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The world is a riot of stimulus flying at him from all corners, scratching his skin, irritating his nose, pounding at his eardrums, but the first time he meets Foggy, Matt finally understands what it means to find a still point in a turning universe.
Foggy is music and wind chimes and the crunch of leaves under his ragged sneakers in the autumn. He's a warm breeze through the open window and the sun shining down on his face. He's the first time Matt ever had enough booze to get tipsy but not too drunk, liking the taste the longer he sat nursing the bottles.
Matt can smell the varnish on the wooden floors in the lecture hall next door. He can feel every beat of Foggy's heart from across the room as though it were thudding in his own chest. He hears the other man blink, lashes sliding against each other and Matt knows they'd be so soft against his cheek.
"Your glasses are red," Foggy says thickly, and Matt can taste the salt in the air from his tears.
A million synapses fire at once and no matter what Stick had to fucking say about distraction and connections, Matt knows he's never been more aware, more alive than he is in this moment.