Heritage
At first Foggy thought it was one of those protective tactical phone cases, given the rugged construction and the sort of olive-green color which brought to mind the army. Which made sense; though Matt wasn’t prone to dropping things or knocking them over, a little additional protection for his phone couldn’t hurt. Foggy himself had had to replace a cracked screen protector one too many times to not be appreciative of the precaution.
It wasn’t completely utilitarian, though. Looking closer, there was an all-over engraved pattern of repeating hexagons. Not quite like a beehive as there was a thin space left between each individual shape, but similar. Each hexagon contained a small motif, a ring around something that looked like a strange, stylized five-petaled flower or super simple mandala, a solid circle ornamenting each section and centering the whole design.
Though a spark of recognition lit his brain, it took a moment for Foggy to realize where he’d seen that symbol before: the same thing was carved on the metal pendant that Matt never took off, even to shower. So the case wasn’t something off the shelf. Huh. Maybe he’d gotten it specially ordered?
Matt returned from the bathroom then, so Foggy took the opportunity to assuage his curiosity. “Hey, Matt?” His roommate hummed in acknowledgement as he dropped into his desk chair. “Where’d you get your phone case?”
“Hm? Donnie made it for me. I think he 3D printed it? The details kind of escaped me at the time.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” From what Foggy had gathered from the little hints and pieces Matt had dropped about his family, Donatello was an honest to god, dyed-in-the-wool super-genius. Custom phone cases were probably nothing to him. “Does the pattern mean anything? You’ve got the same thing on your necklace.”
Now Matt picked up his phone from the plastic bin on his nightstand that he stashed it in, along with his wallet, keys, and glasses, when he was done leaving their room for a while. He turned it over to display the engraved surface, running a thumb along one of the tactile lines. The cast his smile gained then was one Foggy only ever saw when they were discussing his family: content and warm but sometimes, like now, also strangely mysterious. Secretive, almost. “It’s called kikkou, a traditional Japanese design representing a turtle shell,” he explained. “The symbol in the hexagons is Sensei’s family crest.”
No wonder Matt never took that necklace off. Family was everything to him. “Family crest, huh. Like on your necklace -- so it’s saying you’re part of their clan or something?” He considered. “Is clan the right word, here? Lineage?”
“Clan is fine; Sensei’s a traditionalist.” Affection and something like pride deepened Matt’s smile. “Yeah. They gave that to me after I was adopted.”
“That’s really cool,” Foggy repeated his sentiments from earlier, then grinned. “The Nelson coat of arms is probably a salami rampant crossed with a hammer and, I don’t know, crowned with socket wrenches or something. A very distinguished family,” he added with a laugh, “established in Hell’s Kitchen for two and a half generations now.”
“An ancient and noble house.” Though there was answering amusement in Matt’s voice, there was also earnestness. No mockery. God, he loved this man. “My dad’s family...”
The levity the sentence started with faded as Matt trailed off, a slight hesitance entering his demeanor. The motion of his thumb on his phone case slowed, stilled. While Matt had a stepdad of sorts, “Dad” always meant Jack Murdock. Foggy had looked him up once, after Matt made mention of his name and his career in the ring. Battlin’ Jack Murdock, Hell’s Kitchen legend and Matt’s personal hero. Always a fraught subject. “They’ve been around awhile too?” he prompted, keeping his tone casual.
“About as long as yours,” Matt said. “My great-grandfather came from Ireland back in the fifties or sixties but he lived in Albany for a while. My grandmother’s the one who put roots down in Hell’s Kitchen.” His smile was wistful. “She raised my dad there, and he had me. So, two and a half generations of Murdocks in Hell’s Kitchen. No, two and a quarter,” he corrected himself with a bit of a sigh, “since I moved to Lower Manhattan when I was fourteen.”
Somehow, Foggy figured that teasing him for being a traitor to the neighborhood wouldn’t go over so well right now. “You’re still a Murdock, and there’s no reason you can’t return to your old stomping grounds.”
Matt chuckled, soft and rueful. “Oh, I have. And yeah, I kept my dad’s name. It’s all...” He paused, visibly swallowed. “It’s all that I have left of him, really.”
“I’ll bet anything that’s not true,” Foggy said immediately. Matt’s brows flew up, startled puzzlement clear at this forceful declaration. “He was a fighter, right? You’re a fighter too, that’s obvious to anyone who’s spent more than ten minutes with you -- or faced you in mock court, Jesus, Murdock, I thought that guy from UVA was going to cry.” He managed to pull a more satisfied-looking smile from Matt, though it was still tinged with rue. “And if you run into something you can’t fight, you fight it anyway until you’ve figured it out. I bet you get that from your dad, too.” Without his glasses on, the uncharacteristic fragility and uncertainty in Matt’s face was bare to see. It was Foggy’s turn to swallow, hesitating, before taking a chance: “Just because you love your family without him doesn’t mean you didn’t keep anything from your dad, you know?”
There was a long moment. Foggy held his breath as Matt shut his eyes, hoping desperately that he hadn’t overstepped. But eventually, Matt opened his eyes again, the uncertainty swept away. “Murdocks always get up,” he agreed, voice low. There was still something achingly sad in his smile, but it was calmer now. And grateful. “You’re right. I love my family now, I wouldn’t give that up for the world, but... I think I needed to hear that. Thanks, Foggy.”
Foggy tried to project all of his sincerity in his voice. “Anytime, man.” For a moment the air between them was heavy but not uncomfortable, like a quilt held against winter chill. He noticed that Matt had resumed tracing the pattern on the phone still in his hand, and cleared his throat. “So,” he said decisively. “Turtles, huh.”
“Yeah.” Matt’s expression cleared, gaining a gently amused bent, though Foggy couldn’t tell why. “They’re my favorite animal.”
(Later, after Foggy found out exactly why turtles were Matt’s favorite animal, he’d also learn upon seeing Matt decked out in his full Akuma gear -- silk and leather and a layer of tessellated hexagonal plates wrapping his torso, arms, and shins -- that kikkou wasn’t just a decorative motif but also a style of armor. Protection and a declaration of identity all in one. A turtle shell of Matt’s own.
Beyond the spectacle of short swords and shuriken, however, Foggy noticed that Matt had also wrapped his hands like a boxer. The tape was stark white against the black of his outfit -- less striking of a statement, but powerfully present all the same.
Family was everything to Matt, after all. Clad in and protected by the symbols of his heritage past and present, Matt smiled.)