Chapter Text
When Matt was 10, living in saint Agnes’ orphanage, hating the world for taking his home away, for taking his life away and, most of all, for taking his farther away, he realised for the first time in his life, he was lonely.
While yes before he had very little friends, most he had before the accident didn’t stick around for very long, nobody wanted to be friends with the blind kid who tended to lash out and solve all problems with his fists, but he still always had his dad. His community, all the old geezers at fogwells who didn’t care that he couldn’t see them, still letting him sit in on the practises and give him free cokes (or the occasional sip of beer).
So, when his dad died, and Matt was no longer allowed to go to fogwells because the nuns thought it was a ‘bad influence’ and ‘unholy’ – Matt was unholy too, didn’t they know about the devil in him? - for the first time ever, he was alone.
Loneliness, apparently, didn’t suit the boy.
With nothing else to focus on, nobody to talk to, the only thing he could do was listen and feel.
He listened to the cars outside, the couple a few streets down arguing about their missing dog, the people in the church pleading for a saviour from the cold streets of hell’s kitchen, the gunshots, the gangs, the crack of fist meeting skull, and most of all he listened to the lives of the people around him.He also felt so much, he felt the air graze his face (even when it wasn’t windy?) and the sheets under him grate at his skin when he tried to sleep ( but the nuns always insisted they were made of high quality cotton?), but, most of all, the biggest most obvious difference was what he wasn’t feeling.
Something he did not realise until he was alone, was how much he relied on the human touch.
A hand on his shoulder, raking though his hair, being engulfed in a warm hug.
It was agonising.
Nobody wanted to touch him here, all the other children were too afraid to come near him- he’s crazy, manic, punched me in the nose for talking too loud, always hearing things others can’t- and the nuns were more concerned about keeping his relationship with god in check- you must pray to the lord Matthew, ask him to turn your anger into passion, your farther would’ve expected better, atone for your sins-. It killed him, he needed to be held, told that everything would be ok and have something other than his destructive tendencies to focus on.
All this to say that while living at St Agnes’ Matt spent most of his time inside his room.
Curled in the corner, hands clutching his ears, eyes clenched shut -even though that one didn’t really do anything- only ever opening his door to collect the food left outside- like a rabid animal, too dangerous to approach- or to talk to the only person who ever spoke to him during his time at the orphanage, sister Maggie, a kind nun with sad eyes and a smile he recognised from hazy dreams, she smelt of cinnamon and smoke and sometimes the soft words she whispered while her gentle hands wiped disinfectant over the wounds from the many fights he got into left a warm feeling in his chest he couldn’t place.
So, when he was eleven and stick waltzed into his life, matt was willing to do whatever it took to impress him, for even just a bit of the physical contact he was craving so.
Stick was merciless with his training, he struck endlessly, not giving you even a moment to catch your breath. Knocking you down again, reminding you that you will never be good enough, never be strong enough to beat him like he beat you, over and over.
And Matt?
He relished in every second of it.
The brief warmth of a hand before it stuck you against the face, the knee to your chest that sucked all the air out of your lungs and the tackles to the floor that for a second you could imagine were hugs before the pain began.
Without realising it, he began to view stick as a farther figure of sort, he admired the man for his strength, his ability see -ha- his blindness as a strength and not a disability.
It made Matt feel strong, like he was doing good, like him being blind didn’t make him helpless, it helped drown out the roars of the devil, telling him that this wouldn’t last forever.
So when he was 12 and stick left, and was stuck back in the dreadful orphanage, isolated once more he began to learn how to live without the touch, he dealt with the tingle on his skin when people got too close, the tears he shed when the late nights alone became too much, the cuts on his arms from the desire to feel something or nothing at all.
He delt with it until he was 18 years old, finally able to leave the nest he built in st Agnes’ and move into his new dorm in Colombia university to study law, where he met the man who somehow was able to break down all the walls Matt had spent years putting in place.
Franklin Percy “Foggy” Nelson was everything Matthew Murdock was not.
He was free, kind, unbelievably smart despite his idiotic nature, and the quality that stood out most to matt, had no qualms about giving out physical touch like he fed from it.
Upon his first meeting with the man, after the rather awkward establishment of Matt being blind ( and foggy calling him extremely good locking which totally didn't immensely boost his ego), Foggy had gifted Matt a handshake that left his hand tingling, a clap on the shoulder that made matt dizzy, and, a kind but unnecessary tour of the building to help him navigate easier, during of which foggy allowed him to HOOK HIS ARM in the other mans and he was guided around the block.
The whole encounter left Matt reeling and midway through he had to hide in the bathroom to compose himself. In the span of a day, Foggy had gifted the blind man more touch than he had been given in years.
And God (forgive the blasphemy the situation calls for it) matt wanted more. He wanted to steal each high-five, arm wrapped around his shoulder, knee brushed against his and store them in a chest only he could access, his to hold tight and keep close to his heart.
Now, Matt was no idiot, he knew what he was feeling wasn’t normal, wasn’t healthy for either parties involved, -matt was filthy, he was damaged, he wouldn’t let the devil ruin sweet foggy like it had with him- so, with the floodgates opened and no way to close them now, matt turned to bars and clubs to find meaningless one night stands that could satisfy his hankering.
Foggy and his other friends (aka Foggy’s friends that Matt was forced to hang out with) would jokingly calling him a whore, bringing home multiple women (and a couple of men) per week.
Matt didn’t know how to make them understand that matt needed this, it was the only way to keep himself sane, that every time he got that skin on skin contact, his grades would skyrocket and the world would quiet down, just for a little bit.
Matt kept up this routine util he reached 19 years old and he met who he thought was his saviour, Elektra Natchios.