Sickness

The first time Peter sees him out of costume he thinks he's stepped into one of those French Impressionist paintings from the 1800s. It's something to do with the lighting, the way sunlight cuts through the scattered snowflakes of a mid-winter afternoon. Grey-blue shadows and white rays play over Matt's face like he's underwater. Which, in a way, Peter supposes he is. It's snowing, flakes melted to slush by the time they reach pavement. It's light and quiet like a kiss from a rabbit. All of New York is quiet for this moment, so it seems to Peter, as snow melts in Matt's hair. It's red. Bight. Like the ruffles of a betta fish's tail. His costume is a pale imitation of this red.

Peter knows it's him. Daredevil. He knows before he sees the man, skin on edge like on humid nights before a thunderstorm. At first he thinks of Electro but this electricity is different. It's still dangerous. Devious, even. The electricity dancing up his spine is alive but as he searches the skies then sidewalks, he catches the last notes of the static. Excitement. It's like the final taste of wine, hidden under layers of secrets to the point where it went ignored unless studied. Desire. Peter's lips are chapped and painful when he licks them but he stands stock still and searches.

There's only one man that make's Peter's skin feel like that, like he's flying and plummeting all at once and he can't keep his balance, not when his heart is somersaulting and Matt has hearing so accurate he could practically see Peter's heart in his chest, the way it sped up when he was around and –

That's when Peter sees him, walking to work with snow in his hair and a smile on soft lips like he knows Peter's secret. Which, given the speed of Peter's heart and Matt's hearing, he probably does.

It's the first time Peter sees Daredevil out of costume. It's a shock. They hadn't planned this. Daredevil would have recognized Peter's breath and pulse pattern blocks ago and could have veered away if he wanted to. He didn't. Peter's staring at him now. The man looks nothing like Daredevil. He's wearing a suit for one and he's blind for another. Peter had no idea. With how the man moves he couldn't have fathomed it.

At the time he doesn't know his name is Mathew Murdock or that he's a lawyer, or how his brows pinch together late at night, or the smile he gets when he's standing in light cast by stained glass (because he can tell the difference from how the light warms his skin). Peter has no idea that Matt goes through months of depression so tight he can't breathe at night and needs someone to hold and be held by, to know that they're alive, that he's alive – even when he's spitting angry and says any number of vile things do drive Peter away. Peter can't imagine how absolutely Matt will tear him apart.

All Peter can see is that smile, quiet as the falling snow and warm like the rays of light cascading down his nose and across his shoulder like a slash of pale yellow light.

Peter knows he's Daredevil and the Man Without Fear knows he's Spider-Man. They don't have to see it. They know; just as Peter will know that Matt's favorite cereal is Cheerios, and that as good as his hearing is that he's a terrible caroler. He knows like he will know the way he sways to blue grass after his depression starts to wane. He'll know and will continue to know that Matt spends every morning kissing Peter's forehead like he's praying. Peter touches Matt's hair with the same reverence and says in a voice as hushed as he can, like the quiet of that so long ago afternoon, "Sickness and in Health, Matt. I mean it."