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The scent of sweat, summer sun, and faintly melted glitter clung to the air like incense as the city's heartbeat pulsed down the length of Christopher Street.
Matt tilted his head slightly, letting the roar of music and cheering roll across his senses like waves against his skin. It was sensory overload, overwhelming but not like a threat– more like love all at once, raw and vibrant and unashamed.
His hearing stretched wide, a radar soaked in joy, and though his eyes saw nothing, his mind painted it all in color.
Beside him, Foggy had his arm looped snugly through Matt's, fingers brushing the crook of his elbow in rhythm with their steps. The contact was casual, but grounding. Steady, warm, and just a little bit possessive in that quiet Foggy Nelson way, like he was declaring Matt his to anyone who might glance twice.
And plenty did. Matt could feel the looks– people smiling, nodding, seeing them.
Two guys arm-in-arm, both a little sweaty, both stupidly in love.
Going to the parade had been Foggy's idea, of course. He'd brought it up weeks ago, voice light but hopeful, like he was dangling the suggestion just out of reach so Matt wouldn't feel cornered.
Matt had hesitated for a breath. Not because he didn't want to, but because old instincts died hard. Because some part of him still whispered that wanting to be seen like this was a sin. That every brush of Foggy's hand or flash of his smile was a thing to be hidden, not held onto.
But that voice was quieter now.
It still lived in the corners of his ribs, sure, but it didn't own him. Not anymore.
Not since Foggy had seen all of him– the mask, the bruises, the Catholic self-loathing– and hadn't run. Hadn't left. He had just sat down across from Matt, angry, scared, and confused, but still there, and asked Matt if being able to hear his heartbeat all these years meant he knew he was in love with him.
Matt hadn't known what to say, then. Words had failed him in a way punches and sermons never had.
Because how could he not have known?
It had been a truth Matt had carried like a secret prayer for nearly a decade, one he never dared say out loud– because naming it made it real, and real meant fragile, and fragile things broke.
But Foggy hadn't broken.
It hadn't been easy. There had been long nights. Hard talks. A couple arguments sharp enough to draw metaphorical blood, but they always found their way back to each other.
Matt had finally allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, love didn't have to be penance.
That it could be soft, and silly, and full of quiet mornings and late-night takeout, and Foggy humming off-key in the shower after spending the night in his bed. That it could be his, without apology or justification. Without punishment.
So here they were.
Ten years of parades behind him, and this was the first one Foggy had walked hand-in-hand with the person he'd always wanted beside him. He was smiling so hard now his cheeks ached, the corners of his mouth tugging toward his ears like they were trying to prove a point.
Pride had always been home for him– where he could be loud, be whole, be surrounded by people who got it. But this year? This year, Pride felt like belonging.
"You doing okay?" Foggy asked, tilting his head toward Matt so the words wouldn't get swallowed by the music and laughter around them. His voice was low, but steady, a tether dropped into the swirling chaos, one only meant for Matt to catch.
Matt turned his head in response. His smile was small but real, the kind that came easier these days when Foggy was near. "Yeah," He said. "Yeah, I am."
He paused, then added, "It's a lot. But it's good. It's… right."
Foggy nodded, biting back the soft swell of emotion the answer stirred in his chest. He didn't need Matt to elaborate, he knew exactly what he meant.
"Good," He said quietly, then bumped his shoulder lightly into Matt's.
For a beat, they just stood there, letting the crowd drift around them like a river around two stones. Above them, a bubble machine from a passing float spat shimmering orbs into the sky, and Matt could feel them bursting in soft, wet pops against his skin. He laughed– actually laughed– and Foggy thought he might cry from how unfairly in love he was with this man.
They kept walking, steps slow and aimless in that way only a true summer day allowed. The city pulsed around them– music and laughter and the clatter of heels on pavement, the distant crackle of a megaphone, the smell of fried food from a cart nearby blending with sunscreen and street heat.
People moved past in waves– wings made of cellophane, flags turned to capes, faces painted with glitter and pride.
Matt let it wash over him. Not just the sounds, but the feeling of it. This deep, unspoken hum of joy in motion. It wasn't quiet, but it was comforting. Familiar, in a way he hadn't expected. Every footstep on asphalt echoed like belonging. Every cheer felt like an affirmation. Every laugh rang out like a hymn rewritten in neon.
They passed a float draped in silver streamers blasting disco remixes, and Foggy twirled him without warning– just grabbed Matt's hand and spun him like they were in their own private ballroom, their own little slice of absurdity in the middle of the street. Matt laughed again, stumbling a little over his cane but not letting go, his fingers curled tight in Foggy's.
"Careful," He said, amused. "I'm blind, you know."
"Yeah, and you still have better balance than I do," Foggy replied, breathless and grinning. "No excuses."
They were still smiling when it happened.
From somewhere ahead, a ripple of cheers surged like a wave. Then Foggy stopped, hand tightening on Matt's arm.
"Oh. Oh my God."
Matt stilled instantly. The shift in Foggy's grip was subtle– no panic, just awe– but he felt it as surely as a change in the wind.
"What is it?" He asked, already angling his head toward the commotion. He caught the flash-pop of camera shutters, the rise of hundreds of heartbeats spiking all at once like the crowd was holding its collective breath in joy.
Foggy didn't answer at first. His voice, when it finally came, was thick with disbelief and delighted horror.
"Matt… you're not gonna believe this."
A drag queen was striding down the street like she was descending from Mount Olympus itself. She wore full Daredevil regalia, though red was a generous base color. The outfit was a masterpiece of sequins, ruby and orange and pink and violet, all stitched into a bodysuit that shimmered like stained glass in the sun. A pride cape– long, majestic, made from the Progress flag– trailed behind her like royalty. Her cowl was hot pink, her horns rhinestoned, and her batons twin disco sticks that caught the light with every flick of her wrist.
"It's DareDiva, " Foggy breathed, and Matt's brows furrowed in equal parts bemusement and dread.
"DareDiva?"
"Oh yeah," Foggy said, awe creeping into his voice like a kid seeing their favorite comic book character come to life. "She's you, but make it glam. Imagine if someone broke into your closet, stole your suit, rolled it in glitter, sewed in a Progress flag, and then vogued it straight down the runway of justice."
"...I don't know whether to be horrified or flattered," Matt muttered, lips twitching around the edges of a smile he was pretending not to have.
He tilted his head slightly, tuning into the rush of sensory details that wrapped around DareDiva like a halo– fabric brushing air with every exaggerated turn, sequins crackling under sunlight, the faint clink of jewelry layered over the squeak of vinyl boots. And under it all, the steady drum of her heart: confident, joyous, utterly unafraid.
DareDiva struck a pose mid-street, one knee popped, hips cocked, and her rainbow cape fanned out like wings behind her. The crowd roared. She lifted one glittering baton overhead, spun it once, then snapped into a full split like she'd just defeated a supervillain with style alone.
Foggy clutched Matt's arm like he was witnessing a religious experience. "Okay," He breathed. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."
Matt shook his head, torn between amusement and the strange, reluctant admiration curling in his chest.
"YAS, DareDiva, slay!"
Someone in the crowd shouted, their voice high and fierce, cutting through the music like a rallying cry. The cheer was immediately picked up by others, rippling outward in waves of joy and delight.
"DareDiva! DareDiva!"
Matt huffed a breath through his nose, trying to hide the smile pulling at his mouth– and failing. Foggy snapped a picture with his phone as DareDiva strutted right past them, her heels clicking in time with the beat, sequins catching the sunlight like shattered rainbows.
"I'm going to need her to officiate our wedding."
"I didn't know we were getting married."
Foggy waved his hand dismissively, still watching DareDiva like she was some celestial vision sent to personally upgrade his standards for spectacle. "Details, details. Just let me live the dream, man."
Matt chuckled, the sound warm and loose in his chest. "You're ridiculous."
"Admit it, you secretly loved her."
"I appreciated the... theatricality."
Foggy grinned. "That's a yes."
Matt rolled his eyes behind his glasses, but didn't deny it.
They walked on, holding hands now, as the parade pulsed forward in time with the city's heartbeat. The sky above was streaked with color– part sunset, part confetti, part magic– and Matt could feel it all. The joy. The noise. The hope. The sheer, absurd wonder of being exactly where he was, with exactly who he was meant to be.
They peeled off from the main flow of the parade a few blocks later, ducking into a small park just off the street– a sliver of green tucked between brownstones and scaffolding.
The noise dulled a little here, still present but softened by trees and distance. Somewhere a vendor shouted about lemonade. The city never stopped, but here, it took a breath.
They found a bench beneath the shade of a crooked elm, half-sheltered from the sun and mostly hidden from the street. Matt sat first, cane resting against his knee, and Foggy settled beside him with a content sigh, their shoulders pressed together like puzzle pieces finally aligned.
They sat in silence for a long, gentle moment. No need for words, not when everything they needed to say had already been said a hundred different ways that day: in laughter, in touch, in shared kisses and the warmth of fingertips brushing.
Matt let his head tilt slightly toward Foggy's, the edge of their temples nearly touching. "You've got sunscreen in your hair," He murmured, lips curved with quiet amusement.
Foggy gave a snort. "And you've got enough glitter on you to qualify as a Pride decoration."
Matt reached up, brushing at his cheek with an exaggerated motion. "Still?"
"Hopeless," Foggy said, grinning. "It's in your soul now. You're doomed."
Matt huffed out a laugh, leaning back against the bench as if surrendering to the glittery fate Foggy had decreed. "Guess there's worse things to be damned for," He said, dry but fond.
Foggy grinned, turning his head just enough to press a quick kiss to Matt's temple. "That's the spirit, Glitterdevil."
"Oh, shut up," Matt groaned, but his voice was full of warmth. He didn't pull away.
Foggy chuckled and rested his head lightly against Matt's, letting the silence settle around them again like dust in a sunbeam– soft, slow, and golden.
Above them, the branches swayed in the breeze, casting dappled shadows across their laps.
A kid nearby blew bubbles from a little plastic wand, and they floated lazily across the park– tiny, iridescent planets suspended in sunlit orbit.
Eventually, Matt broke the silence, voice quiet but sincere. "Thanks for bringing me."
Foggy turned his head just enough to catch Matt's profile– his face relaxed, that guarded line between his brows smoothed out, mouth tipped in the ghost of a smile. The kind that only came when he let himself feel safe. Known.
"Always," He said softly, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Matt's mouth, gentle and warm, like a secret folded between them.
Matt turned his face just a little, caught Foggy's mouth with his own, and kissed him properly– slow, certain, with that tenderness that still made Foggy's heart stutter in his chest. There was no urgency, no crowd, no noise. Just them, breathing the same sun-warmed air, the city holding its breath around their stillness.
When they pulled apart, Matt rested his forehead lightly against Foggy's, breath still brushing close. "I could get used to this."
Foggy smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, his voice barely above a whisper. "You better. I've got plans, Murdock."
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Plans?"
"Mhm. Next year, we're going all out. Matching outfits and everything."
Matt groaned, though the edge of his mouth betrayed him with a grin. "You are not putting me in sequins."
"You already wear red leather on, like, a daily basis. We're halfway there."
Matt opened his mouth to argue– and promptly shut it because, annoyingly, Foggy had a point.
He sighed instead, leaning a little harder into Foggy's side. "You're insufferable."
"You love me." Foggy beamed.
Matt breathed out a laugh, the kind that started in his chest and curled warm at the edges. "Yeah," He murmured softly, voice barely more than breath, but steady as a vow. "I do."
Foggy's grin softened, his hand finding Matt's without thought, fingers threading easily through his like they'd always belonged there.
"Good," He said, brushing his thumb over the back of Matt's knuckles. "Because I'm gonna keep dragging you to every parade, every party, every ridiculously sparkly thing I can find."
Matt chuckled, shaking his head slightly, the motion small but full of affection. "You're relentless."
"Yup," Foggy said, popping the p with pride. "It's part of the boyfriend package. No refunds."
The sun dipped lower behind the rooftops, casting long shadows and turning the glitter in Matt's hair to gold. The light caught in it like tiny stars, as though the city had decided to crown him itself– guardian devil turned reluctant angel for a day, wrapped in joy instead of penance.
Foggy watched as the gold flickered in Matt's hair and thought, not for the first time, how wildly unfair it was to be in love with someone who didn't even know when he looked like poetry.
Not that Matt would believe him if he said it out loud. He'd just make a sarcastic quip or mutter something self-deprecating. But Foggy knew that loving Matt wasn't about convincing him of his worth. It was about showing up. Over and over. With jokes and takeout and glitter, with patience and presence and kisses pressed into scars.
It was about holding space for the parts of Matt still tangled in guilt and silence, and loving the man who fought his way free every single day.
There would be dark nights again. Wounds that reopened. Fears Matt couldn't voice, and guilt he hadn't quite shaken.
Foggy wasn't perfect either. He'd say the wrong thing, push too hard or not enough. He'd get frustrated at times. And Matt would shut down.
They would stumble. But they would figure it out. Because that's what love was . Not the absence of pain, but the presence of effort.
They stood together after a while, brushing off glitter from their jeans and stretching limbs gone a little stiff from sitting too long. Matt reached for his cane with practiced ease and Foggy offered his arm, which Matt took without hesitation, fingers curling around the bend of Foggy's elbow like they were made to fit there.
They stepped out from under the tree's shade and into the soft blush of early evening, the world around them still humming with life, but quieter now, calmer. Like the city had exhaled.
Matt's cane tapped a soft, steady rhythm on the pavement as they walked, matching the slow, easy cadence of their steps.
Ahead, the sidewalk curved back toward the heart of the celebration. A couple walked by with tiny flags tucked behind their ears and matching rainbow sunglasses, waving lazily at passersby. A group of teens danced in front of a bodega stereo, still laughing, still lit from within.
And from across the street, a voice rang out– a stranger, young, sunburnt, glitter-streaked, their voice bright with something generous and sincere:
"Hey! Happy Pride, you two!"
Matt turned toward it instinctively, the barest smile tugging at his mouth. He nodded once, gracious and a little shy, and let Foggy answer with a beaming wave.
"Happy Pride!" He called back, voice bright, like he'd been waiting his whole life to be seen like this, with this man at his side.
Then, quieter, more private, Foggy leaned in just enough for Matt to hear, his voice low but glowing with warmth.
"Happy Pride, Matt."
"Happy Pride, Fog."