confessionals
eight—
You wonder what kind of person captures his heart.
Probably good Catholic girls who still know Hail Holy Queen by memory (that was one of your favorite ones growing up, remembering how witchy and cool it sounded like, intoned monotonously by all the girls at the school after daily morning Rosary).
Probably men who know their way around the law, as smart as he is, who knew the answers to everything (as you got older, you veered into a more creative path in your career, ruining whatever hope your parents had of having a doctor or a lawyer in their family).
Probably ones who fight as hard as he does (you furtively assume this was the case, based on the regular cuts and wayward bruises that adorned his face).
Ones who don’t laugh or swear and act like a fool when they’re in church.
Because Matt Murdock looks like the type of man who’d have happy endings written about him. Who would have his arm around a person as beautiful and brilliant and strong as he is. It’s the easy smile. The way he talks and moves around people, how he fills up the space, and make the day a little lighter, a little better.
He makes you want to tell him promises that can’t be kept. Offer up prayers for him that will never be answered—
‘Hey, button.’ His voice greeting you takes you out of your thoughts. Your Matt Murdock-shaped thoughts.
You’re slowly starting to grow fond of his nickname for you. You’re also growing fond of the way he turns towards your direction from where he sits the moment you step inside the church, like he’s been waiting all day for you. The two of you sit in silence some days, filling it with mildly inappropriate jokes and hushed laughter in other days.
The hand holding moment is, funnily enough, placed on hold. Which means both of you carry on with your daily meetings as though nothing happened, as though the worst thing the two of you can do is actually address it. Because right now… You like this. Doing nothing with him. Sitting beside him on church pews, talking about everything and nothing. Nothing passionate, or titillating, or romantic. Just you asking how stained glass art is made, and Matt politely explaining how the world works to you like a fucking toddler… Like he’s your own extremely handsome Wikipedia.
Because heartbreaks, you’ve learned, are devastating.
Falling in love? Even more so.
And you don’t want to go there.
You’re scared to go there.
Especially when he faces your direction, and you’re hit with that lopsided smile of his. A selfish thought comes over you. You wonder who else he flashes that charming smile to and that it should only be you, you, you.
“You shouldn’t distract yourself with selfish, impure thoughts.” — your very Catholic, very teenager self would’ve told you. Because it’s all you can think about.
You wonder what kind of person captures his heart.
Because you’re pretty sure a button isn’t one of them.
nine—
Matt Murdock thinks of you.
Incessantly.
He thinks of the little button you’ve sewn onto his shirt, as though he’s carrying a part of you everyday. Stitched together in red threads. Right next to his tiny, embroidered heart. It makes him smile in odd hours of the day. During quiet times in the office when it’s just him and Foggy going through clients’ files scattered on the floor.
‘You okay, buddy?’ Foggy prefaces, watching his friend go through documents in Braille… Grinning. ‘We’re going through a possible murder case and you’re smiling.’
’Sorry,’ Matt’s smile only widens, bemused at the thought of being caught like this thinking of you as he reads harrowing documents in the middle of the afternoon. ‘I just thought of something.’
‘Care to share?’ Karen pipes up from the other room, her exhausted stare finally leaving the broken combination fax, scanner and printer she bought off of Craigslist. The listing said it works, she told them. Him and Foggy didn’t mind. Just charge whatever to the office, they always tell her.
‘Is it a something, or a someone?’ Foggy doesn’t look up from what he’s reading, already knowing what that look in his best friend’s face entails. Karen’s eyebrow quirks, eager to know what Matt Murdock’s new distraction is.
‘It’s a secret.’
Karen boos him.
‘Ah. A someone then.’ Foggy sighs.
Matt wants to tell them about you. About his feelings, too. His finger absentmindedly going across the button you’ve sewn into, tracing the embroidered heart too.
Maybe one day. When he tells you first.
ten—
You’re quieter today.
No little jokes, no elbow nudging when he says something funny. Your arms fall limply to your sides, eyes forward, your body sagging beside him. Your breathing’s shallow, your hands rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand one too many times.
There’s a pit in his stomach.
Matt’s hesitant to ask as you try to gather yourself in his presence. He’s unsure if you wanted to be held by him when you feel like you’re about to break into tiny little pieces. So he sits and waits with you. Hoping being with you can suffice.
‘You might’ve met her.’ You blurt out all of a sudden. ‘You might’ve sat beside her and talked to her, I—’
Your lower lip quivers as you let out a shaky breath.
And it dawns on him then. A part of you must’ve thought about it. That he must’ve met your grandmother. Talked to her once. Probably had some story of her that only he was privy to. That in all the days spent at this place, he’s the one that can bring you comfort… Or some semblance of closure… Or anything that wasn’t just the confusion and the sadness you’ve been left with.
You turn your head away from his direction. Trying not to cry.
‘I’m sorry, button.’ He whispers. It’s all he can offer to you. It’s all he can do. Matt closes the distance between the two of you, putting an arm around around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. His calloused hands tangled in your hair. A choked sob reverberates through your body, the tears rolling across your cheeks, unable to hold it any longer.
Matt shifts his hand to your nape, lightly massaging the back of your neck. His mouth grazes your cheek as he lowers his head, pressed against your face as he held you tightly. He knows all too well what that feels like. The pain of losing someone. And the emptiness that follows.
‘I’m so sorry.’ he whispers over and over again, kissing away whatever tear that fell from your eyes.
eleven—
You’re the first thing he senses the minute he steps into church.
It’s the almond perfume. The one that reminds him of madeleines, so sweet, so gentle, the air around him filled with so much emotion.
Your back’s turned to him, facing the vestibule that afternoon instead, where rows and rows of votive candles sat. Some lit. Some aren’t. You’re silent, deep in thought, attention fixated on the light flickering on the candles.
‘Hi Matt,’ you say almost immediately, picking up the sound of his cane as he enters the church.
‘Hey button.’ he greets you, standing beside you, taking you in.
You mumble a ‘how are you’, not looking up, distracted.
‘Something on your mind?’ On your hand more like. Matt picks up on the thing you held—a piece of paper, he makes out. You’re holding onto it a little too tightly.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ your breath a little shaky. But he knows better. It’s definitely something. So he waits for you to go on. ‘Just found this at my gran’s old place. She… Kept this photo of me at my first communion.’
A photo of you.
‘Must be adorable.’
‘Oh, very.’ you sniff, keeping your voice light.
He rests his cane by the vestibule, wandering behind you. Matt reaches out to you, left hand over your shoulder, then your back. Matt feels your breath hitching when he holds onto your forearms, leaning his head over and resting his chin on your shoulder, as though trying to get a good look of the photo. His hands fall over your arms that held the photo… And then on your hips, to balance himself.
Matt breathes you in. The smell of incense, your perfume, the faint scent of coconut oil tangled into your hair, the flat white you drank all day at work… You stay still, breathing deeply, his touch heating up your forearm, the curve of your shoulder where he rests his head… If you turn your head to your side, your lips would meet his, Matt thinks. He wonders what you’d feel like. Like flower petals, maybe. Softer than that. Something he’s not allowed to feel. Or think about.
‘I’ll describe it for you.’ you go on, voice gentle. ‘It’s seven year old me, all smiles in the photo. I had zero self-awareness, and no braces yet, so I look like an overeager bunny. I’m wearing a white dress, that’s very shiny and very scratchy. With puff sleeves as big as my face. I’m holding a candle on my left hand. It was a pain to light. And there’s something on my head.’
A smile spreads across his face. ‘Let me guess. Lacy little veil?’
Matt feels your laugh reverberating across your body, standing so close to you.
‘You know me too well.’
‘You and your veils.’ he smiles.
You fold the photo, tucking it in your pocket, turning your body around to face him. You’re close, so close to him — if he took a step forward your lips would meld with his, each breath bringing you closer and closer to him. Matt still has his hands around your hips. To keep balance, of course. To keep himself from falling into you.
‘Hey,’ you whisper. ‘Matt.’
Your voice sent heat unfurling across him, hearing your voice so low like that. Saying his name like that.
‘Yeah?’
‘Want to light a candle with me?’
Matt’s chin tips up, as though he’s coming up for air, so overwhelmed by your touch, the closeness between you, your skin against his… That he almost loses whatever’s left of his self-control in the moment. The buzzing in his chest fades, and he relinquishes his grasp on you, taking space beside you instead.
You take his wrist, gently guiding his hand to a box of matches at the end of the vestibule.
‘Let’s light two.’ he says. ‘For your grandmother.’
‘And for my dad.’
twelve—
‘Father Lantom’s going to murder us.’ You tell him in hushed whispers after hearing Matt’s insane suggestion, when he realises no one’s in the church but the two of you. His hand is around your bicep, the other holding up his cane as the two of you draw near towards the wooden confessional booths, pace quickening with every step.
‘Look, if this goes south you can always tell him I accidentally stepped inside the wrong confessional.’
‘I am not lying and playing the blind card for you in church, Matthew Murdock. That’s like, wrong in so many ways.’
‘Okay, okay — I’ll tell him.’
‘Matt, no—’
The two of you situate yourselves on both boxes, laughing and giggling like two kids running off with stolen candy.
Matt asks you something when the laughter and the thrill simmers down.
‘So when was the last time you—’
‘—Confessed my sins to Father Lantom?’ you finish for him. ‘Last time was the sixth grade. Stole a sandwich at Mo’s bodega. I totally lost sleep over it. But I was so hungry. And I didn’t have enough money for one. Came here the next day, bawling my eyes out. He had to drag me out the booth as I was in hysterics because of a sandwich. Kinda miss it.’
‘Confessing? Or stealing sandwiches?’
‘Both, to be honest.’
You peer through the confessional screen, Matt obscured by the intricate wooden lattice work in-between you. You can still make out the smile on his face though, from the light streaming through the cracks of the booth.
‘What about you?’ You ask him, curious. ‘When’s the last time you had a heart to heart with Father Lantom?’
‘Last week.’
‘Last week? Damn. Were you on a sinning spree last week?’
Matt laughs. ‘Something like that. Do you still remember how it goes?’
You make the Sign of the Cross, the tip of your thumb grazing your bottom lip subconsciously at the end. It makes you feel a little nostalgic. It’s been awhile. You clasp your hands together, looking back at him through the latticed opening.
‘Bless me, uh, Father, for I have sinned… Right?’ You say, unsure. ‘My last confession was…’
He clears his throat, lowering his voice. ‘Ah yes, sixth grade. I remember. You stole a sandwich, right?’
‘Oh my God — is that your best Father Lantom impression?’
‘Well, it’s an impression. Okay, come on, button. Anything you wanna confess?’
‘Okay, I’ll, uh—give you an example.’ Matt starts, when the silence lingers far too long. He clears his throat, his normal voice back. ‘I lied to someone I care about. He’s my best friend, and I said something I shouldn’t have. And everyday I see him it pains me to think about that one thing.’
‘Hmm, good example. But I have a better one.’
‘Are we one-upping each other’s sins? That’s not how this works, button.’ Matt clarifies, laughter leaving his body.
‘You started it!’
‘Yeah — to refresh you!’
‘Okay, okay — let me… Let me give this a try.’
Your deep breath shakes through the confessional, a thoughtful silence prefacing your confession, hands still clasped together.
’I thought about someone… In a way I shouldn’t have.’ you say slowly, nervously — unsure if you’re wording this as carefully as you should.
‘Like in a bad way?’
‘Like “I’m going to get sent to a nunnery if I kept thinking about them like this all the time” type of way.’ you say. ’And I don’t know. It’s so confusing and emotional… And I feel like at some point I’ll lose control and I wouldn’t be able to hold back. And I’ll lose them. Forever. And I’m scared to lose people. Fucking terrified.’
‘Because I know what it feels like to lose people. Dead or alive.’
‘And I don’t want to lose you.’
thirteen—
The word slips.
The jumble of emotions for him you’ve been keeping to yourself finally out there. Uttered in a dark box, some place you’ve never stepped into in a long while until he leads you there today. To him. A part of you wants to will yourself from existence from the admittance. Mortified that you let your guard down.
But also… You feel relief. Like your heart’s never been calmer. That you’re free. You look up at him, the heat in your cheeks simmering down, falling silent in his presence.
Matt’s quiet for a moment, taking his shades off, and you can see his brown eyes briefly through the latticed opening, looking at your direction. He runs his hand through his messy hair.
‘Okay.’ he says. ‘My turn.’
’I’ve been angry… For a long time. I lost people like you have. Some of them out of my hands. Some… My fault. And I go here when everything… When the world gets too much. And I remember talking to you for the first time, and then the days after that, and seeing how much the world fascinates you. That even when it gets bad… Even when unfair things happen to you, you still brave through it. That you’d rather make the world a little better instead of wallowing in all of the bad things.’
‘That you’d rather sew a heart on a stranger’s cuff and fix their button, and make their day a little brighter.’
He breathes so deeply, and your heartbeats quicken, anticipating what he’d say next.
’That’s what I love about you, button.’
fourteen—
The first thing he hears after is the sound of the booth next door opening and closing. And then footsteps departing. Your block heel squeaks under the marble floor, further and further from him.
You’re… leaving?
This sends his senses in overdrive, panic creeping up in his throat, like he’s set himself up in his own fucking trap, a confessional booth-shaped one, and he can’t get out of it. Matt immediately gets to his feet, the urge to chase after you, to follow the sound of your footsteps, to retract everything he just said so he wouldn’t lose you the first thing that leaps at him.
But your footsteps stop for a beat. You stand in place for a moment. And then again, louder and louder. Closer and closer to him—
You almost yank the door of the confessional booth right off.
Light floods open he assumes, and you — all of you, in his space, looking up at him, heartbeats fluttering. He can almost feel the look on your face, burning with so much intensity, so much warmth and want… For him.
‘I always… I always tell my gran I was busy, when she was around.’ you say. ‘Too busy to take her here. To go to Mass, like we always did when I was a kid. And I regret it so much. I regret so many things. Especially when I lost her.’
’So I started coming here every day. To remember her. To sing her favourite hymns. To… Say sorry.’
‘And then I sat next to you. And then I wasn’t coming here every day because of regret. And feeling so sad and empty. I started looking forward to it. Because it made me happy.’
‘You make me happy, Matt.’
It spills across him too, all that warmth, that light, bubbling up in his chest… Blooming across his cheeks, his fingertips as he cups your face, his arms pulling you closer. Your hand reaches out to him, fingertips running across his jawline, tracing the outline of his face. His lips.
He’s right. He’s so right. Your mouth presses against his cheek, kissing the side of his face gently. Once. Twice. They’re so soft. His fingers curl in the back of your head, tangled in your hair.
‘You know where my lips are, don’t you?’ He asks, breaking the moment, that lopsided smile of his gracing his features. You rise up to your toes, kissing the tip of his nose. He can feel that rising buzz in his chest again, warm and alive.
’This it?’
Your cheeky little laugh fills the very cramped confessional box, not exactly fit for two people very much in love with each other.
‘Fuck off,’ Matt says in-between laughs, his mouth sinking into yours finally. He kisses you. You’re so tender and soft. You taste so sweet, like madeleines, of peace, and of comfort and he’s hungry for all of it. For you. He never wants to stop.
But you pull away for a moment, breathing him in, all smiles—Matt assumes, from the way your breath hitches, from the way your fingertips caress his cheek, unable to take your hands off of him.
‘Matthew Murdock, did you just swear inside the church?’
’Shut up and kiss me, button.’
And you do.
Over and over again.