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It was inevitable, Foggy thinks. He shouldn't be surprised. He knew deep down what it all meant the moment he agreed to it. Sure, there were no words said on the matter, but he agreed, silently and willingly, and now here he is.
He tries to laugh, because despite it all, it is quite funny.
The late nights, the light banter that made his heart jump and his stomach flip. The dark-alley kisses that were slick and grotesque and ended up meaning more to him than they had any right to.
He embraced every aspect of what they had - what he did - against his better judgment. Not because it felt right but because it felt good, and sometimes that's all it takes.
That's all you need.
All that matters.
And in those moments, the ones that happened under polluted skies and yellow street lamps, the ones tucked away into the dark corners of a romanticized city, the ones that made his skin tingle and his mind race and disregard all that he knew; everything was perfect.
But in the end, perfect gave him blood bubbling in his throat, pain, and the hands clutching him to tighten and burn.
He thinks he should feel more, but his mind is slow and all he wants is for the man wrapped around him to stop trying and just hold him good and proper. To say something other than his name like he is.
He tries reaching out, raising his arm is difficult and his hand is shaking, but he pushes through it. He manages to touch the mans face before his hand is grabbed and lips are pressed to the tips of his fingers. Not kisses, the man can't manage it, but he tries.
He tries to breathe in, but he chokes and coughs and the blood overflows.
“Matt.”
Matt's cries are silent, tears streaming down his face one after another. He's rocking back and forth as he clutches Foggy with a roughness he doesn't mean but can't help.
“I can't stop it,” he whispers, like it's a confession, like it's something horrible and despite the situation, Foggy can't figure out why.
So he tries to smile, because even though he knows he doesn't want to die, he knows it's too late now and that he can spend his last -
“I know.”
Matt leans forward, the fingers knotted in Foggy's hair tightening, and presses his forehead to Foggy's.
“Don't leave me.”
“I won't.”
He lies because one of them has to, because he feels nothing and everything at once and it only seems fair.
Matt presses closer, and Foggy can feel his breath hot on his cold skin, can feel tears as Matt presses his face to his temple, the curve of his neck, back to his forehead.
“It's not fair.”
There's a lot Foggy could say to that. He could joke, he could allow himself to express the anger he's put on the back-burner, he could agree. Because even though the men who did this are now scattered around them like confetti, they were here for Matt, just like every other time before.
Maybe that's why he's dying in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by the mangled bodies of the men who did this to them and cradled in the arms of the man he loves.
But instead, he reaches out again and brushes away a tear that is instantly replaced by another and another, but he feels he gets his point across.
He feel heavy and light, warm and cold, and he wonders if it's suppose to go on this long. He wonders if it actually hasn't been long at all. He doesn't know.
He coughs again and the blood -
“I love you,” he says, and he watches through blurry eyes as Matt's face crumbles.
“God, I love you, too, Foggy.”
He doesn't hear the scream that rips through the city.