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Frankincense and myrrh. Beeswax and fresh roses. Oil and leather, creaking and crinkling quietly along the creases. Beads, wooden, polished—strung prayers unspoken but still heard, their gentle clinking against each other unhurried like Foggy's hands dropping from his ears like the lift of a veil.
A breeze and the flutter of many pages, like doves, and when they land, like a song, each note the whistle of wind over raised dots.
Matt blinks as the world settles around him in sound and scent, in the shape of candles and petals, boxing gloves new and old, a familiar rosary he has been missing for days, a bible still singing snatches of verses from Solomon's song. Something framed in glass and plastic hangs over silk sheets. A soft bed. A soft world.
His voice cracks as he stands at its feathery edge.
"What am I looking at?"
"You know what you're looking at, Matt," Foggy says in a voice fond and familiar, like yet another sliver of home slotting into place.
He laughs, he thinks, even though nothing about this is funny. He gestures, off-center, at the nest like a man ready to commit to a joke he's not getting.
"I know sex ed was a while ago, but this- this is meant to be for you."
"It is."
Guiding hands lead him to the bed, to polyester and cotton nestled within swirls of silk. Spelling the letters across the hoodie with his fingers, Matt laughs again, still more air than sound. He missed this. Foggy's hoodie. The one he had worn so many times that it smells more like him than Foggy.
"There's more if you want to examine them all."
And there are. A tie with dinosaur prints, another with avocados. Another hoodie, well-loved and holey. T-shirts stretched and thinning in the middle. Christmas scarves from Anna nearly indistinguishable from his own if not for the uneven stitches here and there, proof of love's imperfections and how it is more precious for it.
"I know this is supposed to be for me." Foggy swallows, loud and careful. "I just thought it could also be for you. For us."
Matt's heart swells so full that he can hardly breathe. He laughs, again, and doesn't blink so that the salt stays in his eyes.
"Sounds- sounds like you're proposing."
"And if I am? Will you say yes?"
Yes, he says with open mouth to Foggy's mouth, with open hand tracing the gentle plains of Foggy's chest to soft, vulnerable neck so that a rounded chin can rest in the cup of his palm and an even pulse beat against his thumb, steady and honest. If Foggy tastes the salt in his kiss, he doesn't say it, only answers his answer with a tug, pulling Matt down with him, letting Matt's limbs drape over him, tucking his arms around him before folding his own around Matt.
Their hips roll, slow and easy. The air grows heavy with the smell of him and Foggy. With a quiet hunger, he eats the groans out of Foggy's mouth and laps each moan up; with searching fingers, he slips under sweatpants, between full cheeks to where Foggy is wet and waiting.
He hides his face in the crook of Foggy's neck so that with each thrust of his fingers, he feels the hitch in Foggy's voice and with each rock of his hips, Foggy's answering own. Foggy's blood rushes in his ears; his heart pounds in his chest. His groans shudder through him, from the crown of his head to the tip of his tingling toes.
He is a symphony and Matt a lone note that accidentally strayed in, that was woven into the music and, alongside his faith and his demons, his bloody fists and brittle edges, given a home.
His lips move against Foggy's skin. Silently. Still, Foggy heard him. He holds Matt tighter and presses a kiss to his hair.
"Yeah, me too."