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The late afternoon sun over Doha casts a warm, golden glaze across the manicured lawns of MIA Park. The Persian Gulf laps gently against the promenade in the distance, but all the action is up on the grassy hills, where the sky is a chaotic canvas of nylon and string. Scott grips the heavy-duty spool, his knuckles white against the plastic. A massive, parachute-sized stingray kite—a brilliant explosion of progressive pride colors—hovers just a few feet above the grass, catching a fickle, low-altitude breeze. Its long, ribboned tails snap playfully in the humid air.
"Okay, when I say go, you have to commit!" Scott calls out, his voice booming over the chatter of the festival crowds. He looks back at Mitch, his eyes bright with that familiar, golden-retriever energy that hasn't faded a bit in the near-ten years they've been married. "Don't look back, just sprint!"
Mitch stands a few paces behind, holding the secondary bridal line. At thirty, he still moves with a sharp, deliberate grace, though right now he looks entirely endeared and slightly skeptical. He adjusts his oversized sunglasses, a small smirk playing on his lips as he takes a breath. "I am literally in designer sandals, Scott. If I wipe out on this hill, you’re buying me a new pair."
"Deal! Three, two, one—go!"
They move in tandem, a well-oiled machine built from a decade of shared rhythm. Scott takes off down the gentle slope of the hill, his long legs eats up the distance, laughing loudly as the wind catches the massive stingray. Mitch sprints right beside him, keeping the bridal line perfectly taut to guide the kite's wide, flat nose upward. The giant fabric structure groans, inhales the wind, and suddenly catches a massive updraft. It launches upward, soaring past the smaller diamond kites and box kites dotting the horizon, a brilliant streak of rainbow against the Doha skyline.
Down on the grass, a tiny, hyperactive force of nature is having a completely different experience. Wyatt Blue, their ten-year-old hairless Sphynx cat, is safely secured in a pastel pink harness and a matching retractable leash. Her wrinkled, suede-like skin is warm from the Qatari sun. Instead of staring at the sky like everyone else, Wyatt’s entire world is narrowed down to a single, fluttering white butterfly hovering near a patch of clover. Wyatt lets out a high-pitched, chirping meow, her oversized ears pinning forward as she does a frantic, low-to-the-ground stalk. When the butterfly moves, she explodes into a chaotic sideways hop, completely ignoring her dads' triumphant shouting as the kite clears the treeline.
"Look at it go!" Scott cheers, stopping at the bottom of the hill and letting the line slip through his gloved fingers. The stringray settles into a steady, majestic hover high above the park, its rainbow underbelly glowing in the late afternoon light. He reels Mitch in by the waist, wrapping a free arm tightly around his husband’s shoulders. "We actually got it up there. I thought for sure the tail was going to tangle."
Mitch leans into the familiar warmth of Scott’s side, breathing a little heavily from the sprint. He looks up at the massive kite, then down at his feet, miraculously still intact. "Honestly? Same. It looks beautiful, babe." He glances over to where the leash leads, his expression softening into pure affection. "Though I think someone else is having a much more intense festival experience."
Scott looks down. Wyatt has successfully missed the butterfly but has now transitioned into a dramatic, low-bellied crawl toward a completely stationary dandelion puff.
"She’s an apex predator," Scott says, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. He nudges Mitch's shoulder with his own. "Can you believe we’re hitting ten years in August? Ten years of flying giant kites and walking a naked cat in the Middle East."
Mitch smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He reaches up, his fingers sliding into Scott’s hand, sharing the weight of the kite spool. The skyline of Doha glows behind them, a futuristic silhouette against the deepening amber sky, but their focus is entirely grounded right here on the grass.
"I wouldn't change a single second of it," Mitch murmurs softly, leaning up to press a quick, gentle kiss to Scott’s cheek.
They stand together on the hillside, holding the line as the rainbow stingray dances in the sky, while Wyatt continues her relentless, utterly unsuccessful hunt below.