interesting or fun or cool?”

Ah…

Hm…

Immediately, Matt’s breath hitches. But he catches himself just as quickly and adjusts his glasses, squirming in place.

Remember: no one can know.

Matt’s overwhelm was and always will be his problem. So, too, are his methods of dealing with it.

No one can know.

He responds confidently nonetheless, despite avoiding Foggy’s pointed gaze. “Nothing much, really. Nothing interesting at least. Pretty much just sat at my desk and fiddled with my laptop. That’s about it.”

Foggy nods absentmindedly, lips pouting slightly.

Matt is yet to look away from the ground. He’s started pulling at the grass by his side- his body slightly turned toward it.

Curious.

Foggy can’t help but clock Matt’s discomfort at what he would consider a pretty simple question. He feels a little like he did yesterday when they were chatting over coffee. Like his roommate was withholding something. Yesterday was personal stuff. Apprehension? That’s fine; they’d not known each other for more than a few hours. Less even. But asking about one’s day… Foggy didn’t feel that to be overly personal or overstepping a boundary that had not been established. Like yesterday, however, he resists any entitlement to press Matt any further.

In all honesty, who cares. As long as Matt wasn’t planning an elaborate assassination plot, there was nothing to be told. Rather, nothing obliged to be told.

That being said, it is nice to converse with his roommate. And while Matt may be succinct in his recount, it was still discourse after all.

That’s absolutely adequate for now. At least, it’ll have to be.

Foggy diverts the conversation. “I wasn’t lying before.”

This is when Matt looks toward him, fingers absentmindedly caressing the lawn.

“This tree- whatever it is- is a nice one.”

Matt chimes in, fingers pausing. “Yeah? How so?”

“Maybe I just like trees. I mean, that’s not a real hot take but I confess that it’s always nice to see some greenery around the place. I like the really leafy ones, the ones you see in Central Park. And this one”, he points up, “is leafy too. Very different to the scrawny skeletons that dot the streets outside campus. It’s still Summer, but the spiny limbs have those leaves that are like confetti. Not this one.”

A breath, “I can hear them.”

Foggy looks back to Matt.

“The leaves.”

Matt’s head drops back, finger pointing. Foggy’s gaze follows.

“When I was a kid, at the orphanage I did a lot of sitting outside. It was quite challenging to play hide-and-seek or tag with the other kids- not at all difficult to conclude why,” he smirks, “with all of that time sitting outside I became very familiar with the orphanage grounds. There were lots of trees there, all different types. And lots of different sounds too. Now, the best part was listening to the leaves in summer and spring. They’d dance and shimmy against each other, as the wind whistled between them. Those with the tiny dotted leaves would stutter and blink with a sound akin to rattling, if the rattle were made of paper. I liked the bigger leaves, the ones like hands that clapped against each other when the wind was particularly intense after it had tunnelled through the walls of the city.”

Matt points his head toward the trunk and reaches his right hand toward it. Foggy sits back, watching Matt’s actions.

“Sometimes I’d run my hands over the bark and explore the little crevices and ravines. I learnt very quickly what trunks would give me splinters: maples, mostly. Other times I’d pick up the leaves at my feet and feel them with my hands: I’d map their shape and veins. Comparably, though, winter wasn’t as enjoyable. When the temperature dropped I’d be sat next to snow as it joined me on the bench. It was not the best companion. But the leaves in Fall were especially crunchy. As a kid, stomping and jumping on piles of leaves scattered around the place were outweighed, only, by crunching the same leaves in my hands.”

Silence.

He finds a bit of bark and picks it off, turning it over in his hand.

“I uh- I can’t see the leaves or the trees, but it’s hard not to enjoy being around them.”

Silence.

He grips the bark as his right hand shoots to his glasses. With a sniffle and fingers itching at his scalp, he can’t help but feel a sudden wave of awkwardness.

“This one is a London Plane.” He gestures up.

Silence.

“I think.”

His gaze returns again, fixated on that bark in his hands. He’s practically begging for Foggy to speak at this point.

Matt had spoken for a while.

Uninterrupted.

He’s still reeling from the setback he’d just wrestled earlier this afternoon, feeling ashamed of how he practically cowered in their dorm for two hours. He feels exposed.

“Hm.” That’s all Foggy produces.

More silence.

“Hm,” Matt reciprocates.

More silence.

Then Foggy breaks it. “A London Plane you think?”

“Ah… yeah,” he straightens slightly, relieved by Foggy’s participation, “you said the leaves are big?” Foggy nods but Matt continues as he’s part way through the second nod, “the bark is smooth and it’s crunchy when it peels off,” he lifts the bark up, “the London Plane is the most common around the city I’ve been told. And when I ask, holding the bark in my hands, that’s what people have said.”

“Ha. I think you’re right. Nicely done.”

Silence.

“Matt.”

Matt looks up.

“Mm?”

“Thank you for sharing all of that.” Foggy states considerately.

Matt scratches at the nape of his neck as he huffs with a slight smile.

He can’t help but think back to that morning when Foggy got undressed and redressed in their dorm without any concern for his explicit exposure. Matt is not naked right now, but he did reveal some vulnerability: he detailed a glimpse into how he experiences the world. That’s quite intimate in a way; inviting someone to see how you see. Matt was surprised by himself that he did such a thing, but he recalls how he felt walking this morning.

Foggy felt safe.

Matt felt safe.

Foggy felt like a brother.

Foggy felt like someone he could trust.

Maybe expressing himself to Foggy wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

He responds to Foggy, hand dropping from his head to complement a shrug, “I should thank you for listening.”

“T’was a pleasure.”

A silence blankets over them again but it’s different this time. It’s comfortable and Matt is happy to be under it. The same can be said for Foggy.

“Want to stay for a bit longer?” Foggy directs to Matt.

“I would actually, if you’d like to stay?”

“That, I would. We’ve got quite a big day tomorrow. I think it’s a good idea to bask in some form of serenity.”

Matt simply nods.

—————————

They’re sitting there for quite some time, leaning back and looking toward the foliage. Though Matt can’t exactly confirm, he thinks Foggy’s closed his eyes.

If Matt were an optimistic man, he’d think that Foggy was emulating Matt’s experience of the tree- eliminating his sight to enjoy its sounds as would a blind man. Perhaps that actually is the case, but as is known, he is not exactly an optimistic man. Regardless, he is a little touched. He may be convinced to allow himself these little moments.

Matt’s watch reads 6.27pm.

Foggy catches his movement, “Time?”

“6.30”

“Wanna go eat?”

With barely noticeable apprehension, “Let’s do it.”

Foggy stands and steps toward Matt, offering his hand. Matt accepts and they resume the positions they’ve been taking while walking around campus: Foggy to the left with his right arm bent, Matt holding onto that arm. Matt’s cane is pocketed this time.

They wander back to John Jay Dining Hall as leaves of several varieties shiver across campus and the city at large.

Chapter Text

Matt is once again confronted by the dining hall as it looms ahead. The familiar swelling hum of voices gradually envelops him until he is privy to what has to be 50 different conversations. It’s no less of an onslaught this time and he still feels threatened that the tide may topple him over. He had mostly recovered from lunch time, but he still felt shaky. Not to mention the anxious buzz after having just revealed a bit more of himself to Foggy than he ever thought he would be capable of. There is nothing to regret, but that doesn’t dull the vibrations rattling through his entire body, numbing his fingers. Reverberations throb behind his sternum as they pronounce the thumping of his heart. He stutters over his breath as his lungs nick his ribs and he finds himself suddenly lagging behind Foggy. Just enough for Foggy to falter in his steps.

“You good?”

“Yeah, sorry. Uneven pavement.”

Foggy looks to Matt’s feet and the pristine tiling underneath. He doesn’t say anything.

“Wanna sit in the same place?”

Matt nods and they press through the front doors. His thumb fiddles through his fingers as the distinct thumping of his heart infects the rest of his body. A nagging lightheadedness that once loomed in the distance barrels toward him as he slumps into a chair. Foggy says something as he walks away but Matt nods without any comprehension of what was said.

That’s unsettling.

Now, his priority while Foggy is away is extracting himself from each of the 50 conversations striking the walls of the hall and restricting all comprehension to a single one. He brings his cane to the table, clasping the top as if in prayer. His forehead drops to rest against his interlaced fingers, eyes closed. The waveforms of individual voices streak patterns across his view. They’re bright, vivid, intricate; and he can see all of it.

Cut through the noise.

Focus on one conversation.

Find one voice.

“I can’t believe they fucking caught us man.”

That one.

“I’m so pissed, that was good shit too.”

This one’s familiar.

He heard it this afternoon.

“Do you think someone snitched?” Another familiar voice responds.

There are two participants in this conversation.

Two voices to track.

Only two voices to track.

“Hard to say. I’d like to think there’s a sense of camaraderie among us freshman.”

“I’d like to think so too. I mean, if I knew someone had weed I’d try my absolute hardest to keep ‘em ‘round. You’d be stupid to kill direct access to a plug”

Their conversation pauses and they’re back to eating.

He chooses another voice to latch onto.

“I can’t believe we did that.”

A new voice giggles. Also familiar.

“Me neither…”

“It was fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So… my roommate will be out late tomorrow… wanna… come over to my dorm this time?”

“I’d uh- I’d love that.”

“I can’t wait.”

They share a giggle and also return to their food.

The conversations around the room settle into a lively background that accentuates a single voice of focus.

“I’m back!” Foggy exclaims upon his return.

Matt startles to face him, having not heard his arriving footsteps. He recovers quickly, “you’re back.”

“Took a bit longer than I thought. Who would’ve thought the men’s room would have a line when the women’s didn’t. Unbelievable.”

Matt laughs. “Hope you made it in time.”

“I have a bladder of steel.”

“Evidently. Thank you for sharing.” A beat, “dinner?”

“Please. Do what we did this afternoon?”

“Yeah. I’ll leave my cane here this time. I’m pretty confident no one will be tempted to take it.”

“Considering our healthcare system, it could be quite lucrative to sell it on the DL. Might well be worth stealing then.”

“I’ll take my chances. If anyone in this room saw a non-blind man trying to take a blind man’s cane, I’m sure someone would intervene.”

“Ah yes, perhaps a camaraderie among us peers.”

Matt smiles to himself, having heard the phrase only minutes ago. Yes, camaraderie among peers, what a cool concept.

“To the food?”

“To the food.”

As they join the buffet line, Foggy recites the available protein, carbohydrate and vegetable options; all the sides and anything else on display. Matt’s job is holding and sliding the tray along the bench, Foggy is the arms. They adapt well when Foggy assumes Matt’s role as they carefully return to their table: what an excellent team.

They don’t talk much while they eat as neither really feel any need to do so. Matt’s very pleased by this mutual decision, he has already spoken quite a lot this afternoon alone. Matt’s foot taps rhythmically against the floor as he feels the vibrations run up his leg, dialling him directly in to the ground below him. He focuses in on the broccoli on his tongue: the way it crunches, its earthy undertones. He can smell the rich beef gravy drifting over from Foggy’s plate. It could be nauseating, but it’s not. It’s delicious. The food is delicious.

The Hall has become an amalgamation of sounds and smells and sensations that could threaten his composure.

But he’s content.

He feels in control.

He can hear the students complaining about having to find a new spot to smoke.

He can hear the couple apprehensively parting ways as their farewells linger between them.

He has chosen to listen in, and he’s also chosen to opt out.

Foggy’s breath has changed slightly. He’s ready to speak, so Matt has chosen to listen in.

“Not bad right?”

Matt’s placing his cutlery across his plate as he gently pushes it forward.

“More than adequate.”

“I absolutely agree. Ready to go?”

Matt nods and Foggy adds Matt’s plate to his own, stacking them and walking them to a collection station. He’s quick to return to Matt standing with his cane parallel to his standing body.

“Onward.” Foggy presents his elbow and they walk in tandem out of the dining hall. A gentle, sticky breeze greets them as they return outside. The tree ahead applauds their encore and the ovation continues until they enter the hall’s common room. Tonight it’s lacking the expected fauna. It’s as if students had gone extinct in the John Jay Hall.

“Seems like everyone is preparing themselves for tomorrow. It’s pretty quiet down here.” Foggy directs to Matt as he surveys the room while they move through it.

“Makes sense to me. We’ll also be joining that crowd very shortly once we get to our dorm.” Matt responds once they reach the stairs

“I don’t have a whole lot to do though to be honest. Pack a bag maybe?”

“Yeah, honestly, me too. Not a whole lot else to get through.”

As they’re walking along the third floor, they pass a few open doors.

Matt doesn’t need super hearing to acknowledge the melting pot of anxiousness and excitement about the start of semester. He also doesn’t need super senses by any means to feel these himself, and to read it in Foggy.

“What’s your tomorrow look like?” Matt speaks first this time once they get to the door, looking to Foggy.

Foggy exhales, “an early one.” He drops his arm to fish for the keys in his pocket, “I’ve got an 8am lecture in the International Affairs Building,” he unlocks the door, “God that’s going to be a shock to the system. Lucky it’s only a 5-10 minute walk. I actually go past Philosophy Hall on the way! Is your first class there?”

They push through the door, Matt moves to his bed. “It is, but not until 10,” he sits, “when do you finish up? Maybe I can catch you for lunch?”

Foggy’s leaning against his closet as he works his shoes off, kicking them under his bed. “Sounds good to me. My second class finishes at 1.30. Meet at the Everett Library Café?” Foggy pauses, “you’ll be able to find it? I can always meet you at Philosophy Hall and we can walk together.”

Matt’s not offended, but he wants to uphold his independence. After all, he doesn’t always need a personal chaperone. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll get my phone to read out directions. Everrett Café works for me!”

Foggy hums, “1.30 it is!”

Matt nods into the silence, untying his own shoes.

Foggy breaks it, “dibs on the shower.”

Matt chuckles, “knock yourself out.”

His shoes are now off and he, too, places them just under his bed. He hears Foggy gathering his things as Matt pulls his pyjamas from his bed and places them on his desk in preparation for his own shower. His phone is placed on charge; so too, is his laptop. There’s not much preparing he needs to do, everything’s all packed in his laptop bag. For the sake of preparedness, he creates an outfit from his closet. A t-shirt. Jeans. Not a big job. It would be helpful, he reflects, to label his clothes: colours etc. Perhaps he’ll make use of that braille embosser at the library. For now, he hangs his clothes and packs the shelves.

The shower stops and the tap’s running: Foggy’s finished his shower and is brushing his teeth.

Matt’s back at his bed, phone in hand when the door opens.

Foggy steps out, “you know… there’s a free communal laundry downstairs. I reckon we could combine our laundry into a single load if you want? I’d be happy to be on laundry duty.”

Matt places his phone down, a little touched. It’s reminiscent of his time at Saint Agnes. In fact, the last time he’d done laundry was when he was 8. His dad had had a particularly bloody fight and his hands were too swollen to work the machine. Since then, he hadn’t done his own laundry. Perhaps he’s not as different as he thought; freshman are renowned for leaving their laundry for weekend visits home. For Matt, weekend visits would simply never happen, so he’ll have to learn to do his own laundry. For now, he’ll take the help. Foggy seems pretty eager and unbothered to do so. Matt responds.

“I appreciate that. I’ve already got clothes from yesterday in the hamper there.”

“Too easy.” He spits toothpaste into the sink, straightens and steps out of the bathroom. “All yours.”

Matt gathers his things and traps himself inside. The layout is unchanged and his movements reflect that: clothes in the hamper, glasses on the sink.

Once he’s under the water, he’s there again, where he was last night. The water embraces him and he’s completely inundated in its coolness and mellifluence. These beautiful and gentle descriptors juxtapose the severity of the water. It’s sheer velocity drills into his skin and he’s cemented into the ground.

He’s still.

He’s calm.

He’s in a meditative state- a little more conscious than earlier- as he moves through his shower routine. Face, hair, body: wash.

Once the necessities are complete, he drops his head, allowing the water to pummel at his scalp.

He stands there for some time. He feels water droplets leak onto his face, caressing his cheeks, his nose, then neck. He feels the heavy droplets explode at his feet, splashing his toes, shins, knees. His world is here. In this moment, this is all that exists. It’s beautiful and calm and nothing and everything.

This is why he loved showering.

But, as always, it must end.

And it does.

He brushes his teeth as a chorus knocks at the door: Foggy’s fast asleep. Matt smiles to himself as he swishes water through his mouth.

Once clothed, glasses atop his nose, he opens the door and Foggy is hitting his crescendo. He sighs and meanders over to his bed.

He hides under his covers with his eyes sealed shut.

Hmm… he really could do with some earplugs.

Chapter Text

A droning chime vibrates Matt’s bedside table as his phone officially announces the beginning of his waking day. The rumbling deepens into the core of the woodwork before it reverberates through to the slats below his mattress. He feels the rattle pillowed beneath his relaxed head, limbs and torso. For the last hour, though, he’s been a silent audience for Foggy’s morning routine: his alarm- very melodic, pretty even; his scurrying from his bed to the bathroom to the closet back to his bed and finally to the door; his fingers on the door handle, its rotation, the door opening, then closing; he’s left the room. Matt’s breathing maintained a consistent expansion and retraction pattern throughout Foggy’s routine, one that only changed once that door shut: a broader expansion and a swifter retraction as his curled form facing the shuttered window rolled away, lungs flat against his bed. His left hand slapped at his phone while the other wiped down his forehead to his brow, pinching across the bridge of his nose.

The droning and buzzing ceased.

His day had officially started.

But he lay there for a bit to tune into the warm hum of an early morning campus. Of light footfalls scampering across the pavement. Of whistling overworked coffee machines in cafés nearby. Of jarring phone alarms stunning late-risers. Of nimble fingers drumming keyboards. Of exasperated ‘welcomes’ from jaded lecturers. Of exuberant ‘welcomes’ from early career academics. There’s an undeniable energy soaring across campus that injects optimism into Matt’s jittery body. This internalised energy thrusts him upright as his feet ground themselves into the carpet. Each footstep jolts liveliness up through his bones as he moves toward the bathroom. Teeth brushed and toilet used, he turns toward his closet. A red T-shirt and jeans are complemented by black socks and black sneakers as he methodically makes his bed, pyjamas folded by his pillow. He leaves his laptop bag as he adorns his glasses and watch that reads 8.12. Phone and keys in pocket, cane in hand, he follows Foggy’s path to the door and exits the room.

Matt’s headed for the dining hall as he strides behind his oscillating cane. It drops and he’s down the two flights of stairs entering a lively common room. He feels heads turn in his general direction as he comfortably navigates his way to the exit.

A second wave of students have accumulated in the dining hall following the first presumably now at their 8am lectures and seminars.

He’s been here before. This dining hall is just a dining hall. Matthew, it is NOT your nemesis. Just find the buffet line. Join it. Grab a plate. A tray. Get your food. Sit down. Eat it. Go.

Now, he’ll reiterate this to literally anyone who’ll listen: he can do it himself. HE can do IT himself.

He is NOT made of glass.

He can get breakfast himself. Practically though… with an audience… it’s going to be a little more challenging. After all, he is holding a cane and he is wearing his glasses. He is a blind man. How can he choose what to eat? How can he find where to sit? How can he carry his tray and walk with his cane?

Easy.

But he has an audience.

Therefore, he’s going to need help.

Fuck.

Hm.

Just go to the buffet. Ask the nearest person for their help.

Easy.

He barely makes it to the stack of trays before someone approaches him.

“Hey,” a male voice offers, “need a hand?”.

Matt straightens to look toward him, “ah- yeah actually that would be great.” His lips form a gentle, appreciative smile.

The man steps toward Matt, hands clasping together and thumbs jutting outward, “what do you need?”.

Good question.

A great one actually.

What does Matt need?

He’s pleased with the liberty of choice here.

“It would be helpful, actually,” he stands his cane at his feet, teetering it with his left hand, “if you could guide me along the counter and read out what’s available.”

Matt hears the man eagerly exhale, “can do.” He offers his arm, nudging at Matt’s bicep. As Matt’s hand confidently connects with the stranger’s arm, his fingertips tune into the vibration emerging from the his larynx as he begins to speak, “I’m Oliver by the way.”

Matt nods, “nice to meet you,” he sways his cane inward, finger pointing to himself, “Matthew- Matt.”

“Good to meet you too, Matt,” Oliver starts moving forward, “I think we should get a move on,” Matt follows, “we’ve created a bit of a line of… let’s just say… ‘eager’ students waiting for food.”

“Oh! Yep, standing stationary will do that. Thanks for coming over.”

“Nah, it’s nothing. I haven’t eaten yet anyway.”

Once Matt’s hips connect with the bench, Oliver reaches and places two plates atop a tray in front of Matt, “you good to push this along?”.

Matt smiles, “absolutely. My roommate and I have a pretty good system coming along,” he briefly lets go of Oliver’s arm and pockets his folded cane before grasping it again, “I slide, he reads, I choose, he grabs what I need, he chooses, he grabs what he needs, I slide etc. You get the idea.”

“Sounds tried-and-true. Let’s do it.”

As they move along the line, Matt has accrued a breakfast of eggs, toast, roasted tomato and juice: pretty standard. Oliver has done the same, though he’s gone for a more continental style.

Oliver overrules Matt’s tray-shifting job as he balances the tray in his hands. He tilts his head across Matt, “there’s a free table a couple feet to our right.” Matt nods and follows Oliver after he, himself, nods in acknowledgement.

The tray is placed on the table, “chair right in front of you.”

Matt smiles as he pulls it out to sit, “thanks.”

“Want coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he doesn’t hesitate.

“Me too. I’ll be back,” before turning his back he pauses, “black?”

“Please.”

Oliver nods as he steps away and navigates the dwindling queue of students blocking his access to the coffee carafes. As Matt sits, he pauses to absorb the movement of searing liquid flooding the confines of a porcelain mug. He can smell the coffee grounds dissolved in the boiling water, anticipating a subtle grit scraping along his tongue. Regardless, it’s hot, it’s caffeine, and it’s extremely welcome.

Oliver begins the journey back as the porcelain retains sloshing boiling coffee. Once at Matt’s side, he places the mug in front of him.

“Can I join you?” Oliver is moving opposite him.

“Of course!” Matt perks up, right hand to his glasses, “please. Sit.”

Oliver smiles as he slides into the chair across from Matt, mug placed beside his plate.

As they eat they cover the basics.

What are you studying?

Where are you from?

What floor is your dorm?

When’s your first class?

Pretty tame discussion really.

Oliver’s a computer science major.

He’s from Boston.

He’s on the fourth floor (he dreads the stairs).

His next class is at 9.30.

And they’ve eaten.

“Hey, pass me your plate, I’ll take it back.”

Matt smiles withdrawing his mouth from the coffee mug, “thanks,” Oliver reaches for that as well and returns it alongside their plates and tray.

“Well,” Oliver’s back at his side, “it was nice to meet you, Matt.”

Matt joins him as he stands, “you too. Thanks for joining me.”

“A pleasure. I’ve got a class to get to, where do you need to go?”

Matt’s cane snaps outward, “just the common room, I’ll take it from there.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Once at the threshold of the common room, Oliver’s arm and Matt’s hand drops. “I’ll see you round. Hope your classes go well,” Oliver notes before stepping away.

“Thanks. You too. I’ll see you round.” Matt smiles sincerely.

Oliver chuckles as he drops his head- see - and moves off, hastily racing up his dreaded three flights of stairs. Matt isn’t far behind him as he meanders up his respective two before turning down his hall.

He’s at the door, keys in the lock, handle pushed, (he found the right door), door pushed, door locked. Matt’s cane rests at the doorframe as he brushes his hand over his watch: 9.17.

40 minutes until his first class.

He starts toward his desk.

Chapter Text

Matt swipes up his computer bag, needn’t check its contents after he’d packed it, checked it, and checked it again yesterday. He slings it over his shoulder before grabbing his cane, stepping out into the hallway, and shutting the door.

The third floor is eerily empty, with only one heartbeat lazily beating three doors down from Matt and Foggy’s: he wonders when they’ll realise they’ve grossly overslept.

The second and fourth floors are empty, barring two voices overhead yelling at each other.

“What are you on about? You’re in the bathroom. You shower. Water happens. Water on the floor happens. What do you expect me to do? Get on my hands and knees with a towel? What? Should I use your towel to mop it up?” Roommate one throws their hands around in exasperation.

“Come on man! Surely you’ve heard of a bath mat. There is literally one,” roommate two stomps to the bathroom, picks up what is presumably the bathmat, and stomps back out, fiercely, “right here.”

Roommate one scoffs.

“What? You don’t want to use it?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it? Can’t be bothered?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Roommate two can’t help but guffaw, “Seriously?” A breath. “Well… can you… like… become bothered?”

Roommate one huffs, “I definitely could,” they pause, “but you? Can you become bothered to pick up your clothes?”

Roommate two scoffs this time.

“Surely that’s a reasonable ask?”

“We’re in our room. I wear clothes. I take them off. Clothes happen. Clothes on the floor happen.” They’re mocking roommate one now.

“Are you fucking serious? That is not the same thing!”

Roommate two huffs.

“Just make a pile. I literally have one over there,” they pause, probably pointing to a corner. “Make your own. Just, PLEASE, leave it away from the door.”

Silence.

One of them is tapping their foot.

The other, their pointer finger on their thigh.

“So you’ll use the bathmat?”, roommate two presses.

“And you’ll keep your clothes away from the door?”, roommate one clarifies.

Silence.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Matt hums softly, satisfied that they’ve come to an agreement. One roommate is moving around the room while material is being picked up and replaced: roommate two must be clearing up their clothes. Roommate one had opened and shut their door before footfalls- light and fast- thump above Matt’s head. When they meet him halfway down the stairs, roommate one mumbles an ‘excuse me’ before racing past and away.

Well, Matt is in no rush, so he saunters down the stairs and across the common room. There are no heads tracking his journey this time. That’s nice.

Once he’s through the common room exit, he is faced with a greeting from the tree he met yesterday and a welcome breeze sifting through its leaves. Every aspect of campus is alive right now: the tree and its sturdy colleagues, the turf they stand on, the rumbling of footsteps soaring through the pavement at Matt’s feet, the gleeful chattering vibrating through the air and bouncing off every surface present, and, of course, the layered sounds of lectures and academic discussion bleeding through the historic buildings. With a little extra effort- not completely voluntary- he can feel the sirens of emergency service vehicles rattling through his ribs. The sounds and smells of distress that come next linger only slightly: the city is still there.

The city will always still be there.

But that’s not his concern.

It can’t be.

Because, right now, his concern is walking to Philosophy Hall. It’s scaling the stairs, finding somewhere to sit. It’s listening to his first seminar. It’s going to college.

And the city will still be there.

Always.

Everything within it will still be there.

Always.

Everything good. Everything bad. Everything worse.

Always.

But that’s not his concern.

That is not Matthew Murdock’s concern.

It can’t be.

He clears his throat and briefly lets go of the bag’s shoulder strap to finger the side of his glasses. He grips his cane harder and propels himself forward toward the map across the path.

He just needs a little reassurance as to where he’s going this morning. He knows. He knows he knows. But still. He wants to absolutely know that he knows he knows.

The familiar path pricks Matt’s fingertips and he’s reaffirmed his journey.

Onward.

His cane taps its way toward and along the tactile paving as the clicking interweaves itself into the vibrant tapestry of the vast acoustic landscape. A distinct blob of voices ripples from the direction of the presumed Philosophy Hall.

The paving stops abruptly to indicate that he has reached his destination. He urges forward as a slight change in the ground’s density reverberates through to his arm, signalling the commencement of the marble stairs. His cane drops perpendicular to the ground as it knocks each of the steps while he ascends. There should be a sign just in— ‘Philosophy Hall’ his outstretched hand reads.

Success.

A tap of his cane.

Fingertips over his watch: 9.30.

Shit.

He’s early.

Like… super early.

He knew he’d be early.

But now that he actually is early… he feels silly.

From the sounds of it though, it’s busy in there.

Lots of bodies.

Now, generally speaking, it’s a pleasure to experience the human body the way Matt does. It’s the way this specific object requires such meticulous and holistic construction in order to be perceptible. This entire process is a privilege. See, understanding the general proximity, shape, density, texture, mass, whatever of any non-human thing draws directly from necessity, (trees are perhaps an exception- it’s nice to know a little more detail). Take right now for example, he is certain he is standing on stairs made of something solid, like a stone of some kind. Logical. He’s on a pretty well established campus and stone stairs are par for the course. It’s hard to really pinpoint the type, though. When he taps his cane or his feet, or when other students run up and down, the vibrations shuttering through only do so with a little difficulty- perhaps we have a stone here with medium density. One might guess granite, but given the old money behind this place, Matt would guess marble. That’s what he guessed yesterday.

But one might also guess concrete.

Matt can’t be sure who’s right.

It doesn’t really matter.

And that’s the point.

Generally knowing where and what stuff is is important.

But the details and the specifics of people… of their bodies…

Well, these matter.

These matter tremendously.

This enhanced importance still stems from practicality of course, but in mattering more, a nuanced perception process that moves far beyond just knowing that any ‘someone’ is walking by is absolutely necessary. The process itself is extremely… hmm… he can’t quite find the right way to describe it. Maybe, the absolute privilege of complete immersion: when one is completely inundated by the mechanisms of the existence of a living being. This way Matt can construct a whole, living person with details only he gets to experience. Personally. And privately.

But he could never see any ‘someone’s’ hair or eye colour; their birthmarks, freckles, or their tattoos. Foggy could have an explicitly detailed chest piece for all he knows. Is he blond? Brunette? Blue? Does he have any freckles? Where?

Sure, Matt could make some educated guesses based on the way heat is retained in patches of skin on one someone relative to another or whatever, or maybe he could just be told these things.

But the only things he can be completely certain about are those constructed through his own first-hand experience.

That’s special.

It’s a privilege.

For now, the busyness beyond the threshold of Philosophy Hall is radiating as nothing more than an amoeba of sound, rhythm, and movement.

But now, shhh… now he can identify 15 sets of lungs each pulsating along to their own unique choreography. A few stutter here and there as the carbon monoxide pushed upward is exhaled quickly and breathily: they’re laughing. He can hear the laughter now, too, as Matt connects the involvement of the lungs’ neighbouring larynxes. There are also two sets on the outskirts of the amoeba that are not necessarily pulsing more evenly, but they’re far more controlled: they’re intentional. These someones are anxious, and one of them is practicing some box breathing: a very sound choice.

The air shifting around in this amoeba is a little erratic, but some patterns do emerge. Patterns indicative of nodding, waving, gesturing. Of walking, of moving to standing or to sitting.

At the very core is a fundamental thumping. Rather, an amalgamation of fundamental thumpings: of thumping hearts. For Matt’s perception, the heartbeat is the most important part of the human body. Of course, practically speaking, this thumping helps separate the animate from the inanimate. But it also separates the animate from the animate. Namely, the truthful from the deceitful.

That’s an important one.

But feeling, hearing and seeing one’s heart is the most intimate of all the stimuli sources involved in this extensive process. And often, he feels self conscious because of how close it borders on violation. And while he doesn’t mean to tune into every single heartbeat in his vicinity, sometimes he’s just simply pulled in: it’s involuntary. By comparison, you cannot simply ignore someone waving in your face or yelling your name. Not straight away at least. And so this is where Matt is careful. See, if a heartbeat is there, a person is there. Any closer attention is unnecessary. Dedicated attention should not be abused. Especially not Matt’s unique dedicated attention.

And so, it will not.

The perception experience has ceased.

As it must.

Now, the blob is no longer an amoeba. Such a term would be inaccurate. Instead, each of the individual bodies have formed the individual cells found within a collective organism. Therefore, the blob is now multicellular, with each cell the form of a distinct body of different height, weight, shape, sound, and feeling.

This separation, to this degree of specificity, is important.

And the method in doing so is a privilege Matt could never forgo.

This same act, though, at such a scale, is overwhelming. Bodies. Bodies are loud. They are so very very loud.

Here, in Philosophy Hall they’re loud.

At John Jay Dining Hall for breakfast, lunch, and dinner: very loud.

Back at the dorms when everyone has returned from their classes: loud.

Within the confines of this entire campus most of the time: constantly loud.

And throughout the entire city: deafening.

Throughout the entire city: deafening. Always.

Loud bodies are everywhere.

And Matt will always find them.

And sometimes they’ll find him: some force his attention. So much so that others can be missed.

Like the one with the mouth calling his name and with the hand on his shoulder right now.

Chapter Text

“-dock?”

Matt’s heart jumps up and through his chest, slingshotting a couple inches away from his sternum and back into its dedicated cavity.

That body came from nowhere.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. But he did miss it. Granted, he caught the last syllable of his surname, but it was just a little too late to respond before the hand was deployed.

“Oh!” the stranger exclaims. She’s got something- presumably a bag- hanging from the inside of her hooked elbow as she lets go of Matt’s shoulder, shaking her head as she’s quick to apologise, “I’m so sorry to startle you!”

Matt adjusts every part of himself; pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and rolling the shoulder holding his bag before replacing both hands on his cane, gripping it in a vice.

That hand was very much NOT welcome. If this hand showed up in another more dubious context, the body that hand was attached to would be parallel to the (marble?) stairs as soon as the fingertips even thought about making contact. Stick would be pleased. But Matt’s not in any kind of danger here, Stick. This context is not dubious. He’s not in a gym, or in a dark alley, and there’s absolutely no way he’d be facing some highly-skilled enemy right now.

As such, Stick’s training- well, that training- has no place here.

He’s on the Columbia University campus maybe just still within the boundary of the Upper West Side. The only threats are repercussions from missing classes or exams or doing something stupid like throwing a chair out of a window; maybe even beef with other students. But that wouldn’t become physical- it simply just couldn’t be.

And besides, Matt’s sure none of that would ever happen.

So the body- and its hand- does not need to be thrown horizontal.

Sorry Stick.

Matt shifts his gaze toward her, “it’s okay, I should’ve heard you coming.”

“No no! I’m sorry. Now that I have you, though, are you Matthew Murdock?”

“That’s me.” He throws a polite thin-lipped smile.

She’s nods. “Excellent! Really happy I caught you before your first class.” She shrugs as her bag is pulled upward on top of her shoulder. “My name is Olivia and I’m a TA for PHIL U 2101- History of Philosophy I.”

Matt feels a little less silly about being early now. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well,” she clasps her hands together, “I wanted to check in about what resources you have and what you might need from me slash the teaching team.”

Matt teeters his cane as he gestures with his fingers, “I met with student services yesterday to pick up a laptop set up with everything I need, including a braille display and keyboard to help with note-taking as well.”

“Brilliant.” She nods, “Now, generally as a University, we don’t record our classes structured like this one- a seminar. However,” she pauses to emphasise, “I will be, and all of your TAs for other classes should be doing so as well. It’s important that you make sure to ask.” She rocks back on her heels, “In all honesty, though, it might be more like making sure you tell them they should be recording.” She emphatically exhales, “Sometimes these old-school lecturers don’t ‘believe’ in recording classes, and honestly?” If they refuse, just record anyway. Most of the time they don’t even notice.” She corrects her posture, “regardless, these recordings- and likely those from your other classes- will be stored in an online workspace dedicated to this unit. The recordings will overlay a PowerPoint presentation that is referenced throughout the seminar. That way, each slide will match up with our group discussion. Hopefully, that should help with organising your notes.” She pauses to breathe, “if you stick around after class I’ll show you where these PowerPoint recordings will be. Usually, these will be uploaded within 24 hours. If it’s been more than 2 days, though, make sure to email that TA.” She takes a comically exaggerated breath as she flares her hands by her thighs, “that was quite the spiel, huh. Sorry for the info dump.” She chuckles as she taps her thighs with her palms, “Do you want to clarify anything?”

Matt seriously pauses to think, “hm… not really. Everything was pretty clear.” He wasn’t lying, but he did, admittedly, omit part of his response.

He didn’t say it, but he did feel a little anxiousness bubbling up from his stomach. Akin to the tiny pockets of gaseous water that float upward as a gentle warning of the imminent explosions of fully-formed boiling bubbles soon to decimate the serenity of the lukewarm. That’s all to say, though, that right now, he was only at the baby bubbles stage: merely an indication of what could be to come.

Objectively speaking, that was a lot of information and volume in of itself is overwhelming. While this is absolutely the case here, it is not completely a volume problem. See, through that huge wave of swirling information, one key concern did splice through the swell: the concern that jumpstarted those bubbles.

For Matt, right now, it seems like he may not have the same supports for each of his classes: if any support at all by the sounds of it. So instead of expecting any, he will have to ask for it. And according to Olivia, this might be a challenge. Matt already despises asking for help, and now he’s likely going to have to face being rejected when doing so.

Perhaps this issue could be something discussed with Student Services…

He’ll explore that crutch later... ONLY if absolutely necessary.

Nevertheless, everything Olivia said was clear.

And so, continuing, she smiles and nods, “excellent.” Taking a step away from him she continues, “I’m going in to get everything set up.” She instinctively points toward Philosophy Hall and starts walking away, “I’ll be inviting all of the other students to come in in about 10 minutes. I look forward to getting to know you all as we move through the semester.” She turns away and intermingles with the crowd, muttering ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘sorries’ as she cuts through until her steps disappear up the stairs inside.

Index finger over his watch again: 9.35am.

With only 10 minutes left until he can enter the classroom, he decides it’s about time he joins the organism in the foyer of Philosophy Hall.

And so, he walks through the entrance, engulfed by the cytoplasm of sound and movement.

Finding a corner, he takes a moment to reacquaint himself with the space.

Right in the centre, directly in front of the entrance, there stands a stairwell to the second floor. Behind the stairwell on this level, a library. Classrooms on either side. A huge continually-expanding congregation of people right at the entrance at the bottom of said stairwell stairs.

The nucleus.

For now, he’s happy to stay in his corner, right against the membrane. In doing so, he catches the anxious set of lungs identified earlier. They’re still box breathing on a bench just to Matt’s left and there’s some space available next to them.

Matt tentatively approaches, as if his cane were a snake’s tongue cautiously feeling its way forward.

“Hey. Mind if I sit here?” The stranger looks his way after a few second’s delay, their silence an explicit prompt for Matt to continue saying absolutely anything. “Heavy bag.” Matt shrugs his shoulder forward, cane-hand pointing to direct attention to said bag.

The stranger snaps to life, “Oh- ah… yeah, sure.”

“Thanks.” Matt situates himself on the bench, placing the bag carefully between them, his cane sloping from his shoulder down between his legs.

They sit in silence- a pretty uncomfortable one if he’s honest. The stranger’s lungs persistently though laboriously expand, hold, and deflate. However, they falter intermittently as if the inflating lung is routinely pricked by a dull pin for a brief moment: not quite sharp enough to pierce, but enough to dent.

Matt decides to open a conversation. Keep it tame.

“Matt.” He doesn’t look their direction, but he does lean toward them, clarifying that he was introducing himself.

“Uh- Andrew.” He (Andrew) is fiddling with the zippers on his backpack sitting atop his lap- exploring the rivets of what’s likely a raised logo branded just above the pull tab. Andrew’s gaze does not leave the floor.

Matt joins him down there, “I’ve got a class upstairs in, like, 20 minutes. History of Philosophy. You waiting for the same one?”

Andrew licks his lips, remnants of very strong coffee staining them, “yeah… that’s the one.” He’s nodding.

“Very nice. Safe to assume you’re a philosophy major?”

“Not quite.”

Matt tilts his head, lips pouting, “No?”

Andrew shakes his head, eyes now to his bag. “Economics.” He smiles a little, “thought a philosophy subject might be… different… from my others.”

Matt returns the smile accompanied by a chuckle, gazing towards Andrew’s feet, “Wall Street, huh?”

Andrew straightens himself, “that’s the goal.” For the first time after an extended pause, he looks directly to Matt, “you’re blind?”

Matt’s smile is thin as he looks straight ahead, “correct.”

Andrew nods as his hands slide down under his bag, readjusting it on his lap as he leans back, looking back toward the nucleus.

It’s begun to dissolve.

Slowly, a few bodies meander out of the building, others to the classrooms around the side.

Matt’s fingers find the frames of glasses, they have not slipped in the slightest. He already knew that.

Andrew clears his throat, “it looks like people are starting to move upstairs. I might as well.” He stands, “uh… you coming too?”

“Sure.”

Andrew puts on his backpack as he stands. And without saying a word he starts moving through the crowd.

Matt’s quick to his feet, slinging his bag on his shoulder and snapping out his cane as he tracks Andrew’s movements as efficiently as he can. Naturally, though, he knocks shoulders with a student practically straight away. They turn to quickly apologise and Matt throws an emotionless smile in understanding.

Andrew does not react as he continues on.

Eventually, Matt’s cane tapping becomes a little more audible and he parts the sea of dissipating loud bodies, students leaking out of the building or to their own classrooms.

The stairs are clear as he grips the banister.

It’s humiliating- sometimes- moving through a crowd like that. Of course, he cannot weave his way through despite every inch of him desperate to do just that.

His cane must tell him where to go. And sometimes it encounters obstacles that fail to move.

But, the stairs are clear. And so, he ascends them without needing to track Andrew so closely. Though, he really wasn’t helpful at all in the first place.

He and Andrew are milling upstairs only briefly before Olivia opens the doors and students pile in. Matt’s found a seat right up the back as he disembowels his laptop bag. Gathering its innards, he sets up his laptop and attaches his braille display.

His watch: 10am.

“Hello everyone and welcome!”

Right on cue.

“I’m Olivia, and I’ll be your TA for History of Philosophy!” Olivia is standing right up the front, Matt can hear the smile in her voice, “before we get started, is there anyone here who shouldn’t be?”

The room goes quiet, as microchanges in the room’s airflow indicate heads rapidly looking around the room. One person squirms in place before eventually standing, quickly gathering their things, and darting for the front door.

“Always at least one.” She sighs playfully. “Alright then, now that we’re all sure we’re where we need to be, I’ll introduce myself a little further.” She holds her arms out, gesturing along with her words.

“As your TA, I’ll be leading all of our seminars and tracking your progress throughout the semester. I’ll also be the one marking your exams and assignments.” She leans on her desk, “Professor Mercer will be delivering the lectures”, she pauses, “but- and I cannot stress this enough- do NOT ever contact her directly. I will be your first point of call for anything related to this class. This is primarily because, honestly, she won’t read your email.” She drops her hands to her lap, “however, I want to emphasise though, that this is Professor Mercer’s preference and not all of your lecturers will be the same. So, be sure to note who to contact and for what.”

She pauses, “is that clear for everyone?”

Air shifts rapidly: everyone’s nodding.

“Great. Before we jump into today’s content, I’d really like to go around the room so we can all introduce ourselves to each other.” She pauses, “let’s go with… tell us your name, where you’re from and something interesting about you.”

Matt partakes in the room’s collective unashamed breathy sigh.

She laughs, “okay okay- look, I’ll start: I’m Olivia, I’m from Connecticut, and I play basketball in my spare time.”

From there, everyone shares pretty openly.

And honestly? Everyone is genuinely pretty interesting.

There’s Andrew (bench Andrew), from Illinois who’s gone skydiving (more surprising than interesting really).

Tomasz- also from Illinois- can juggle. Blindfolded too.

Lily from Westhchester sat opposite Seth Meyers on the subway once.

Lehka from India has visited 100 countries.

Nicholas (just Nick) from California is related to the guy who patented ballpoint pens.

Samuel (not Sam) from a small town in Utah knows how to make butter from scratch.

Samuel (just Sam) from Philadelphia has 2 cats.

Tia from Staten Island has a bird: it’s a cockatoo.

Amy- also from Staten Island- is left-handed.

Hye-Jin from Washington is ambidextrous.

James from Australia runs weekly marathons. He’s got the New York one in November.

Xavier from Brooklyn met the organ player for the Knicks at Madison Square Garden last season.

Masaki from Japan witnessed a rat king at the Broadway/ West 116th Street subway station his 3rd day in New York. He provided a very thorough eye-witness account.

And, Matthew (just Matt) is from Hell’s Kitchen and his father was a boxer.

‘Like a professional one?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Cool.’

Done, done and done.

Onward.

As they progress through the class, Matt finds it a little challenging to keep up. Primarily, it’s the switching between PowerPoint slides that’s getting him. That’s not to say he isn’t writing notes- he is, albeit haphazardly on a blank document.

Overall, though, it’s not that it’s a bad experience by any means. It’s more that the baby bubbles have stuck around. He’s got support for this class, and he’s only just keeping up. And now, he’s coming to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to put in a lot more work between classes to fill any gaps. Any inevitable gaps. He’s got three other subjects this semester and three years to go. None of which guarantee any form of support.

Maybe that notetaker offer will need to be taken up…

But that completely negates your so-called ‘independence’, Matthew.

True…

And besides, every other student will have to work between classes as well.

Also true…

As such, Matthew will be sucking it up.

He will listen.

He will write disorganised notes.

And he will meticulously organise said notes between his classes.

For all of his subjects- support or not.

Notetaking aside, though, the class is excellent.

As a kid, absorbing scripture was second-nature to him. And now, he feels like he’s in middle school again. Absorbing absolutely everything he can. It’s invigorating.

In fact, any opportunity to learn was… well… a blessing. It was a privilege. And it always will be.

There was absolutely no way he would half-ass his education: religious or otherwise. That is not what dad would’ve wanted. And so, in college, there is no excuse to slack off.

Will it be harder for him? Sure. But he has absolutely no excuse to not succeed.

He has the capacity.

The resources. Sometimes.

He mustn’t waste that gift.

His gift.

And so he listens.

He listens to Olivia’s words.

The contributions from his classmates.

For now, not his contributions.

Then Olivia’s words form a ‘thank you for today. See you next week’ and students stand to leave.

A few are quick to the door- Andrew practically runs to the exit- but, others busy themselves with packing their things, most stalling until they can speak to Olivia.

Tia thanks her before leaving with Lehka.

James asks for clarification on specific chapters they’ve been asked to read for their next class.

And Masaki is just slowly packing his things for the sake of it.

So, too, is Matt, but he’s doing so to ensure he is the last one to speak to Olivia. And once the last body has finally left- Masaki’s- Matt’s up the front with her.

“Thanks for staying back!” She exclaims while she leans against her desk, “what’d you think?”

Matt drops his bag on an adjacent desk. “It was great actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Definitely looking forward to next week.”

She nods, “that’s good to hear.” She stands and moves toward Matt, “wanna pull out your laptop? I’ll show you where the recordings will be.”

Matt nods, reaching in and grabbing his laptop, placing one earbud into his ear.

“Ok, can you open up to your student page?”

He’s practiced going to this tab saved in his bookmarks- he knows exactly where it is and is pleased when the text-to-voice announces his target.

“Alright. So on the left, there’s a menu with a bunch of different options: readings, class schedule, assignment information, course content. You’re going to want to click on that last one right down the bottom.”

Matt slides his fingers on the trackpad, awaiting ‘course content’ to be announced.

“Once there, right down the bottom there’ll be a hyperlink titled ‘recordings’. Once you’re in there, each class will be labelled as such and they’ll be yours to download.”

She pauses, “easy?”

Matt nods, “easy.”

“Excellent. Alright Matt, I’ll see you next week.”

She turns to her bag and packs her things.

Matt mirrors her as he slips his laptop into his bag.

She’s first to leave and not long after Matt slings his bag over his shoulder.

Once sorted, his bag is on his shoulder, his cane is in his hand, and he’s out the door.

Now, to kill an hour.

Chapter Text

The sun feels a little cruel this afternoon. Unlike its sluggish self this morning, it’s got bite. Now, it’s enforcing a relentless heat across all of New York, its jaw slashing white hot against Matt’s skin- his cheeks. Streaks of heat sneak through the gap between his glasses and brow. Subtle beads of sweat threaten to trickle down from his hair, while a small gathering begins to congregate just above his lip.

Evidently, it’s midday, and Matt’s not meeting Foggy for lunch ‘til 1.30. He’s been granted some free time- what a privilege.

Now what to do with said privilege…

He could go to the library like a diligent student. He could organise his notes. Maybe put together a summary for today’s class? Start a reading? Theoretically speaking, he definitely could do any of these things; each simultaneously even. But in practice? He’s a little spent if he’s honest. Maintaining not only consciousness but meaningful active attention during a two-hour seminar is hard enough. And now to jump straight into organising horrendously-jumbled notes? In some attempt to make them at least somewhat comprehensible?

Later.

Later-Matt will do it.

No… tonight.

Tonight-Matt will do it.

Tonight-Matt will definitely do it.

And now?

Well, now-Matt will use his spare time carefully.

He finds himself a bench not far from the steps in front of Philosophy Hall shrouded by a youthful tree. Hmm… another London Plane. Except this one is much shorter; and its canopy small- lighter, younger. But a tree nonetheless. And despite its sprite age, it offers an enticing reprieve from the reach of the sun.

He pockets his cane as he sits, situating his bag to his side before pulling his phone from his back pocket.

A notification springs from the New York Times:

‘Reports of gang violence in the city continue to rise, with no signs of reprieve anytime soon.’

He huffs.

Figures.

There is never a shortage of news-worthy crime in this city, and each day- without fail- features at least one major atrocity.

A woman strangled by her boyfriend in her family’s brownstone on the Upper East Side.

A homeless man viciously stabbed on the Church Avenue subway platform.

A man left crumpled on the street after a high-speed hit-and-run up in Yonkers.

A 16-year-old’s body littered with track marks dumped on the beach off Coney Island.

The body of a man has been found on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen with a single gunshot wound to the head.

The man has been identified as ‘Jack Murdock’- local boxer ‘Battlin’ Jack’ who, just hours ago, took a gutsy win from Creel in the ring.

Stop it.

The story is still unfolding, but this shooting is just one of many recently popping up around the neighbourhood. Law enforcement have not denied organised crime involvement.

Please.

It has been reported that Murdock leaves behind his 9-year-old son, blinded—

That’s enough.

Crime rages across the city- it’s a constant. And the sheer volume is impossible to fully conceptualise.

But it’s reality.

It’s New York’s reality.

And there’s nothing Matt can do about it.

Helplessness is a bad look, Matthew.

Nothing for now.

Patience, Stick.

But New York’s reality- his reality- is the whole point of college for him.

It’s studying law.

Justice.

Well… eventually.

It’s pre-law for now.

At the moment though, he’s got free time.

And so, on this bench, he will sit.