(I feel like I should warn you that I've never attempted suicide, but I have based parts of this on my own experiences with depression. I also know that comics!Matt occasionally struggles with depression, but for the purposes of this prompt I've ignored any mental health issues that Matt might have. Maybe he's ignoring them for Foggy's sake, maybe he's just not comfortable talking about them, I don't know. If I turn this into a longer thing, I might add that in but as this stands now Matt's mental health isn't discussed. Only Foggy's as per the prompt.)
Foggy never forgets that the scar is there, not really. He sees it when he gets dressed in the morning, feels it when he scratches an itch on his forearm. Sometimes he gets a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, the edge it peeking out from where his shirt sleeve has gotten pushed up a little, and he’ll jolt slightly because for the briefest moment he’s actually surprised by the sight of it on his body.
Just a brief moment, though, before he remembers what it is. Why it’s there.
(He will forever be grateful that the worst of his scars, the long lines of parallel white stripes that came before the one on his wrist, are located on his thighs. He sees those less often, thinks about them less often, only really has to worry when he tumbles into bed with a new partner but most of the time by that point they’ve seen the one on his wrist and it’s a non-issue. But only most of the time.)
By the time he gets to law school he’s comfortable wearing t-shirts in public again. He’s still on anti-depressants but this current dose is doing him a world of good, and he still has a therapist back in his old neighborhood that he can call whenever he feels the need to talk to someone about his problems one-on-one. Some days he still struggles with talking to anyone, but he’s getting better about reaching out when he needs help. Some days, he still struggles with finding the motivation to do what should be basic tasks, but those days are getting fewer and further apart as well.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think about whether Matt knows about the scar or not. It’s a part of his life, one that people either accept once they realize what it is or they don’t, and the ones who don’t still bother him but it hurts less than it used to. Matt never says anything about it, so whenever Foggy thinks about it (not often, and usually late at night when he’s trying to sleep) he just assumes that Matt is okay with it.
He doesn’t think about how whenever he guides Matt it’s always Matt’s hand on his right arm, not his left. He doesn’t think about how when they touch it’s on the back or the shoulders or the head, or increasingly common hugs where the only thing his scar brushes against is the fabric of Matt’s shirts. He’s so used to people just seeing it that he forgets that it’s impossible for Matt to glance down and know that it’s there.
They’re sitting in class, when it happens. Matt on his left side for once because someone had taken the seat on Foggy’s right today, and Matt reaches out to gently touch his arm to get his attention about something. But his fingers brush against the scar, the raised edge of it that’s faded to white over the years but has never disappeared completely (will probably never disappear completely) and he tenses, fingers tracing along the length of it until Foggy, suddenly uncomfortable, pulls his arm away slightly.
Matt jerks his fingers back like they’ve been burned and sits ramrod-straight for the rest of the lecture, maintaining a careful distance between himself and Foggy.
And Foggy has heard almost every comment imaginable, from the stupid thoughtless ones to the downright nasty ones that are supposed to hurt, but somehow Matt pulling away from him is worse than anything else.
When the lecture ends Foggy wants to just bolt, disappear somewhere on campus where he doesn’t have to face Matt and the judgement that he knows is going to come, but Matt stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.
His left arm. That has to be intentional.
“I’m sorry,” Matt says quietly, as their classmates gather their bags and shuffle out of the lecture hall. “I- I didn’t know that you… I was surprised, that’s all.”
“If you’re going to be a dick about this…” Foggy starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Matt turned into a judgmental prick over this. He swore to himself years ago that he wouldn’t keep people in his life who couldn’t accept him with all his flaws, but cutting Matt out seems like an impossible task to him.
It ends up being a moot point because Matt says, “I’m not going to be a dick, Foggy,” and very deliberately rests his right hand on Foggy’s left, the tips of his fingers just brushing over the scar and this time he doesn’t flinch at all.
“Aren’t you going to ask me questions about it?” Foggy asks as they make their way back to their dorm. “I mean, most people want to know why I did it.”
Matt shrugs. “I don’t want to pry.”
That’s such a Matt answer to give that Foggy almost wants to laugh. He probably would have, if they had been having any other conversation, but instead he says, “But you are curious.”
“Of course I am,” Matt says. “But if you don’t want to tell me-”
“I don’t,” Foggy says. “Well… I do. But I don’t want… People start treating me differently, sometimes. I thought you knew already and just weren’t saying anything because you didn’t care, and if I tell you and you start treating me differently…”
“I won’t,” Matt says, but Foggy shakes his head.
“You don’t know that,” Foggy says. “I’m on anti-depressants. I have a therapist back home that I see over breaks. Things are okay now, but there are some weeks where I barely eat and sleep too much and don’t have the energy to leave my room and I know how hard it can be to live with someone who’s in that sort of place. Really it’s a minor miracle that you haven’t seen me at that point yet.”
“So you’re managing this,” Matt says easily. “That doesn’t change anything between us, and if you have a bad week that won’t change anything either.”
“Even if it’s more than a week?” Foggy asks cautiously. He hopes he never ends up in that place again, where he loses himself to his depression for months at a time, but it could always happen. If Matt’s going to stick around… If Nelson & Murdock is going to be a thing, he has to know what he’s in for. He has to get past this initial oblivious optimism, but that might be a longer conversation for another day.
“Even then,” Matt says firmly. He pauses and then, more hesitantly, asks, “Are you… hurting yourself? Now, I mean?”
Foggy shakes his head. “That was the most emphatic head shake I’ve ever done,” Foggy says. “I’m not cutting, I haven’t in years.”
“But you did,” Matt says. “In the past.”
“Thought that was implied with the scar running down my forearm,” Foggy says dryly.
Matt flushes slightly with embarrassment. “Sorry. I’ve just never noticed any scars on your arm. Until today, that is.”
“They’re on my thighs,” Foggy explains. “But I thought cutting my forearm would be easier when I…” He doesn’t want to actually say when I tried to kill myself, doesn’t want to explain down the road, not across the street, doesn’t want to try to find the words to explain what it was like seeing the blood pouring out of his vein and hearing his mom scream and still almost being angry at the time that he didn’t succeed.
He clears his throat awkwardly and says, “Anyway, that’s why there’s only the one on my arm. My mom found me before I did the other arm and I got help.” Slowly, painfully, he got help. He dragged his feet, he fought against it for longer than he should have, but he got help.
Foggy braces himself for an inane comment from Matt, a well-meaning “And now you’re better” or “Well, it’s all in the past” or any number of things that he’s heard before.
But Matt, once again, manages to surprise him. “I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me this,” he says sincerely. “If I ever do anything or say anything that I shouldn’t…”
“I’ll let you know,” Foggy finishes for him.
“And you’ll tell me if you need… anything?” Matt adds, more hesitantly. “I mean, you said you had a therapist but if there’s ever anything I can do…”
This is verging too close on uncomfortable territory, on pity and a prelude to Matt treating him like glass, and Foggy quickly says, “Just don’t treat me differently, I mean it, Matt. No matter what happens, don’t treat me differently.”
It’s a stupid request to make, because Foggy knows that he is different. That just because things are good now doesn’t mean they’ll always be good, and when they get bad he’s going to need Matt to help him. To treat him differently, even, because his mental illness will do its best to stop him from functioning like everyone else. And he hates that, but that’s not a weakness in himself. Even if, after all these years, he still struggles to accept that fact as truth.
But Matt doesn’t mention any of that. Matt probably wouldn’t even think of any of that, not like Foggy would. Another difference between them, one that Foggy never thought about before and he hates that he’s thinking about now. “I won’t,” Matt promises him. “This changes nothing, Foggy. I mean that.”
His fingers brush against the scar on Foggy’s arm again, gentle and soft, and Foggy prays that down the road his depression won’t make liars out of them both.
FILL: Scars (tw past suicide attempt/self harm)
Foggy never forgets that the scar is there, not really. He sees it when he gets dressed in the morning, feels it when he scratches an itch on his forearm. Sometimes he gets a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, the edge it peeking out from where his shirt sleeve has gotten pushed up a little, and he’ll jolt slightly because for the briefest moment he’s actually surprised by the sight of it on his body.
Just a brief moment, though, before he remembers what it is. Why it’s there.
(He will forever be grateful that the worst of his scars, the long lines of parallel white stripes that came before the one on his wrist, are located on his thighs. He sees those less often, thinks about them less often, only really has to worry when he tumbles into bed with a new partner but most of the time by that point they’ve seen the one on his wrist and it’s a non-issue. But only most of the time.)
By the time he gets to law school he’s comfortable wearing t-shirts in public again. He’s still on anti-depressants but this current dose is doing him a world of good, and he still has a therapist back in his old neighborhood that he can call whenever he feels the need to talk to someone about his problems one-on-one. Some days he still struggles with talking to anyone, but he’s getting better about reaching out when he needs help. Some days, he still struggles with finding the motivation to do what should be basic tasks, but those days are getting fewer and further apart as well.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think about whether Matt knows about the scar or not. It’s a part of his life, one that people either accept once they realize what it is or they don’t, and the ones who don’t still bother him but it hurts less than it used to. Matt never says anything about it, so whenever Foggy thinks about it (not often, and usually late at night when he’s trying to sleep) he just assumes that Matt is okay with it.
He doesn’t think about how whenever he guides Matt it’s always Matt’s hand on his right arm, not his left. He doesn’t think about how when they touch it’s on the back or the shoulders or the head, or increasingly common hugs where the only thing his scar brushes against is the fabric of Matt’s shirts. He’s so used to people just seeing it that he forgets that it’s impossible for Matt to glance down and know that it’s there.
They’re sitting in class, when it happens. Matt on his left side for once because someone had taken the seat on Foggy’s right today, and Matt reaches out to gently touch his arm to get his attention about something. But his fingers brush against the scar, the raised edge of it that’s faded to white over the years but has never disappeared completely (will probably never disappear completely) and he tenses, fingers tracing along the length of it until Foggy, suddenly uncomfortable, pulls his arm away slightly.
Matt jerks his fingers back like they’ve been burned and sits ramrod-straight for the rest of the lecture, maintaining a careful distance between himself and Foggy.
And Foggy has heard almost every comment imaginable, from the stupid thoughtless ones to the downright nasty ones that are supposed to hurt, but somehow Matt pulling away from him is worse than anything else.
When the lecture ends Foggy wants to just bolt, disappear somewhere on campus where he doesn’t have to face Matt and the judgement that he knows is going to come, but Matt stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.
His left arm. That has to be intentional.
“I’m sorry,” Matt says quietly, as their classmates gather their bags and shuffle out of the lecture hall. “I- I didn’t know that you… I was surprised, that’s all.”
“If you’re going to be a dick about this…” Foggy starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Matt turned into a judgmental prick over this. He swore to himself years ago that he wouldn’t keep people in his life who couldn’t accept him with all his flaws, but cutting Matt out seems like an impossible task to him.
It ends up being a moot point because Matt says, “I’m not going to be a dick, Foggy,” and very deliberately rests his right hand on Foggy’s left, the tips of his fingers just brushing over the scar and this time he doesn’t flinch at all.
“Aren’t you going to ask me questions about it?” Foggy asks as they make their way back to their dorm. “I mean, most people want to know why I did it.”
Matt shrugs. “I don’t want to pry.”
That’s such a Matt answer to give that Foggy almost wants to laugh. He probably would have, if they had been having any other conversation, but instead he says, “But you are curious.”
“Of course I am,” Matt says. “But if you don’t want to tell me-”
“I don’t,” Foggy says. “Well… I do. But I don’t want… People start treating me differently, sometimes. I thought you knew already and just weren’t saying anything because you didn’t care, and if I tell you and you start treating me differently…”
“I won’t,” Matt says, but Foggy shakes his head.
“You don’t know that,” Foggy says. “I’m on anti-depressants. I have a therapist back home that I see over breaks. Things are okay now, but there are some weeks where I barely eat and sleep too much and don’t have the energy to leave my room and I know how hard it can be to live with someone who’s in that sort of place. Really it’s a minor miracle that you haven’t seen me at that point yet.”
“So you’re managing this,” Matt says easily. “That doesn’t change anything between us, and if you have a bad week that won’t change anything either.”
“Even if it’s more than a week?” Foggy asks cautiously. He hopes he never ends up in that place again, where he loses himself to his depression for months at a time, but it could always happen. If Matt’s going to stick around… If Nelson & Murdock is going to be a thing, he has to know what he’s in for. He has to get past this initial oblivious optimism, but that might be a longer conversation for another day.
“Even then,” Matt says firmly. He pauses and then, more hesitantly, asks, “Are you… hurting yourself? Now, I mean?”
Foggy shakes his head. “That was the most emphatic head shake I’ve ever done,” Foggy says. “I’m not cutting, I haven’t in years.”
“But you did,” Matt says. “In the past.”
“Thought that was implied with the scar running down my forearm,” Foggy says dryly.
Matt flushes slightly with embarrassment. “Sorry. I’ve just never noticed any scars on your arm. Until today, that is.”
“They’re on my thighs,” Foggy explains. “But I thought cutting my forearm would be easier when I…” He doesn’t want to actually say when I tried to kill myself, doesn’t want to explain down the road, not across the street, doesn’t want to try to find the words to explain what it was like seeing the blood pouring out of his vein and hearing his mom scream and still almost being angry at the time that he didn’t succeed.
He clears his throat awkwardly and says, “Anyway, that’s why there’s only the one on my arm. My mom found me before I did the other arm and I got help.” Slowly, painfully, he got help. He dragged his feet, he fought against it for longer than he should have, but he got help.
Foggy braces himself for an inane comment from Matt, a well-meaning “And now you’re better” or “Well, it’s all in the past” or any number of things that he’s heard before.
But Matt, once again, manages to surprise him. “I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me this,” he says sincerely. “If I ever do anything or say anything that I shouldn’t…”
“I’ll let you know,” Foggy finishes for him.
“And you’ll tell me if you need… anything?” Matt adds, more hesitantly. “I mean, you said you had a therapist but if there’s ever anything I can do…”
This is verging too close on uncomfortable territory, on pity and a prelude to Matt treating him like glass, and Foggy quickly says, “Just don’t treat me differently, I mean it, Matt. No matter what happens, don’t treat me differently.”
It’s a stupid request to make, because Foggy knows that he is different. That just because things are good now doesn’t mean they’ll always be good, and when they get bad he’s going to need Matt to help him. To treat him differently, even, because his mental illness will do its best to stop him from functioning like everyone else. And he hates that, but that’s not a weakness in himself. Even if, after all these years, he still struggles to accept that fact as truth.
But Matt doesn’t mention any of that. Matt probably wouldn’t even think of any of that, not like Foggy would. Another difference between them, one that Foggy never thought about before and he hates that he’s thinking about now. “I won’t,” Matt promises him. “This changes nothing, Foggy. I mean that.”
His fingers brush against the scar on Foggy’s arm again, gentle and soft, and Foggy prays that down the road his depression won’t make liars out of them both.