Archive of Our Own ^beta

I. Nearly die.

Now, Mike wouldn’t say he was an expert in anything, besides being a massive idiot. 

And, crawling through college with his bare hands and only two cartons of orange juice in his refrigerator, Mike would say he’s pretty uncertain about a lot of things, except for the four, unfluctuating items on his Biggest Inconveniences in the World list. 

The list goes as followed: 

• Mosquitos
• The miniscule pebble that keeps inhibiting his shoe from time to time
• Aunt Janine
• Superheroes

And, not to toot his own horn or whatever the fuck, but, in Mike’s humble opinion, he’d say it was a pretty good list, because he’s never been sensible in his life, but this list was probably the most sensible thing he’s put together, because half the items are common inconveniences, and Aunt Janine knows what she did, and – 

Well. Sue him if he isn’t the biggest fan of superheroes. 

Because, alright, he probably already seems brash and unreasonable to most people, and adding superheroes to his list of inconveniences wouldn’t be giving him any brownie points from the average civilian, but – listen. 

He knows that superheroes are pretty helpful, and especially in the absolute circus that is his city; crime running rampant by the most ridiculous supervillains, he knows that having a team of superheroes to take them down is a privilege. 

Mike would even go far as to say they’re almost okay to have around when they’re actually protecting citizens, whether it be from the dark shadows in alleys when walking home at night, or perhaps helping grandmothers cross the street, or maybe even arresting The Goldfish every two weeks when he’s let out of prison and starts throwing canned tuna at pedestrians again.

They’re even good for entertainment, sometimes, on the days that Mike finally gets tired of I Love Lucy reruns and rewatching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and instead pulls up a chair on his balcony to watch as Zoomer knocks out another supervillain with a stop sign on a Tuesday afternoon. His cable TV was near pointless, at this point.

To be entirely, perfectly honest, Mike could admit that having superheroes around was pretty thrilling, when he was six and didn’t have any actual, coherent thoughts, which might imply he has coherent thoughts right now, but that’s neither here nor there. Superheroes were exciting for a few years, when he was a kid and watched a man in blue and red save his mother from a mugger, dragging the man right into jail while his mother waved her thanks, insisting, Say thank you to Superman, Mike!, even if Superman was already gone. 

So, he knows that superheroes are pretty helpful. He knows that. He does. 

That being said, Mike is going to move to – fucking Wisconsin if he’s late to work again because a bunch of superhumans are throwing cars at each other on the intersection between Twelfth and Seventh. 

And, don’t get him wrong, it’s not as though Mike was in any hurry to rush off to his summer job, and especially when his coworker Robin keeps flicking paper balls at his head, and Mike is sure there’s a reasonable explanation for why the next two blocks are closed off for such a fight, but it’s only nine a.m., he’s half-asleep, and his boss threatened to smack him with her binder full of tax papers if he walks in late again. 

A fire hydrant flies over his head. 

Mike contemplates running into traffic.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a slight groan as there is a nearby crash, followed by a shout of alarm. He hates this stupid city. 

“Not a fan?” 

And – Mike doesn’t jump, he doesn’t, but he is, perhaps, a little startled when he looks over to his right, where a woman in glasses bigger than her face and a bindle over her shoulder stands, blinking at him as she waits for an answer.

Mike stares. “Um. What?” 

“The fighting?” She offers, tilting her head to where a figure in black and white clings to the side of a skyscraper, just as a man in a cape begins climbing up a streetlight, and there’s a strike of lightning, despite the perfectly clear sky. “You seem awfully bothered. Not a fan?” 

Just as she speaks, a figure rushes past them in the air, and a gust of wind runs through them. Mike couldn’t name any of the figures currently in the fight, even if his life depended on it. He, personally, did not care enough to, and his eyes could barely latch onto one person long enough before getting sidetracked by a swinging hero nearby. 

It’s impossible to properly spot a few, anyway. Invisible Man is a little self-explanatory. Zoomer is too fast to be seen. There are a few superheroes with teleportation powers. 

He looks away from the slowly crumbling skyscraper. “You could say that,” he replies dryly. 

“Yeah, I get it,” the woman waves a hand, “it’s such an inconvenience when you want to get home and get cozy with a bottle of wine, but my son is a big fan of them.” There’s a pause as a girl in a pink suit hurls a baby stroller into a blur of a person. “The heroes, I mean. Not the fighting.” 

Mike is slowly sensing an oncoming rant, as most people in this city are often privy to, and the urge to go back home and never go outside ever again is incredibly tempting. “I figured,” he replies, ever so passive. He’s not quite in the mood to chat up a stranger in the middle of a fight. God, his boss, the tiny, muffin-baking woman that she is, is going to throttle him. Mike is going to die. 

“He’s got a whole dream of joining the big leagues – you know, Spiderman, Zoomer, Eleven,” she continues, seemingly having no need for a proper reply. “I don’t know how to break it to him that you’ve got to be a superhuman to join them.” 

He watches while Iron Man throws a supervillain into the sky above. “Uh-huh.”

The woman ignores him. “Not to mention Ranger,” she complains, “my son won’t shut up about that man, especially with his little red bandana. My son wears it all around the house, with that little superhero mask they sell at stores, you know, and I tell him all the time to stop running around the house with that thing on, but –” 

She suddenly cuts off when there is a sharp scream, and then a loud crash, followed by a sudden shadow looming over Mike, and he looks up to find something metal and something big hurtling straight for him. 

Oh, he thinks, blankly staring at it, that’s not good.

It’s then that he realizes the screaming is coming from the woman next to him, and he would love to take a second to ask her to please quiet down, it’s still only nine a.m., and there are probably better ways to express herself in a more communicative way, but he has no time to do so when he closes his eyes and inhales and – 

“Shit!” 

Mike is suddenly grappled into the air. 

He lets out a garbled noise when he’s tugged through the air, something stuck to his chest, and there’s a gust of wind against his face and he feels a little helpless when he’s being thrown through the air like the ragdoll Holly sometimes takes the liberty to chuck at his face when he visits for the holidays, and then he bumps into a firm body, an immediate arm wrapped around his middle. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a blue mask staring right at him, eyes white and wide open when they look back, as if in constant amazement. Mike vaguely registers the fact that they are currently headed towards the side of a building. 

“Um,” he greets. Mike takes a quick second to assess his situation (read: in the air, probably being kidnapped by a guy in a blue and yellow bodysuit, he’s kind of dizzy, and there’s air rushing into his ears) to eloquently say, “Holy shit.” 

“Sorry!” The man replies, sounding slightly panicked when they bounce off the side of the building, and swing towards another skyscraper, an ice cream cart being thrown where they had just been, and then they’re rushing past Zoomer, green mask covering half her face and red hair blazing behind her, and Mike is being held up with an arm wrapped around his waist, and he feels a little like a damsel in distress, or maybe like a motionless bag of balloons. A truck is thrown in their direction. “Holy – sorry, just hold on!” 

They’re high up. They’re very high up. Mike feels a little faint. 

“Right,” Mike croaks, and they barely avoid a blast of green – something being shot in front of them. “Yeah, no, totally – totally holding on, I am holding –” 

Mike doesn’t get a chance to express how much he’s holding on, because then they’re hurtling towards the ground again, and maybe he was a little too quick on thanking him for saving Mike’s life, because they’re probably about to die again, but for real this time, and, wow, he’s realizing that he’s going to die without having gotten to see the movie he bought tickets for next week, and the six dollars he spent on that were for nothing, and – 

Then they’re on the ground again, the man landing pretty gracefully with Mike still stuck to his side, and – okay. Okay. He needs to start appreciating the solid surface of the sidewalk more often.  

The man slowly lets go of him, and Mike stumbles when he stands on his feet. They’re just a few feet away from where Mike had been kidnapped, a crushed car right where he had stood just a few seconds ago, everyone else a safe distance away.  

The car is on fire.

“Um,” Mike says again, “thanks.” 

The man is already shooting off again, rising in the air when he calls out, “Anytime!” He narrowly avoids Iron Man flying next to him, and then he disappears behind a blur of green. 

Mike doesn’t really know what to do with himself anymore. 

“Holy shit,” the woman, who still stands a few feet away, gapes, and looks up to meet Mike’s eyes, “holy shit, that was –” 

And the past thirty seconds suddenly makes sense, with the blue and yellow suit and the familiar mask and his quick reflexes, pulling Mike into the air with a thin strand of spider silk, and the clumsy charm of it all, as if it’s just some guy getting a hang of it, and Mike watches as the man cuts through the air to twist a villain into a cocoon of white string, because it all fits together to form – 

“– Spiderman!” 

Mike’s summer job at the work firm is on the seventh floor of the building. 

Their elevator has been out of order for the past two and a half weeks, and there are so many stairs. Too many stairs. Mike doesn’t remember the last time he’s exercised since high school. 

All of this is to say that, for the past two and a half weeks, Mike has been showing up as a worn out, slightly sweaty, heaving mess when he shuffles into the office and spends a good five minutes contemplating quitting, just like he does every morning. 

It should be illegal to have so many stairs in one building. Mike is pretty sure he’s entitled to emotional compensation. 

“Wheeler! Hey, I was – wow, you look like shit!” 

Mike is going to put in his two-weeks’, at this rate. Maybe Nancy could slip him a job from The Daily Beagle.

Robin, the catastrophic mess he calls his coworker, takes the time to kindly inform Mike of his appearance, even though he knows he looks stupid, with his windswept hair and flushed red face, from both having a car thrown at him and also walking up so many fucking stairs. 

Mike puts his bag down and turns around to look at her, where she sits just a few feet away, looking too lively for nine a.m. and wearing an orange button up. Sometimes he wonders if she’s on something, and if she would be willing to share. 

“Thanks,” he returns flatly. “I got a car thrown at me.” 

“Sweet,” Robin replies, entirely enthusiastic, and he stares at her. “How’d it go? Did you die?” 

“I wish,” he mutters, and promptly collapses in his chair. 

Don’t get him wrong – it’s not that he isn’t a fan of nearly being killed, but it’s starting to get on his nerves. 

Because, sure, this is only the fifth time it’s happened in the past year, which isn’t really that bad in the grand scheme of things, but the big battles that take place in the city streets and delay his Chinese takeout from getting to his home have always irritated him. The pet peeve only seems to get worse when the role of superheroes and supervillains begin to impede onto his life, especially when he begins to run late to work and has to wait thirty extra minutes to get home and gets a car thrown at him on a Thursday morning, just to be saved by Spiderman. 

Spiderman, which – personally, Mike has no care for Spiderman. 

He knows of Spiderman, because, well, obviously, he’d have to be the biggest idiot on the planet not to, with him being one of the most popular superheroes amongst people, for his quick quips and genuine politeness, alongside the big league of heroes and villains. It’d be impossible not to know about him.

Still, Mike knows nothing beyond the bare minimum, nothing outside the bounds of his spider-like skills, his infamous blue and yellow get-up, his large amounts of fan clubs, and that one time he accidentally destroyed a Picasso painting in the Louvre. 

Nonetheless, even with the fact that Mike has never had an interaction with a superhero that extended beyond a Thanks for saving me from being hit with that ray gun and being turned into a little yellow creature, cursed to do the Doomsday’s bidding forever., followed by a No problem, random civilian!, Mike’s interaction with Spiderman could even be considered interesting. A big deal. A topic of conversation. 

He opens his mouth to tell Robin about it, before he frowns. 

Mike is not a fan of superheroes, much less fan-favorite Spiderman, the most typical superhero of them all. He won’t be caught gushing over him. 

He will not be typical. 

And so, with that, Mike closes his mouth, and gets to work. 

II. Nearly die (again). 

Shockingly, it’s incredibly easy to be atypical when Mike doesn’t run into Spiderman again.

With no help from any superheroes, Mike, miraculously, narrowly avoids another death experience, and, in fact, goes the next two weeks without a single run-in with any superhero; he gets to work on time, and it’s easy to pretend he didn’t almost die on that fateful Thursday when his friends nearly kill him everyday. Mike wonders if he’d be able to frame Max for premeditated murder. 

As it so happens, he continues his Days Without Being Nearly Killed and then Later Saved by a Superhero streak for the thirteenth day, although it is beginning to be threatened by the sheer force that Dustin is shaking his drink. 

“And, okay, my bad for wanting to seek new talent in the streets of this city and try to introduce the world to some new faces,” Dustin rants, vigorously shaking his drink, “and my bad for not thoroughly looking through her portfolio, but it is not my fault she brought a tiger to the shooting!” 

Mike watches, vaguely concerned, as Dustin keeps shaking his drink, and he’s pretty sure iced coffee can’t break plastic, but he isn’t going to take his chances, as he slowly scoots back in his seat. 

They sit together in a cafe, after Dustin finally finds a free Monday afternoon from his job of being a director, Nobel Physiology Prize winner, entrepreneur, and his ongoing quest to achieve world peace, and Mike had finally felt strangely sociable, agreeing to meet up and chat. Maybe the days without an imminent threat on his life are taking a toll on him, and Mike is finally able to go out and socialize without wanting to shrivel up into a dusty moth ball. 

It also helps that the day is, objectively, very nice. Pleasant, even. Delightful. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, Mike is finally out of his apartment, and Dustin is still shaking his drink.

“I can’t think of a single thing that would prompt her to do something like that! And then she tried to convince me that it was her ‘pet’,” Dustin raises a hand for air quotations, “and ‘he doesn’t bite’, and ‘he’s only had one accident but we’ve made wonderful progress since then’, but, dude, that thing looked at me with hunger in its eyes.” 

Dustin finally stops shaking his drink, and Mike takes a long sip of his coffee. 

“I’m going to be honest,” he begins, “that sounds really cool.”  

Dustin groans as he slides down in his chair. “It was so cool. I mean, it was definitely dangerous, because it tried to eat our entire –” 

Alas, Mike does not get to hear more of Dustin’s tiger-related mishaps, as there is the sound of the glass door slamming open, and both of them turn around. 

A girl in a long, white trench coat, and a comically large sonic ray gun walks in. Mike stares. 

Dustin picks up his straw and begins to unwrap it. “Didn’t she steal the whales from SeaWorld last week?” 

She cocks her gun. “This is a robbery!” 

Mike squints, leaning to the side. “I think so.” 

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” a tired worker requests from the register, energy drink in one hand and security button being pressed into the other. 

Patrons resume to their own conversations, used to this, and the girl makes her way towards the desk, gun pointed. Then, there is a small click, and a beam of hot pink shoots out of the gun, before hitting the cashier. 

There is a moment of bright light, before the beam dies down, and the cashier is gone. 

There is silence. 

“Meow.” 

A cat hops onto the counter, and patrons stare in shock as the girl shoves the entire register into her bag, a big bulk protruding out of the material. She turns around, and faces the nearest customer – a man and his matcha tea, watching with weary eyes as she motions to her bag. 

“All your money,” she demands, “I want it.” 

Mike grimaces as the man pulls out his wallet, as well as the woman next to her, and soon the girl is only a few feet away from him and Dustin, and Mike has been saving up money for a new guitar for forever, and he’d rather not give it away to some girl and her supersonic ray gun. 

There is a loud thwick, and a warm breeze enters the shop. 

The bell jingles, and everyone turns to the door. 

The girl tightens her grip on her gun, bag falling at her feet as she scowls. “You.” 

“Me,” Spiderman mimics, voice sounding awfully teasing. “What’s up, doc?” 

“This is a lab coat!” She shrilly corrects, and cocks her gun. She wastes no time to shoot a ray of pink at him, and there’s barely any chance to react when Spiderman flicks away to the other side of the room, the ray of light sticking onto a chair. 

The chair flickers in form, before a poof of fur covers its surface, and a swishing tail attached the back of the seat. 

“Oh my God,” the superhero says, sounding more affronted than concerned, “you were going to turn me into a cat!” 

“It’d be an improvement,” the girl hisses, and then directs the gun at him once more. “Now hold still.” 

Spiderman, surprisingly, does not hold still when he shoots off a string of spider thread, just seconds before another light beam of pink comes bounding towards him. It holds no use to the metal of the trash can he had been hovering above, and bounces off to transfigure a cup into a cat-cup situation. 

Mike watches, both a little intrigued and a lot inconvenienced, as the two do a tango of shooting and avoiding, the girl growing progressively more irritated and reckless as she keeps shooting, and patrons yell out in alarm as the girl nearly hits another person. 

Spiderman takes this time to shoot out a web of string, presumably sticky when the force of it encapsulates the girl’s legs and sends her stumbling back against the counter of the cashier, and the cashier cat meows in surprise before scattering away. 

She struggles against the thread around her thighs, audibly groaning, before she quickly gives up, rage in her eyes and hair falling over her face. “You’ll pay for this,” she warns, voice loud and proud, and Spiderman shoots away as she directs another beam of light at him. It absorbs into the tablecloth it hits, suddenly covered in orange fur and a striped tail. 

It’d be easy to take the gun away if she wasn’t so quick to shoot, unhesitating to direct her gun every possibly away with care to what it hits, and, in both the attempt to avoid any more cat transformations, Spiderman juggles being hit with the gun and preventing any more human-turned-feline situations. 

He pulls a man away from where he stands when the gun is directed at him, quickly shoving him towards the glass doors, and barely dodges a beam of pink. He yelps when the girl shoots three more times, escaping to the other side of the cafe. 

“This is a cat-astrophe,” Dustin whispers to him, and Mike turns to glare at him. 

“This is not the time,” he hisses, just as Spiderman lands a few feet away from their table, close enough that Mike can feel the subtle force of him gracefully sticking to the floor. The girl lets out a grunt of frustration, and clicks her gun into place. 

He doesn’t like the look in Dustin’s eye when he says, “No better time than right meow.” 

Unfortunately, there is no time at all to whack Dustin over the head with a chair, because the girl shoots her gun once again, and a ray of pink hurtles straight towards Spiderman.

This is a little bit of a problem for Mike, seeing as he’s only two feet or so away from Spiderman, and he has no time to react as he watches the beam races toward just a few inches away from him, and this is definitely not how he thought he’d meet his doom. 

Michael Wheeler; death by cat gun.

He cringes. There’s got to be a better way to go. 

Then again, he probably should expect to survive such a thing when there’s a superhero just a few feet away from him, and it’s only a few seconds later that he feels something wrapped around his waist, and he’s being flung elsewhere. 

Mike is suddenly catapulted to the other side of the room, and maybe it’s because he’s been tangled up into this once that he doesn’t shout out in alarm, but he does tightly squeeze his eyes shut, bracing himself to maybe crash against a wall and die in an alternative, almost equally embarrassing way, before he runs into something a little more pleasant than a wall. 

He opens his eyes. 

“Oh.”

“Hi,” Spiderman greets cheerily, wrapping an arm around Mike’s middle, and then they’re in the air again. 

Mike lets out a loud yelp, eyes wide open, as they head straight for the glass doors of the cafe, and he flinches away, turning into the superhero’s shoulder, but if anyone asks, he did not do such a thing. 

And yet, a few seconds later, they’re landing on the sidewalk outside the cafe with no damage, and Mike flushes red when Spiderman finally lets him go, shuffling away. 

“Um,” he says, and gets no further chance to say anything when Spiderman returns back into the cafe. 

There are a few following crashes, as well as the sound of the ray gun going off, a few more meows, and then screaming, which gets a little louder, until Dustin is right beside him, white string around his waist and mouth ajar, a steady scream streaming out of his mouth. 

Mike grimaces, and puts his hand over Dustin’s mouth. “Enough.”

There is a pause in muffled screaming, before Dustin leans away from his hand. “Dude,” he presses, “I was about to die.” 

“Yeah, well,” Mike mutters, no real point to make, and they both watch when another patron, a woman and her dog, comes stumbling out, and then there’s a businesswoman, a purple-haired girl with a skateboard, the mustached man with his matcha tea, and suddenly everyone is hurrying out of the cafe. 

Through the slight glare of the glass doors, Mike can barely spot the girl attached to the wall, hands plastered away from her in knots of spider silk, and her lower body wrapped in a cocoon. Spiderman tosses the gun from one hand to the other, presumably chatting with her, while she seethes. Mike almost pities her. 

The sound of sirens slowly approaches, and Dustin takes a sip of his drink. “I can’t believe I was about to be a cat.” 

Mike’s mouth quirks up. “I hate this city,” he proclaims, and Dustin snorts next to him. Mike looks down at his hands, and frowns. “My drink is still in there.” 

Dustin makes a considering noise. “There’s another place down the street?” He offers, and another cup of coffee does sound pretty nice. 

Mike shrugs. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees, and, just as police cars begin piling in, they skirt away from the scene, blue and red flashing quickly. God, he hates getting wrapped up in these sorts of things. 

They begin walking away from the scene, and Mike barely takes any steps before he nearly stumbles into a figure, inches away from their figure, and he hurries to stumble back, Dustin pausing in motion. 

Mike stares. 

“You,” Spiderman says, “forgot your drink.” 

He has Mike’s coffee in his hand, hand wrapped around it delicately, and Mike wordlessly takes it from him. Dustin clears his throat, and nudges his side. Spiderman tilts his head, almost questioning, and something turns in Mike’s stomach. 

He clears his throat. 

“Thanks,” he replies reluctantly. 

It’s strange, the way Spiderman is masked, yet he is so expressive with the way his entire body seems to brighten, leaning back and getting ready to whisk away. 

“No problem!” He returns cheerily, and swings away. 

There, for a few seconds, is peaceful silence, only accompanied by the soothing sounds of police sirens. 

And then Dustin opens his mouth to say, “Dude, that was so –”

Mike slaps his hand over Dustin’s mouth. “Silence,” he begs, “please.” 

Dustin pries off his hand, rolling his eyes. “Dramatic much,” he mutters, but he gives Mike some reprieve when he doesn’t mention it again, bringing up his tiger problems once more. 

And, as they begin walking again, Mike mourns the death of his near-death streak. 

(Days Without Being Nearly Killed and then Later Saved by a Superhero: 0) 

III. Get walked home.

Mike, if anything, is an idiot. 

He knows this when he’s lugging a laundry bag that probably weighs more than him down the hallway, because, apparently, he doesn’t know how to be a responsible adult and do his laundry before it’s the size of an abnormally small whale. 

No, instead, here he is, huffing and puffing while he drags his bulking laundry bag with each step, and – God, he really needs to start going to the gym, it feels like his arms are about to snap into two, and he’s breaking into a slight sweat. 

He really, really hopes he doesn’t run into someone in particular. 

Maybe it’s his fault for waiting until he only has one shirt left to wear, but, sue him, he’s an overworked college student that is clawing his way through life, right now. Maybe he doesn’t do his laundry responsibly. Maybe he’s an idiot. Whatever.

It’s a relief when he finally stumbles into the elevator, heaving in a heavy breath when he pushes the button for the first floor, where he’d then be cursed to carry this godforsaken bag to the laundromat two blocks away, and wandering through New York with a big bag of dirty clothes would usually shred his dignity into smithereens, but that’s not quite possible when there’s not much dignity left in him. He has no more room for such a thing in his noodly body. 

Still, as the doors begin to slide shut, he can feel some part of him shrivel up and die when someone calls out, “Hold on!”

And, sometimes, he wishes he could bring himself to be as much of a jerk as he was as a teenager, because, despite himself, he brings out an arm to interrupt the doors, which slowly open once again, and – maybe the entire world hates him. 

Now would be a great time for this elevator to suddenly malfunction and break off the ties currently holding it in place, spiraling below and crashing into the ground, finally putting an end to Mike’s miserable life. Death would be better than this. 

He’s exaggerating. Kind of. 

“Thanks,” his hot neighbor says. Mike feels his dignity somehow spring back alive, just to walk off the ledge of a very tall building. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“No problem,” Mike croaks, and mentally smacks himself across the face. 

His incredibly good looking neighbor, William Byers, which Mike learned from accidentally receiving his mail on multiple occasions, who had moved into Room 12 approximately two and a half weeks ago, is wearing a yellow shirt and is looking really, really good right now, and his eyes are wide and bright and he looks so nice, and he’s giving Mike a onceover when he stands next to him, and Mike can feel his tomato-red face get even darker.

Will cracks a smile his way, no move to press a button, and Mike guesses they’re both heading for the same floor. The doors shut, and Mike holds onto his bag a little tighter. 

He’s not nervous. He’s not.

God. He hopes he spontaneously combusts. 

He can’t help it when he sneaks a glance at Will, who has his hands shoved in his pockets and seems perfectly at ease, normal and sane and not internally having a breakdown like one Mike Wheeler. He’s staring at the space in front of them, and Mike, for a split second, runs over the arch of Will’s nose, the birthmark on his jaw, the hair that falls over his forehead, the corner of his mouth. 

Mike quickly looks away. 

Silence washes over them, until Will asks, “Laundry day?” 

“What?” Mike answers, like an idiot, before he realizes the bag he’s carrying. “Oh, you mean – yeah! Yeah, I was kind of putting it off for the past, like,” he gestures with a hand, “week, until I was finally down to my last shirt.” 

It’s only after the words leave his mouth that he realizes he sounds a little gross and also like an utter disaster, but it doesn’t seem to matter so much when Will lets out a laugh, and Mike watches his lips stretch in a full smile. “I get it,” he replies, easy converser, “I’m the same with dishes.” 

“I’m better with dishes, actually,” Mike says, and – they’re having a conversation. An actual conversation that’s beyond a small greeting and a Got your mail again, sorry., with an Oh, thanks!, and this is probably the best day of Mike’s life. “It’s kind of fun if you, like, put some music on and zone out.” 

He sounds like the lamest person alive. Max would never let him live this down if she were here. Dustin would be sending him looks that read, Seriously, dude?  

Whatever. Not everyone can woo potential love interests by being, like, rich and influential and stuff. Maybe Will is into losers who spend their free time thinking about Star Wars. 

Will hums non-committedly, and the doors slowly push open. “I think I just hate getting my hands wet. And the wet food.” Mike makes a face, and Will grins. They step out of the elevator, both headed the same way, and they’re in the empty lobby when Will says, “Maybe we should just swap every week. You do my dishes, I do your laundry.” 

And – it’s a joke, obviously, obviously, but, for a quick three seconds, Mike is sucked into a world where he and Will do domestic things like discuss the week’s chores and talk about tomorrow’s plans. God. He’s gone for his neighbor, this is – that’s probably creepy, right? Right? 

“I’d rather you not have to deal with the health hazard that is my dirty laundry,” Mike replies, because, apparently, he has decided to portray himself as the most disgusting man on Earth, instead of trying to be, like, charming or something. 

It’s only his luck that Will seems to find it funny when he only laughs in response, and then they’re at the front doors already, and that was both the shortest and best conversation of Mike’s life. 

“Maybe you have a point,” Will says, and they both step outside, the summer air warm and inviting, and a slight breeze runs through Mike’s hair. 

They turn to each other, Mike’s enormous laundry bag between them, and they stand under the shade of their apartment complex’s entrance. Civilians walk past them, busy on a Thursday evening. Mike doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. 

“See you around,” Will bids, and Mike nods. Then, right as he steps away, he adds, “Nice shirt, by the way.” 

Mike looks down at his shirt. 

Cool Guy Alert, in bold, green letters, is plastered against the white fabric of the front of his shirt, a gift courtesy of one of his distant family members during a shared Christmas. A repercussion for being a human disaster, he supposes. Maybe his several years of asshole-ry were finally coming back to bite him. 

He cringes, letting out a groan, and Will’s light laugh reaches him, even as he walks away. Mike looks up to see him depart, and he turns away before Mike can say anything else.

Cool. Cool. 

First proper conversation with his incredibly attractive neighbor, and he’s already made himself out to be the biggest moron on the planet. Great. Mike is going to attach himself to a firework and launch himself into the sky. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he turns away, laundromat in the opposite direction to wherever Will is headed. He tightens his grip on his bag, and gets ready to fare through the fiasco that is New York. It’s fine. Everything is fine. 

God. 

Mike is an idiot. 

Mike, despite the insane city, will not deny himself life’s simple pleasures. 

Granted, grocery shopping at two a.m. may not be the most popular simple pleasure of life, but Mike has been trying to have a more optimistic point of view on life. The quietness of the store is almost calming, and walking out with a bag full of ingredients needed for a basic sandwich to a completely empty parking lot is a little peaceful, if not a little creepy. 

He ignores this to instead venture home. 

Perhaps most people would consider him unhinged, seeing as he was walking home alone at two a.m., fearlessly braving the streets with a carton of eggs. Unfortunately, Mike is simply a man who had finished folding his laundry and cleaning his apartment, and had taken a nap too far into the night, awoken by a growling stomach, and, with an entirely empty fridge and no places near him that still did delivery past midnight, had decided to go grocery shopping.

In retrospect, he probably could have gone grocery shopping while his laundry had been running to cut some time, but Mike has never claimed to be sensible or reasonable. 

Instead, he spends a good eight minutes trying to figure out which brand of cheese would be best for a sandwich, while a girl in a beret and a paint-stained dress mumbles about ramen behind him, wandering the aisles. Mike can’t bring himself to judge, and not when he is also grocery shopping for a quick dinner at two a.m. 

When he finally checks out and leaves, the girl behind him busy checking out about thirty packs of tomato-flavored ramen, the air is cool with the chill of night, and the streets are startlingly more empty than they usually are during the day. The plastic bag bumps against his leg, full of sandwich ingredients and a single carton of eggs. 

Mike really needs to stock his fridge up. Maybe he should go back for more supplies. 

“Oh! Hey!” 

Mike freezes, before looking to his right, then left, then behind him. Aside from a man walking his poodle, despite it being the dead of night, there’s no one calling for him. He frowns. Maybe he’s finally going insane. 

“Wait, sorry, that’s my bad – up here!” 

Mike looks up. 

He squints, before blinking once, twice. “Oh. Hi.” 

“Hi,” Spiderman parrots, raising a hand to wave. Mike tentatively returns it. 

Against the dark sky of the night, Mike can barely make out the dark blue figure of Spiderman, whose head barely peers over the side of the building’s ledge, bright, white eyes staring down at him. The longer Mike stares, trying to make out the midnight suit against the night sky, he can slowly form out the thin, yellow lines that trace over him, the same shade on his arm when he waves. 

“Um,” Mike begins, “what’re you doing up there?” 

“I was helping decorate,” he replies, with no further explanation, and it does seem like the sort he’d be up to. 

Still, Mike can’t help but question, “At two a.m.?” 

Spiderman tilts his head. “You’re grocery shopping right now,” he points out, and Mike flushes. 

“I – okay, whatever,” he mumbles, and Spiderman laughs, the sound floating down below, and it’s bright in the night. “Bye,” he bids, and begins walking. He refuses to be patronized with a carton of eggs in his possession. 

“Hey, wait!” Spiderman calls out, and, despite his better judgment, Mike stops walking, and looks back up at him. 

“What,” he asks flatly. 

And then Spiderman is jumping off the edge of the building, and it’s only startling for the first few seconds, before he’s suddenly on the ground, just a few inches away from Mike, who shuffles away in surprise. 

He almost looks unreal, standing so close and not, like, saving someone from being fed to live piranhas, or something. Mike almost feels like lunging in front of a moving car, just to get them both in comfortable territory. 

“Let me walk you home,” Spiderman offers easily, because he’s Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, and he helps grandmothers cross the road and helps decorate at two a.m. and saves civilians from certain death and offers walking people home. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Mike asks skeptically, because he’s Not Friendly Mike Wheeler, and he hates college and this city and he has work tomorrow and a sandwich to be made. 

Spiderman makes a point to look around, before shrugging. “Not really.” 

Mike stares at him, long and contemplating, and Spiderman stares back blankly, a little difficult to emote with a mask on. Mike squints, and lets out a sigh. 

“Alright,” he mutters, “let’s go.”

“You don’t seem very enthused,” Spiderman notes as they begin to walk, and Mike spares him another glance. “Am I bothering you?” 

Kind of, Mike wants to say, even if he doesn’t entirely mean it, but the superhero looks genuinely questioning, and – yeah, he’ll admit it, some company right now doesn’t sound half bad. 

“No,” he answers, turning away. “It’s fine.” 

Spiderman hums, following as Mike crosses the street, although he makes a point to look both ways, and then leads Mike across the road. Mike sends him a look. 

“Well, that’s good,” Spiderman replies. “It would suck if I was protecting a city that thinks I’m a bother.” 

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Is that what this is? You protecting the city?” 

He nods, the dark suit gleaming lowly in the orange streetlights. “‘Course,” he replies easily, and he gestures to the two of them walking, alone with no one else in the street. “I’m protecting you from – muggers. Attackers. Potential murderers.” 

He emphasizes this with a slight wiggle of his fingers, hands brought up, and Mike can’t help it when he snorts. Spiderman leans away, but seems proud of himself when he straightens up. 

“Right,” Mike says as dryly as he can, “that’s why you’re walking me home, two blocks away from my apartment.” 

“You can’t blame me if I’m a little concerned! You’ve already almost died, like, two times this month,” he points out, and – Mike can’t argue with that. 

Still, he tries not to show his surprise when he questions, “You remember me?” 

“Well, yeah,” Spiderman responds, shrugging, nonchalant, “it’s not every day I save someone from imminent death.” Mike stares at him, and there’s a pause. “I mean. It’s not every day I save someone as cool as you.” 

Mike furrows his eyebrows, hoping his flush isn’t too obvious under the orange shading of the streetlights, and swivels to look at him. The superhero motions to his own chest, and Mike looks down, before letting out a loud groan. 

He still has the stupid shirt on. “I – I was doing laundry, it was the only shirt I –” 

His words are lost under Spiderman’s laughter, loud and unashamed in the night, like it doesn’t matter who hears, and Mike squints while he tries not to smile. It’s not funny. It’s not. 

“Right, right,” he waves off, and Mike bites down a smile as they near his street. “Don’t worry, you seem very cool.” He pauses. “Even if you’re grocery shopping at two a.m.” 

“Whatever,” Mike grumbles, despite his smile. “Go away. I’m right on this block.” 

“Alright,” Spiderman replies, a grin in his voice, and Mike is not endeared even a little. 

He takes a step back, and Mike watches as he stiffens, just a little, and his hand rises up to cup the back of his neck. He turns to look onward to the empty street, before quickly turning back to Mike. 

“Thanks for letting me walk you home,” Spiderman says, seemingly ready to pounce. “I’ll return to my nightly superhero duties.” 

“Uh-huh.” Mike gives him a look. “Like helping decorate?” 

“Maybe,” he sniffs, but he doesn’t appear very upset while he slowly trails away. 

Mike cracks a smile, looking away to his apartment building. “Thanks. For walking me home.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Spiderman says, shooting off a string of spider silk, and there’s a moment, before he settles on, "cool guy.” 

Mike groans, facepalming, and Spiderman’s laughter echoes throughout the street, even as he swings away. 

He hates this city.

IV. Hitch a ride. 

“Um.” 

“Oh,” Will says, where he’s dragging a giant canvas into the elevator, purple paint splattered on the front of his jeans and shirt. “Hello.” 

Mike blinks. “Hey.” He watches Will push the canvas further into the elevator for another few seconds, and – he doesn’t seem like he needs help, with his firm-looking arms and his broad shoulders and – well. Anyway. Right. “Do you need help?” Mike still asks, out of politeness. 

Will shakes his head. “It’s okay, I’ve got it,” he dismisses, and then the canvas is leaning against the back of the elevator, and he and Mike stand a few inches away from its stretch of cloth, covered with a thin sheet of plastic. 

There’s a silence as Mike leans forward to press on the glowing button for the seventh floor, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks over at Will, who is looking away, much to his relief.  

“So,” Mike slowly begins, “why, um,” he gestures to the canvas. 

“It’s an assignment,” Will explains, “I don’t usually work with canvases this big.” 

Mike nods in understanding, and his eyes fall back to the purple stains on Will’s clothing, the slight smudge of yellow paint on his cheek, hands colored the same around the wrists. “Is that why you’re purple?” He questions, mouth lifting in a smile. 

He watches when Will blushes, looking down at his clothing, and shakes his head. “No, that – this is for my sister’s birthday present.” He rubs his neck, sheepish. “She, uh. She really likes purple.” 

“I can tell,” Mike replies, grinning, and it’s something generous when Will smiles back. 

He has a nice smile, front teeth poking out, and it looks like summer, all warm and sweet and Mike wants to write an embarrassing poem about it immediately. 

He refrains to instead ask, “So you’re majoring in art?” 

Will nods, brightening. “Yeah! It’s – I know it’s probably a little unconventional, but –” 

“No, no,” Mike blurts, “it’s really cool. I mean, I think it’s really cool. I love – um, I’m a total art enthusiast, even though I know, like, nothing about it. I just think it’s neat, I guess, is what I’m saying, so it’s – it’s cool that. You know. You do art,” he concludes lamely, flushing. “That’s really cool.” 

Smooth, he thinks, considering jumping out the nearest window, but Will’s smile widens, and he looks a little nervous, pink in the cheeks and, God, Mike is so gone for his neighbor, they barely even know each other, and he’s –

“Thanks,” Will says, seemingly unaffected by Mike’s blabbering. “That’s – thanks.”

Mike looks away, just in case he keeps staring and his eyeballs fall out, or something equally likely and realistic. 

Will’s smile doesn’t waver, and they keep standing there, until the doors slowly slide open, and then it’s another minute spent with Will slowly pulling the canvas out of the elevator, doing it with more ease than one would expect, and Mike lingers, because it feels wrong not to, and – maybe he wants to spend more time with his neighbor, whatever. 

“I feel like this thing is bigger than my kitchen,” Mike observes, and it feels like an achievement when Will laughs. He follows Will down the hallway, the dull sound of the canvas dragging along the carpeted floor as they walk. 

“Art school was a bad idea,” Will huffs lightheartedly, and Mike grins. 

When they’ve successfully reached their apartments, just across from each other, there’s a pause before Mike fishes around for his keys, stalled when Will pointedly clears his throat, and Mike turns away from his door at a speed more than a little incriminating. 

Will already has his door open, but he’s looking at Mike, not yet inside, and he appears more nervous than he did prior, and he runs a hand through his hair. Mike blinks. 

“Um,” Will tucks a hand in his pocket, looking away, “since you said you’re – that you like art, I was – I mean, I have a – there’s this art show coming up soon, at the Quinton Gallery?” His voice quirks up at the end, as if he’s unsure, and Mike wonders if it’d be weird to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “It’ll have some of my stuff, and I have, like, three extra tickets left, so if you – I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but –”

“Yeah,” Mike blurts, warm in the cheeks, and it feels like he might die. “No, I mean – I’d love to. I’d love to come. Yeah. Definitely.” 

Will’s eyes widen, and Mike is trying so hard not to burst into a billion pieces. “I – yeah?” 

Mike bobs his head in an eager nod. “Totally.” 

“Cool,” he returns, face breaking out into a grin. “Cool. Just – give me a second.” 

He disappears into his apartment, door ajar, and Mike gets a sliver of a sneak peek into Will’s apartment; there’s the tiled floor of a kitchen, and Mike can barely see past the counter to catch a glimpse of an orange rug. A few hung up pictures, with seemingly handmade frames. A coffee table, something dark blue jumbled on its surface. A red, velvet sofa. 

Mike fiddles with his fingers while he stands on his doormat, and Will’s only gone for a few seconds, but it feels awfully long, until he reappears, a cream-colored slip of paper in his grasp. 

He hands it to Mike. “All the information is on there,” he explains. “But it’s, like, a few weeks away, so if anything comes up, or you change your mind, then that’s –” 

“I won’t,” Mike shakes his head, certain, and Will turns a shade redder. 

“Okay,” he replies, meek, “cool.” 

Mike tries to bite down a smile. “Cool.” 

Will nods, and they stand idly in the hallway, before he clears his throat. “Um, I’m just going to –” 

“Right,” Mike straightens, remembering where he is, “right, yeah, same, I’ll just –” 

He twists open his door, just as Will begins to tug his canvas into his apartment, and Mike is quick to shut the door behind him, lest his smile spill over and he looks like an idiot. 

He looks down at the invitation, and can’t help it when he pumps a fist into the air, jumping in place before he tries to calm down and act like a normal person. He glances down at the invitation again, grinning. 

Cool.

He carries this good mood with him for the next three days, insides still pooling in giddiness, and it continues when he attempts to make his own dinner, when he goes off to work the next day, when he finally gains the courage to clean under his bed, and when he finds himself eating lunch in the park. 

Mike, personally, couldn't care less for the outdoors, and especially when there’s bugs and people and the general nuisance of being outside with food, but Friday finds him in good graces when he’s sitting in a park, eating pasta out of a little container and jotting down notes for his novel. 

It almost has him wondering why he doesn’t do this more often, because he probably has some sort of vitamin D deficiency, especially considering how little sunlight he gets, and he, frankly, rivals the shade of a sheet of paper, and his dark hair doesn’t help, and he’s a little surprised he isn’t burning under the sun at this very moment. 

As it is, the birds are chirping cheerily and the sun is warm on his skin and there’s a slight breeze that ruffles the pages of his notebook and this fettuccine alfredo is really good, suck on that, Mayfield, he can very much make edible food. 

All of this is to say, Mike is lost in his own thoughts, biting the end of his ballpoint pen while he writes, and it’s a little reasonable of him to be frightened when – 

“You look focused.”

“Holy – shit,” he curses, startling when he looks to his left, where Spiderman hangs awfully close next to his face, upside down and dangling off the tree Mike sits under. “God, what the fuck did – where did you even come from?” 

“Well,” Spiderman begins, tilting his head to the side, and it looks less ridiculous than it should when he’s hanging upside down like this, the charm of a superhero ever so powerful, “when a boy and a girl –” 

“Okay,” Mike cuts him off, and he’s rewarded with a light laugh, one that sounds nicer than Mike wants it to. “You know what I mean. What are you doing here?” 

“Bank robbery on Madison,” he answers easily, and Mike settles back from the tense lift of his shoulders, relaxing in the patch of the grass he’d been sitting on. “I was swinging by, and I saw you working.” 

Mike raises an eyebrow. “And you thought you’d come over and bother me?” 

He can hear the hidden smile when Spiderman smoothly replies, “Maybe.” 

“Right,” Mike returns, giving him a blank look, and he wonders what kind of expression the hero is giving him back when he offers a slight nod, leaning just a little towards Mike, like a small acknowledgement. Mike feels weirdly nervous.

When there’s only the chirp of birds and the chatter of people nearby, Spiderman directs his head towards the notebook on Mike’s lap. “So,” he slowly draws out, “what’re you up to?” 

“Nothing,” Mike shrugs, flipping the page over to a clean sheet, and the pen in his hand rolls onto the paper. “I was just – writing.” 

“Oh,” Spiderman says, swaying a little closer, interest in his voice, and Mike wonders how someone can be so expressive with a mask on. “Are you a journalist or something?” 

“I am not,” Mike sniffs, a little offended. “I write books. My sister is the journalist.”

“What kind of books?” He asks, disregarding the rest. He sounds genuinely curious. Mike doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Um,” he begins intelligently, feeling a little flustered, and it’s worse when Mike doesn’t know where he’s looking, what the face is betraying under the mask, the judgment that goes unreceived and blindly ignored. He nearly hates it. “It’s just – it’s kind of stupid, I don’t know.” 

“What’s it about?” The superhero inquires anyway, and Mike’s mouth twitches, as if to speak. He looks down at his notebook. 

“It’s,” he shrugs, one shouldered, “nothing, like, really thought out yet, it’s just the second book, even though the first one hasn’t even – whatever, anyway, it’s just – this idea I had since middle school, and it’s just,” he gestures with a hand, “grown to be its own thing ever since. Um.” He can feel Spiderman’s stare on him. “It’s sci-fi.” 

“I love sci-fi!” Spiderman visibly lights up, and detaches himself from the single thread of string that had been holding him up, tumbling down to skillfully sit beside Mike, and he leans forward, body close and a little out of place, entirely attention-grabbing. Mike doesn’t know how everyone isn’t staring at them. 

Or maybe they are, and he isn’t noticing. It feels like he can’t rip his eyes away from the superhero. It’s strange. It’s weird. 

“I – really?” Mike pauses, a little dumbfounded, and watches when Spiderman nods. 

“Totally,” he replies, “I was, like, obsessed with – I mean, I was really into fantasy as a kid. Sci-fi, too.” 

Mike can’t help the surprise that washes over him. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” he affirms, and Mike stares at him. “What?” 

“I – I don’t know,” Mike fumbles, shrugging again, “you just – don’t seem like the type, I guess.” 

Spiderman stares at him – or maybe he’s doing something else, except Mike has no clue, so they’re both just staring at each other, until he questions, “What type do I seem like?” 

“I don’t know,” Mike looks away, up to the sky. He hopes he doesn’t seem too out of bounds. “Just – into sports or something. I don’t know. Something less nerdy. More – cool.”

It sounds stupid when he says it out loud like that, but it’s true. Undeniably, there’s some sort of charm of Spiderman, something confident and like all of him fits together, as though he’s comfortable in his skin. Mike supposes it comes with being a superhero, being praised while also being criticized, an acceptance he needs to acquire. 

Spiderman hums, a considering noise while they sit together. 

“I’m not a superhero all the time, you know,” he finally replies, and Mike turns to look at him. 

He’s mostly kidding when he asks, “So you’re just some nerd in your free time?” 

There’s a teasing lilt in his voice when he says, again, “Maybe.” 

Mike squints at him, before turning away. He wasn’t going to be speculating about the kind of person underneath that mask any time soon. That would get him into a spiral he doesn’t want to think about, outside of half-thought assumptions and general biases. 

They weren’t even friends, really. Acquaintances at most, for the strange fascination the superhero seems to hold onto him, which is its own phenomenon, because Mike doesn’t think anything about him is interesting enough to garner such attention. 

That’s a little pitying though, a little too depressing, and he looks away. His gaze falls down towards his notebook once more, brushing the page back to being flat against itself, and his sleeve slips down from where he’d pushed it up. He glances at the time, and freezes. 

“Shit,” he says eloquently, “shit, shit, shit –” 

Spiderman leans away when Mike clumsily begins packing his things up, in disarray while he attempts to leave. “Everything okay?” 

“I was supposed to be back almost ten minutes ago,” Mike hisses, flipping his notebook shut and unzipping his bag. “My boss is going to kill me.” 

He can feel Spiderman’s stare on him as he hurries to get up from the ground, stumbling as he shoves his notebook and lunch back into his bag. “Do you want me to give you a ride or something?” 

“What?” Mike momentarily pauses in his packing, which is probably a really bad idea, but Spiderman is peering up at him, and his question sounded entirely too serious. “No, that’s – what?” 

He shrugs. “I could. Where do you need to be?” 

“Booking Inc. on Fifteenth,” Mike replies, internally wincing at the run he’s got ahead of him. 

Spiderman is still looking at him. “That’s ten minutes away,” he points out, and Mike grimaces. “I could probably get you there in two.” 

“I – seriously?” Mike questions, feeling a little nervous, and he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself, except Spiderman sounds genuine, and Mike really doesn’t want to be an additional ten minutes late. 

Spiderman nods, and he stands up in one swift move, much closer than he probably should be. “Sure,” he says easily, like this is all very casual, and Mike’s stomach isn’t doing acrobats. “Here, just –” 

He furtively moves a little closer, until he snakes an arm around Mike’s middle, and Mike can feel his face bloom red. Something akin to embarrassment floods him from the inside while Spiderman tugs him a little closer, until their sides bump, and Mike raises an arm. 

“Um,” he starts, smooth as ever, “what do I –” 

Spiderman takes his arm in his free hand and loops it around his shoulders. 

“Oh,” Mike says, voice a little high. “Okay.”

Spiderman’s head tilts, and he sounds a little amused when he replies, “Alright. Let’s go.”

That is all the warning Mike gets before Spiderman sprouts off a thin thread of spider string, and then they’re lurched into the air, and suddenly the ground feels miles away. 

Despite him having gone through this once, Mike feels more aware of everything, this time around, of the quick chill that runs through him, with the billowing breeze, and his hair is brushed away from his face with the force, a steady up-down-up swinging motion every time Spiderman shoots onto another building. 

“Holy shit,” Mike emphasizes, holding onto Spiderman a little tighter, both arms gripping at him. “Holy fucking – we – this is so high up,” he observes brilliantly, and his stomach swoops low when there’s a moment in which they are suspended in the air, no spider-silk attached. 

“Don’t worry,” Spiderman reassures, sounding awfully calm, “I won’t drop you.”

And that wasn’t really a concern of his, mostly because of the credibility that comes with a superhero, and Mike is pretty sure that he’s got, like, superstrength or something, and even if he didn’t, the secured arm around his waist has him feeling pretty anchored, stable against his side. 

“Uh-huh,” Mike says faintly, and he yelps when they narrowly avoid the edge of a shining skyscraper, and his hands clutch onto Spiderman instinctively. “Oh – my fucking God, that –” 

Spiderman’s fingers press a little firmly into Mike’s shirt. "Just – hang on!" 

"What do you mean just hang – was that a pun," Mike sputters, clutching onto Spiderman for dear life as they swing through the city, and he can hear the superhero laugh through the racing wind in his ears, the rumble of it under Mike’s arm wrapped around his middle.  

The city feels so small like this, the quick sweeping of the place as they fly by, and the cars seem smaller and there’s people dotting the streets, looking up to watch them, and it all feels rather insignificant but, strangely, in a good way. A kind of insignificance that feels like freedom. Being a few minutes late to his summer job doesn’t seem so disastrous, now. 

After a moment or so, Mike gets used to the rhythmic swinging, and it doesn’t feel so terrifying, and some part of him registers that, really, Spiderman wouldn’t get Mike in harm’s way. He sucks in a breath and forces himself to relax, and the entire experience is somehow both relaxing and exhilarating. 

“Having fun?” Spiderman murmurs, voice close to be heard over the rush of air, and Mike’s scarlet face moves onto burgundy. 

He swallows, and forces himself to be calm. “Once you get over the fear of falling to death,” he begins, and surprises himself with how even his voice is, “it’s – yeah. It’s fun.” 

“I’m glad,” Spiderman replies, and Mike can hear his grin. 

And then they’re descending down to the ground again, and Mike flinches, body jolting before they land, and he stumbles when he stands, Spiderman holding him upright, and Mike takes a moment to steady himself, flushing as he steps away from the hero. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, adjusting his bag. When he looks up, they’re right in front of Mike’s work building. 

“Anytime,” Spiderman returns, and he sounds like he means it. He brings up a hand to tousle Mike’s hair, and he’s more than sure he’s beet red, involuntarily leaning into the touch. The exchange only lasts a few seconds, and Spiderman drops his hand as he leans away, stepping back. “See you around, cool guy.”

Mike’s mouth drops open in offense, and he lets out a very dignified squawk. “Don’t call me that!” He protests, and is barely heard out when Spiderman swings away. 

When he, after another few minutes, finally, courageously, makes his way up several flights of stairs and collapses into his chair, his boss, the four-foot-eleven menace of a woman that she is, is, mercifully, nowhere to be seen, and Robin gives him a thorough onceover, unable to hide a snort behind her hand. 

“Dude,” she grins, similar to a Cheshire cat, “your hair. Did you get caught up in a tornado on your way here?” 

“What,” Mike says, and swipes away Robin’s compact mirror when she offers it, leaning away to get a good look. 

His hair, to his misfortune, looks a little bit like he’d stuck it in a washing machine, sprung every possible way, and it’s clear the slight disarrangement Spiderman had given his hair definitely hadn’t helped. 

He runs a hand through his hair, and it flops back to its disheveled state. 

Mike lets out a loud groan, leaning forward to slump against his desk. Robin laughs. Mike chucks the mirror at her. 

He, very terribly, misses. 

Tuesday afternoon finds Mike withered away when he finally stumbles back to his apartment, attempting not to collapse onto the stupid hallway while he fumbles around for his keys. 

In complete clarity, Mike has never, and probably will never, care for Tuesdays, a bullshit rendition of Monday, and he especially doesn’t care for it now when it’s as though all the planets had aligned for this particular Tuesday to be the worst of them all. 

He had woken up fifteen minutes late to his alarm, rushing through his shower with an impressive lack of grace and getting a glob of shampoo suds in his eyes, and had spent an additional moment to mourn an empty box of Fruity Pebbles when he had slid into the kitchen, buttons undone and hair a mess. 

It’s only fitting for the rest of his day to be one catastrophe after another; Robin seemed to pelt even more paper balls at him than usual, or maybe her aim was finally improving, and his boss had forgone the muffins she usually makes on Tuesdays. Still, even with a rushed-but-not-too-bad beginning of his day, Mike could have held out some hope for the rest of it, but alas. 

It seems like the world has pinned a Kick me! sticky note on the back of his shirt, however, because here he is, growing increasingly more worn out when he can’t find his keys. Maybe humans were never meant to evolve to this level. 

He spends another three minutes rifling through his bag very carefully, checking the hallway and the elevator, and turning out all his pockets, dropping his wallet and a gum wrapper onto the floor, before he finally gives up and calls his landlord, the intimidating man that he is, who informs him that he is out, right now, and will stop by around six. It’s currently four thirty-two. 

Mike slumps against his door, forehead against the peephole and scowl on his face. 

He vaguely hears a door opening behind him. 

“Mike?” 

He, for a second, attempts blowing himself up with his mind. 

“Hi,” he finally addresses, lifting himself up from his door and turning around to face Will, who looks both amused and mildly concerned. He has a denim jacket on, a singular yellow smiley face sticker on the chest. It makes him look all the sweeter, with the dotted specks of paint around the cuffs of his sleeves. He’s undeniably charming. “Nice sticker.” 

Will looks down at his pocket, offering a small smile. “My sister,” he explains. “Um. What are you doing?” 

Mike lets out a deep sigh, relaxing against the door, cool against his back, through his blue button up. “I lost my keys,” he elaborates, “and the landlord won’t be around until, like, six.” 

Will nods in understanding. “Is it anything urgent?” 

Mike shakes his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. It flops back into place. “Not really. I just,” he brings up a hand to gesture ambiguously, a mess of emotions, and Will sends him a sympathetic look. “Bad day.” 

Will tilts his head. It’s cute. Mike wants to reach out and shake him. “Anything in particular?”

“Everything,” Mike says emphatically, and Will snorts. He can’t help it when his own mouth lifts in a smile. “Just – nothing’s going well. I kind of wanted to come home and suffocate myself with my pillow.” 

He brings out his hand from his other pocket to brush away a strand of hair, and his pack of spearmint gum goes tumbling out. Mike barely registers it before Will swoops down to pick it up, catching it above the floor. 

“Thanks,” Mike mumbles, embarrassment piling onto his bad luck, and Will gives him a shrug in acknowledgement, handing him his gum back. Their fingers brush, for just a second, and Mike nearly jolts from the contact, somehow wanting to jerk away and grab Will’s hand at the same time. 

Will lets his hand fall away and leans to the side. “Well,” he begins, and Mike’s attention catches onto him like a lightning rod, “if you aren’t busy, I was going to grab a coffee?” He chews on his lip, seemingly nervous, even if he has no reason to be. “If you want to join?” 

Mike is already nodding, heart jolting where it sits in his chest, and maybe this isn’t the worst day of his life. “Yeah,” he agrees, naturally, he can’t imagine saying no, “sure. Absolutely.”

He’d be more embarrassed about his eagerness, but Will’s smile widens, keys jingling in his hand while he nods. “Okay,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised, “um, I was planning on going to the one on Conant? Next to the –” 

“– skate park,” Mike finishes, and Will raises an eyebrow, and it – it’s attractive. He needs to get a grip. “My friend drags me there sometimes. That – I mean, yeah! Yeah, that sounds great.” 

“Cool,” Will replies, and he gestures. “Lead the way.”

Mike is about to implode into a million pieces.

When he had easily, foolishly, agreed to go out for coffee together, he had failed to account for his inability to be normal ever, and this problem of his only gets worse when it’s revealed that Will is his type in every way, which is a whole other problem, because he’s never had a type before today.

God. Mike is tempted to run into oncoming traffic. 

And – of course, Mike has had his own share of fleeting crushes, a girlfriend here and there, the sort of infatuation that comes from an idealization that doesn’t really exist, crushing on an image he has of someone, which fades away after he gets to know them. Most of his love life falls under this category. 

Will is an outlier. 

He feels like something entirely out of Mike’s pattern of admiration-turned-crush, because, sure, he admires Will in some way, except – it feels like something else with Will, because the more Mike learns, the more Mike feels himself attracted, urged to find out everything Will has to offer, undeterred by all of it, spurred on to receive more, take more, take anything Will gives him. 

He’s enamored by all of it. Mike doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Will is unwaveringly polite, raised well with manners, but he’s with a charming touch of teasing at just the right times, never hurtful and never at Mike’s expense, and it’s just enough for Mike to let out a startled laugh or blush under acute accuracy. His voice is sweet, calm and steady under the rush of the cafe, the kind of deep-but-not-that-deep that makes Mike think of warm mornings and chocolate and all other good stuff, and he probably sounds insane, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

He likes the way Will holds his cup, cradling it like it might break under his touch, and it’s obvious that he’s an artist, with hands that look like they’re made for it, the gentleness in his movements, and Mike feels like he’s trying to imprint it all on memory, like he can’t get enough of it, and it’s because he can’t. Will is a little bit enrapturing. 

He sits across Mike at their table, his cup of coffee steaming in front of him, and he has a donut he’s slowly making his way through. His hair shines a little otherworldly in the sunlight that hits him just right, and Mike wants to reach out and touch, press his fingertips to the warm flush of Will’s cheeks. 

“So you – pushed him?” Will exclaims, soft enough not to attract any attention, but enough to get his disbelief across. “Seriously?” 

“He deserved it!” Mike defends, even if Will hadn’t been arguing that point. “And – it was pretty funny, too. He peed his pants right after.” 

Will inhales a little sharply in a laugh, caught off-guard, and Mike grins. “Holy shit,” he expresses, coughing a little, and he takes a sip of his coffee. He looks mildly impressed when he meets Mike’s eyes. “I kind of wish I knew you as a kid.” 

Mike cringes. “No way. I was the biggest nerd out there.” 

Will’s teeth shine when he smiles, summery and good-looking. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he replies, teasing, and Mike flushes, feeling pleasantly flustered. It’s like he’s never talked to a guy in his life, and it’s embarrassing. “If it makes you feel any better, I was a total loser.” He taps his fingers on the table, before curling around the side of his cup. “I was really into the lamer stuff. There was this one game – it was, like, kind of a story-telling thing with dice, it was just –” 

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Mike guesses, and Will’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“You – really? Really?” Will gapes, and Mike grins, a little proud of himself, while he nods. 

“Yeah,” he answers, feeling like he’s about to burst or bloom or die, “I was a paladin, but – I mean, I used to DM all the time, too, which – I preferred, actually.” He pauses, before saying, more than joking, “I was the best DM ever.” 

“I bet,” Will says, and it should sound a little sarcastic, but he sounds sincere, and Mike knows he’s blushing. He takes a sip of his drink, hiding behind his cup. “You said you write?”

“Yeah.” Mike presses his fingertips into the ceramic touch of the coffee cup. He doesn’t know why he feels so embarrassed. “It’s – I mean, it’s mostly for fun, since it’s, like, aside from my actual classes, and it hasn’t been workshopped or anything, so it’s not, like, great, and it’s – it’s kind of childish, but. Um.” 

Will’s eyebrows furrow, and he taps his shoe against Mike’s, a light knock of their sneakers together, and Mike doesn’t know what to do. He wants to reach over and tug Will close. He wants to run away. He wants to explode the world. He wants to do everything. 

“Tell me anyway,” Will says, like it’s easy. 

Mike bites down on his tongue, and shrugs. “It’s – well, it’s kind of stupid, but –” 

Will kicks his foot, and Mike yelps. 

“Jesus, fine, I – it’s not stupid!”

Will sends him an agreeable grin. “Now tell me about it,” he says, and Mike huffs, even if it feels like he’s harboring an entire field of flowers in his stomach. 

“It’s sci-fi,” Mike begins, gauging in Will’s reaction, as if he’d bite out something so unlike him, something like that’s childish, that’s not sensible, why don’t you –

But Will looks interested, leaning in a little closer and eyes bright, and it feels like the perfect piece to Mike’s puzzle when he returns, “I love sci-fi.”

Mike wants to kiss him. Mike wants to kiss him so bad. 

“I – yeah,” Mike stumbles out, his two brain cells finally working together, and Will looks more amused than weirded out, “yeah. So, um, it’s about these kids from this small town who –” 

The afternoon passes easily. 

A girl with a large trombone walks by the glass wall. An old lady holds a chihuaha in her purse. A figure in blue races by while Ranger follows close by. A man in a tuxedo gets onto a bus. The cashier drops a handful of dimes onto the floor. A barista calls out, “Iced americano for Brian?” 

All of this goes unnoticed to Mike, who feels entirely swept up into Will, who is startlingly endearing, even if he’s just sitting there, wiping his hands on a napkin while he explains the difference between gouache and watercolors, and Mike has never and probably will never care about paints like that, but he’s entirely invested in whatever Will has to say. 

Mike doesn’t know what’s happening to him. 

He feels giddy, ready to drink in every bit of Will that he generously offers, and Mike feels like an enchanted middle schooler, trying to remain calm around some crush, except this is weird, because Mike wants to cling onto Will and never let go. That’s probably not normal crush behavior, but Mike has never been normal in any regard. 

Mike doesn’t even know what normal crush behavior is. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so love-struck. 

Much to Mike’s dismay, however, six p.m. slowly rears its unwanted head around, and then the waiter finally comes by, setting the check between them, and Mike doesn’t think about it when he swipes it away before Will can get a glance at it. 

“Mike,” Will immediately protests, “you really don’t have to do –” 

“I want to,” Mike shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant and cool and normal when he says, “you can just pay next time.” 

Next time, he had run through his head, three different ways in three different tones, overly nervous about just two words, but he can’t be blamed. Next time implies they’re friends, that Mike wants to do this again, that he’s hoping Will wants the same, that he had a good time, that he’s hoping, hoping, wanting. 

Will looks surprised, which doesn’t seem too bad, blushing something pink and pretty, and Mike thinks he’d pay for every meal ever if Will blushes like this every time. Mike tries to force down a hurricane of heart-shaped clouds in his chest when Will smiles. 

“Okay,” he finally says, and Mike can’t conceal his grin, “next time.” 

V. Build a bookshelf. 

In light of recent events, Mike has decided to treat himself. 

Granted, for most, treating himself might not include buying a bookshelf for himself to build, but the towers of books in the corner of his bedroom have been proving to be an obstacle, and he’s already toppled over them twice in the past week, because, despite resembling a toothpick, weaving around three, looming piles of books almost the same height of him is more difficult than originally thought. 

Maybe he should also invest in buying a car, or grabbing a taxi, but he’s spent enough money as it is, so here he is, lugging a large, brown box across New York City, huffing and puffing and definitely sweating. He mentally adds gym membership to his ever-growing list of things to invest in. 

Nonetheless. 

“Need some help?” 

“Jesus fucking – Christ,” Mike yelps, and the box nearly goes flying. 

Even with the multiple instances of them meeting, Mike still, somehow, manages to be startled. He supposes that’s a permanent side effect of superheroes dropping out of the sky and landing beside you. 

“Just Spiderman works,” he quips back, and Mike doesn’t feel even a flicker of amusement. He doesn’t. “Do you want some help?” 

“No,” Mike answers, because he’s manly and independent and his arms definitely aren’t shaking. “I’ve got it.” 

It’s under Spiderman’s scrutinizing stare which Mike can feel, even under the mask, that he shuffles a step forward, moving with the struggle of Atlas to walk with the box in his arms. Still, it moves, and he can walk, and he’s got it. 

“You’re dragging it,” Spiderman points out, and he, much to Mike’s dismay, sounds awfully amused. 

Mike looks down at the bottom of the box, where the cardboard is rugged and ripped from the rough concrete of the sidewalk, before looking back up, because, unfortunately, Spiderman is right. He is absolutely dragging it. 

He clenches his jaw and straightens himself, grasping at the sides of the box, and slowly lifting it up. It stays in his hold for a world-record of three and a half seconds, until it tumbles and falls onto the ground. Mike presses his lips together. 

Spiderman wastes no time to pick up the box, no room for argument when he heaves it off the sidewalk and tucks it under one arm effortlessly. 

Mike squints at him. His stomach feels weird. “I had it.” 

“Uh-huh,” Spiderman agrees. “I’m just doing my civic duty of helping the citizens of this city.” 

“I don’t know about civic duty,” Mike mutters, resigned as Spiderman begins walking next to him, and they head to the direction of Mike’s apartment, “considering you probably don’t count as a civilian.” 

“I do!” He protests. He pauses. “I mean. Probably. I probably do.” 

“Yeah, you sound really sure,” Mike says wryly, and they wait at a crosswalk while cars whizz past them. A mother with a baby stroller stands next to them, as well as a man with a green mohawk. Neither of them spare Mike and Spiderman a look. 

“Contrary to popular belief,” Spiderman informs him, and he shifts the box onto his shoulder, unflinching at the weight. Mike tries really hard not to think about it. It’s not working. “This whole superhero gig didn’t come with a handbook. I’m kind of just winging it.” 

“Really,” Mike ponders flatly, raising his eyebrows, and Spiderman laughs, light and bright in the city rush. “I had no idea. I assumed the not being a civilian chapter was next to stalking random citizens.” 

Spiderman lets out an indignant sound. “I’m not – stalking anyone!” 

He pokes at Mike’s shoulder with his free hand, and it’s only a slight jab, but it makes Mike feel like they’re – friends, or something, as if they’re just buddies walking through the city. The crossing light switches on, and they begin crossing the road. Mike gets a glimpse into the baby stroller, where a dog is fast asleep. The man with the mohawk nearly bumps into them with the speed of his pace. Mike wonders if normal people exist in this city. 

“Are you sure?” Mike asks, and it’d be more accusing if he minded the superhero, but – maybe call it Stockholm Syndrome, but he’s starting to like Spiderman’s company. “There’s, like, a one-in-eight-million chance that you bump into me, here.” 

“Actually,” Spiderman begins, “I did just happen to bump into you.” Mike sends him a skeptical look, and the superhero gestures behind him. Mike turns around and up to find a steady stream of smoke slowly fading away into the sky, just a street or so away. “I was in the neighborhood! Pogo-Stick Pizzeria was on fire.”

“Oh,” Mike replies compellingly, and he leads them turning right. There’s a beat, before he decides, “You should’ve let it burn.” 

Spiderman laughs again, and it feels a little bit like an accomplishment, something akin to satisfaction blossoming in Mike when they keep walking, because Mike wouldn’t consider him a very funny person, but it feels nice, making him laugh, for no reason whatsoever. 

They pass a woman in a bright orange sun hat. “Their pizza isn’t that bad.”

“Yeah, right,” Mike grimaces. “I once found a fortune in my crust.” Spiderman makes a disbelieving noise, and Mike cringes at the memory. “Like, how does that happen? It’s – that’s, like, a whole different genre of restaurant! How do you even –” 

“Fortune pizzas,” Spiderman pitches. “I’d buy it. What did it say?” 

“‘The first man gets the oyster, the second man gets the shell’,” Mike recites dryly. 

Spiderman hums, and they take a left. “I never really liked shellfish.” 

They turn onto Mike’s street, apartment complex coming into view. It’s barely past two, and Mike has cleared out the entire day to building this stupid bookshelf, because, despite his outstanding grades in physics and sciences back in high school, he doesn’t know what to do with a screwdriver in his hand. He wonders if Will is any good. 

“Okay,” Mike says, glancing up at the building, “this is me.” 

Spiderman looks at him, at the box, and then back at him. There’s a pause. 

“Do you want me to take this up to your place?” 

“Please,” Mike responds immediately. His lack of dignity is worth the laugh in return. 

Thankfully, there is a thorough lack of teasing at his desperation to avoid any physical activity, and Spiderman carries onto the box with an unwavering hold while Mike leads them both to his apartment, scourging his mind to make sure he hadn’t left out any heaps of laundry in his living room before he had left. 

Some part of him feels weird, passing Will’s door across from his while he welcomes a superhero into his apartment, and he digs out his keys from his pockets, and it’s as if the silver 12 on the door is boring into the back of his skull, and he makes haste to unlock his apartment, swinging the door open and letting Spiderman slip in. 

“What’s in here, anyway?” Spiderman questions, looking down at the box he holds in both hands, and carefully places it in the living room. He shuffles back, and peers at the tapes littering the coffee table. “Empire Strikes Back,” he observes.

Mike raises an eyebrow. “You’ve watched it?” 

“Maybe,” Spiderman answers covertly. “So, what’s in the box?” 

“Bookshelf,” Mike elaborates, accepting the change in topic. “You know, to make sure everyone who walks in knows what kind of loser lives here.” 

“I think they can already tell,” he replies, and Mike squints at him, before tossing a throw cushion, which Spiderman easily dodges. “I’m just saying,” he defends when another cushion is thrown, and he catches it quickly, hands brought up in anticipation, “you’re the one wearing a Lord of the Rings shirt!”

Mike looks down at the logo on his shirt, barely covered by the leather jacket he’d thrown on, and rolls his eyes, ignoring the flush on his cheeks. “Whatever,” he replies sagely, and walks over to his tiny kitchen, looking for something to cut the box open with. 

He makes a small Aha! when he finds a pair of scissors, and Spiderman leans against the counter while Mike cuts through the tape, and pulls out several pieces of styrofoam and oblong wood. He feels unnaturally self-aware under Spiderman’s stare, too conscious of his posture and the way he holds the scissors in his hands, how his hair keeps falling into his face, and, yeah, he probably looks like the biggest nerd out there. 

“Do you want some help?” Spiderman offers, ever at his assistance, and Mike shakes his head. 

“No, it’s fine,” he dismisses, “I can take it from here.” 

Spiderman seems unconvinced. “Are you sure?” 

Mike nods. “Yeah, and if I need help, I can just –” 

He waves a hand to the door, and he’d been moments away from saying, I can just ask Will, because something in him knows that Will would probably help him out if he really needed it, and he seems like the sort that would know how to build a bookshelf, with his very sensical self and capable hands and general I am a normal person energy. 

Spiderman tilts his head. “Just?” He prompts. 

“I’ll just figure it out,” Mike finishes. “I know how to work a screwdriver,” he adds, which is true. Kind of. It can’t be that hard. 

“Uh-huh,” Spiderman replies, and he sounds like he’s smiling. Mike wants a peek at it. “Okay, then I’ll just –” 

He takes a step towards the window, and Mike watches as he pulls it open, taking a seat on the ledge, no window screen, which is definitely dangerous in this city. Nonetheless, he’s entirely careless when he leans back, spine to the city. 

Mike presses his lips together. “Thanks. For – you know.” He doesn’t know why it feels so embarrassing to thank the superhero. 

“No problem, cool guy,” Spiderman emphasizes, the teasing tone evident in his voice, and Mike feels his face involuntarily heat up. 

“I have a name, you know,” he huffs.

Spiderman shrugs. “It’s more fun, this way,” he points out. His fingers tap on the windowsill, before he continues, belatedly, “Good luck with your bookshelf.” 

“Thanks,” Mike replies, and Spiderman falls out of the window. 

He stares at where Spiderman had just been perched, shock settling in, before he hurriedly gets up from the floor and rushes over to the window, and – he knows he’s a superhero, but he can’t be blamed for making sure Spiderman wasn’t currently occupying the sidewalk after falling out of a window. 

As it is, Spiderman seems completely and utterly fine, swinging away from Mike’s building and disappearing behind an ice cream parlor, and Mike lets out a sigh of relief. He leans away from the window, and takes a moment to slide it shut. 

He stares at the unbuilt bookshelf on his floor. 

“I hate this city.”  

There’s someone at his door. 

After spending an entire afternoon building a bookshelf, using a wrench as a hammer, and eating three servings of ramen, Mike had passed out in his bed, stomach full of sodium and hands hurting from nails and sharp corners. 

And – it’s probably not that early, but it feels early, and he has the entire day off, it being a merciful Saturday, but someone is ringing his doorbell, and the sun is shining violently through his uncurtained window, and Mike lets out a loud groan into his pillow, before trudging to his door, swiping at his mouth. 

He opens the door. 

“Michael James Wheeler,” Will reads, slowly looking up from the envelope. “I guess it was finally my turn to get your mail.” He pauses when his eyes settle on Mike. He raises an eyebrow, teasing smile slowly poking through. “Good morning.” 

“Yeah, yeah, William,” he returns, red in the cheeks when he swipes away his mail, and Will grins in response. He knows he probably looks ridiculous, bird’s nest of a hair and drool-stained sleep shirt, and he’s definitely not making him out to be a very good candidate for Will’s affections, but his sleep-riddled brain is still struggling to catch up. “It’s too early for this.” 

Will blinks at him. “It’s one in the afternoon.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Mike waves off, stifling a yawn, and he places his mail on the little stand next to the door, right beside his keys and the ticket to Will’s art show. His heart flutters at the thought, no matter how sleepy. “I have nothing planned today. I’m allowed to sleep as long as I want.” 

“Me neither,” Will replies, and it almost sounds like an invitation. 

Anything else Will was going to say is interrupted, however, when Mike’s stomach growls unnaturally loudly, and Mike’s face is firetruck red while Will lets out a startled laugh. “I,” he begins, an attempt to salvage his pride, but Will’s grin is wide and unabashed and Mike’s stomach is feeling funny, unrelated to the growling. 

The feeling only gets bigger when Will is still smiling. “I was going to go get lunch right now, actually,” he mentions, “if you want to come with?” 

“I,” Mike repeats stupidly, before his brain finally decides to work again, and he clears his throat, straightening to nod eagerly. “Yeah, no, I – totally, let me just –” 

He gestures vaguely to his body, and Will nods in understanding, slightly pink in the face. “Okay, I’ll just – wait out here,” he returns, and Mike is still nodding. 

“Cool,” he replies, before shutting the door, and bolting to his room. 

It’s a clumsy ordeal, brushing his teeth at a world-record speed and shoving on a pair of jeans, spending a good thirty seconds debating between two different shirts, until he picks an entirely different third one, and throwing on a blue, plaid shirt over it. His hair is a lost cause, and he grimaces when a bit of his hair sticks up and out. 

After a quick spritz of cologne and making sure he doesn’t look like a bad rendition of a vampire, he tugs on a pair of sneakers and hopes to high heaven that Will hasn’t left. 

“Oh,” he observes, when Will is leaning against his own door and fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater, something yellow and nice on him, with little green stripes on it, and his hair is parted to show just a little forehead, and Mike – 

“Ready?” Will asks, standing up, and Mike nods. 

“Yeah,” he replies, trying to keep his heart in place, “you – um, where do you want to go?” 

The girl across from them has been slowly accumulating two tall stacks of bagels. 

Mike only notices this, of course, because, after ordering their food in the breakfast bar, when Will had been craving pancakes, and Mike had been in a breakfast mood, Will had rushed off into the bathroom. 

He had looked nice, in his sweater and hair, and he had somehow weaseled more information about Mike’s writing endeavors, and, to Mike’s surprise, he had been interested, remembering things that Mike had mentioned in the cafe a while ago, as though everything about Mike doesn’t fizzle out into thin air when he isn’t around. 

“But I thought they found his body? How is it not him?” Will questions, looking puzzled and genuinely interested, and Mike suppresses the urge to lean over the table and confess his undying love right then there. 

Still, Mike has been acting very nonchalant and cool. He orders an omelet, and Will orders a stack of pancakes, and he asks, “How is the huge painting going?” 

“It’s going pretty good, actually,” Will answers, looking pleased, “I started on –” 

He abruptly pauses, then, eyebrows furrowing when his hand jerks to his neck, and his shoulders stiffen. Mike, for a moment, wonders if he did something wrong. “You okay?” 

“I – yeah,” Will nods, “I’ve just – got to – bathroom,” he seemingly decides, standing up from his seat, and Mike looks up at him, surprised. “I just have to use the bathroom! Yeah, I’m – I’ll be right back,” he reassures, and quickly walks away. 

Mike blinks. “Okay,” he says, and Will is entirely out of his sight. 

It’s been approximately five seconds since then, and Mike has counted eighteen bagels on the girl’s plate, two piles looming over her laptop, and she slowly chews on a blueberry bagel, ultra-focused on her laptop. 

Almost on cue, there is a loud crash outside, and Mike turns to peer out of the window, where a man in a cloak rams a street sign into the familiar figure of Eleven, her pink and white suit flying into view, and Mike’s eyebrows raise when she narrowly maneuvers Rosemary St. away from her, crashing into a nearby fire hydrant. 

It isn’t the most convenient view when they’re slowly traveling across the street, just a bit away from the breakfast bar, but he catches a swinging blur of blue, and then there’s the thin strip of white tangling across the man’s torso, and the cloaked figure turns around to spot Spiderman hurtling towards him. 

Mike leans into his palm as he watches, not too concerned with his own well-being, and half his mind still stuck on Will’s sudden exit. Nevertheless, it’s a little difficult to be hung up on that when he watches Spiderman twist the man into a tangle of spider-silk, and Eleven throws him into a nearby trash can. 

It’s a quick battle, as are most, and the situation settles down as quickly as it began when Eleven disappears once more, and Spiderman shoots out of view.

When he turns back to the girl, she has barely budged, as if she hadn’t noticed the commotion outside, and, with an old man cutting through a burger, two women sharing a milkshake, and a waiter wiping down a booth, the diner is relatively quiet and calm, despite the ruckus that had occurred outside. 

It’s only when Will still hasn’t returned that the sneaking suspicion that he’s been ditched begins to cast over Mike, and he starts to entertain the idea of maybe checking if Will is keeling over and dying in the men’s bathroom. 

Just as Mike makes to get up, Will slides into view, very much a good distance away from the men’s bathroom. Mike opens his mouth, before pausing. 

Will seems a little out of breath, cheeks flushed and hair much more tousled than it had been, but he sounds sincerely apologetic when he says, “Sorry, I was – I got a call from my sister, and,” he gestures ambiguously, “there was some trouble, but – yeah. Sorry for disappearing.” 

Mike shakes his head, brushing it off. “No worries,” he soothes, watching the way Will brushes his hair out of his eyes and lets out a breath, shoulders deflating. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Will responds easily, offering a small smile, “everything’s fine, don’t worry.” 

Mike would be more skeptical, if not for the genuinity of it all, and he swallows down his doubts. And, he supposes, Will wouldn’t lie without a good reason, probably. It’s not Mike’s place to conspire, anyway. 

“Okay,” he appeases, after a moment, and returns a slight grin. “So, about the painting?” 

“The – oh, right,” Will blinks, before brightening. “So, I started on the sketch, but I was thinking I might –” 

And, later, when he slowly shovels his way through his maple syrup-covered omelet, there’s the thought again, of Will’s sudden disappearance, and Spiderman’s timely appearance, the slight disheveled look of Will, out of breath and flushed, and the trouble in question, and –

He nearly scoffs at the idea. 

Yeah, right. 

Mike isn’t that big of an idiot. 

Maybe he is that big of an idiot. 

The thought won’t leave his head, which is probably stupid, because the idea is absolutely outlandish, and the likelihood of him befriending Spiderman, both in and out of the mask, is slim to none, much less the superhero being his next door neighbor, but –

If he’s objective about it for just a second, Mike can admit, Will and Spiderman are unordinarily similar. 

They both hold just the right amount of snark and charm, and Will is, like, strong and stuff, with his broad shoulders and biceps that Mike has – not been looking at, not even a little, and – that’s not even the point, anyway. 

They’re both a little nerdy, both quick to tease Mike, even quicker with their reflexes, and Will really is strong, Mike catches himself staring more often than not, and Will’s sudden exit at the breakfast place is still lingering in his head, seemingly so windswept after only a phone call. 

Nonetheless, none of it is particularly solid proof, and Mike might be the type to rush to conclusions, but this one is dangerous, with possible humiliation or danger at hand, and Mike – Mike likes Will, and he’d rather not screw everything up because of his own overactive imagination. 

“Hold the door!”

Mike rushes into the elevator, barely sparing a glance to whichever samaritan who had the good heart to hold the elevator open just a second longer, and he sucks in a few breaths, before he stands upright. 

“Thanks,” he breathes out, and turns to look at the other elevator occupier.

A girl in pink jeans and a colorful, paint-splattered hoodie regards him with a onceover, clutching her backpack strap with a secure grip. “You’re welcome,” she replies, voice soft yet firm, and despite her light get-up, something about her is fierce. 

Mike blinks, and silently shuffles away. 

The next few moments are spent in complete silence, irrefusably awkward, and Mike can feel her stare on him, and he wonders if he has anything incriminating on him, or maybe he’s been walking around with his clothes inside out, or maybe there’s gum in his hair, or there’s a huge coffee stain on his clothes and he hasn’t noticed, or – 

Mercifully, the doors finally push open, and the girl wastes no time in stepping out, both of them on the same floor as they begin to walk. Mike tries to keep a distance between them, because the girl is a little bit incredibly intimidating, and she seems to be heading straight for his door. 

She stops in front of his shining 13, before turning to 12, and raising a hand to knock very forcefully. 

The door pulls open only seconds later, and Mike tries his best to pretend he can’t hear Will when he greets, “Hey, did you bring the stuff?” 

“Yes,” she nods, “Max says you have her things, so if I came here for nothing, I’m going to be very disappointed.” 

Will scoffs right as Mike steps onto his Welcome mat, keys jingling when he hurries to retrieve them from his pockets, because he’d rather not intrude into Will’s conversation with the very intimidating girl, and he fumbles to get his apartment key in his fingers, cringing all the while.

“Obviously, I have – oh, Mike!” 

Mike freezes, and slowly turns around, keys still in hand. 

Both Will and the girl are looking at him, and he feels weirdly dissected with both of their eyes on him. He tightens his grasp on his keys. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Will smiles, and Mike returns it easily. “I was hoping to catch you, I actually – well, first, this,” he motions to the girl, “is my sister. Jane.” 

“Hello,” Jane greets, raising a hand in acknowledgement. 

Mike raises his own hand. “Hello,” he says back. “I’m Mike.” 

“I know,” she replies, sounding like she wishes she didn’t. Mike opens his mouth, a little surprised, and she announces, “I’m going to go inside.” She slips past Will, ducking into his apartment and disappearing inside. 

They stare at each other. Will’s face is slowly turning pink. 

It’s just them in the hallway. Mike doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so nervous. 

“She, um,” Mike starts, breaking the silence and fiddling with his keychain, “she seems nice.” 

Will raises his eyebrows, looking amused. “She is, usually. She’s just stressed because of – stuff,” he elaborates, a little vague, but it’s none of Mike’s business. 

He watches as Will raises a hand to push his hair away from his face, seemingly anxious, and there’s a glimpse of a thin cut just above his eyebrow, out of view when his hair falls over it once more. Mike frowns.  

“Are you okay?” He asks, hand moving, as if to reach out, before he motions to his own eye, and there’s a flicker of confusion on Will’s face, until his fingers brush against the cut, and he nods. 

“Oh, yeah, no, I’m fine,” he reassures, although it doesn’t do much to quell the concern in Mike’s chest. “I just hit my head moving some furniture around.” 

It doesn’t seem entirely unordinary, but Mike can’t help the skepticism when he furrows his eyebrows, slow to accept the excuse. “Okay,” he reluctantly responds, and Will nods. He sways back on his heels. “So, what did you want to tell me?” 

“Right,” Will says, pressing his lips together, and he, for some unforeseeable reason, turns even pinker. “I was wondering if – I mean, not to – ambush you or anything, but –” 

“You’re not,” Mike quickly interrupts, feeling terribly obvious.  

Will nods again, as if to himself, letting out an exhale, and his hand falls away from the doorknob to tuck itself into his pockets. “Actually,” he starts, eyes on Mike, glancing over him, “I wanted to ask if you wanted to catch a movie with me? I – um, I got an extra ticket to –” 

“Yeah,” Mike answers, before pausing, flushing red when he realizes he had barely let Will finish. “I mean, it’s – if I’m free, then yeah, totally, I’m up for – for whatever you wanted to watch, and I – yeah.” 

“I was thinking next week, Sunday?” Will proposes, and he almost sounds hopeful, a careful upturn to his voice, and Mike nods without a second thought. He’d reschedule his own funeral for Will, especially if he sounds hopeful like that all the time. 

“Okay,” he affirms, something giddy and fluttery rising in his stomach, and he kind of wants to hop in place embarrassingly. “That – yeah, that sounds good.” 

“Cool,” Will breathes out, seemingly relieved, and he bites his lip, unsuccessful when he tries to hide away a smile, and Mike wants to kiss him. 

It’s irrefutably attractive, and there’s that want again, big and obvious and so hard to conceal. There’s still the remnants of a blush on his cheeks, and he looks handsome, even under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, shiny eyes and upturned lips and tan skin and dotted birthmarks and Mike wants to reach out and touch, touch, touch. 

He settles for pressing his fingers into his palm, feeling the sharp edges of his keys dig into his skin, and he, for once, takes a leap of faith, and tries, “It’s – a date?” 

There’s just a second of a pause, Mike’s heart twisting over in his ribcage when he gauges in Will’s expression, the slight twitch of his mouth, and then the bloom of pink once again, no attempt to bite down his smile when he nods, almost bashful when he replies, “Yeah.” He meets Mike’s eyes, and Mike feels like a dehydrated strawberry. “Yeah, it’s – it’s a date.” 

Mike’s lips split into a grin. “Cool.” 

Will is blushing. It’s pretty on him. “Cool.” 

Mike nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Very cool,” he says, like the idiot he is, and his own lack of brain cells is worth it when Will shakes his head, letting out a slight laugh. 

“I –” 

“Will!” Jane calls, loud from inside the apartment, and both of them jump. “Stop flirting and help me!” 

Will’s eyes widen, pink cheeks getting even worse, and Mike knows he’s no better off. Still, he raises an eyebrow and questions, a teasing smile, “Flirting, huh?” 

“Maybe,” Will says, looking flustered, and Mike wants to kiss him stupid. “I’ll, um, talk to you later?” 

Mike nods. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Okay,” Will replies, taking a single step back into his apartment. “I – yeah.” He bites his lip, beaming. “See you.” 

“Yeah,” Mike repeats, brain feeling scrambled, and it’s only when Will shuts his door that Mike is pushed out of his stupor. 

When Mike, afterwards, retreats to his own apartment, flicking on the lights and collapsing onto his couch, he spares no time in pulling out a cushion from underneath him and letting out a loud shout, something sweet bubbling up in him, and it’s as if he’s injected sugar straight into his bones.  

He scored a date with Will – his attractive, helpful, charming, might-be-a-superhero neighbor, who had asked Mike out, first.

Mike doesn’t know what came over him to prod just a bit further, doesn’t know where the bravery came from, but maybe seeing Spiderman around so often was finally affecting him, because if the superhero can rescue civilians from flying cars and cat conversion, then maybe Mike could ask out Will Byers on a date. 

A date. 

He lets the cushion fall away from his face as he turns over on the couch, wriggling around to get comfortable, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t help it, can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, pressing his palms to his cheeks, and his face kind of hurts from smiling so hard, but he still can’t help it. 

The excitement of it all almost distracts him from his earlier train of thought, with the web of connections between Spiderman and Will, and the mysterious cut on Will’s brow bone isn’t helping his suspicions, but Mike can’t find it in him to care too much at the moment, because – 

It’s a date. It’s a date. 

He scrubs at his face, trying to calm down, until he finally sits up and clears his throat, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know he’s red all over. Still, he can’t help the giddiness. 

Jesus. Maybe he’s finally going insane. 

It’s later in the next day, when they happen to get into the elevator at the same time, both blushing, and Mike is trying hard not to melt into an indistinguishable puddle of insides, that Will says, “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Mike replies back, successful at being normal, and they share a grin. Mike looks away to stare down at the ground, lest he explode into a million pieces. 

And when they begin heading off to their separate apartments, and Will spares him a glance, brushing his hair back, there’s just enough time for Mike to stare at him, the dip of his cupid’s bow, and Mike’s eyes catching on one of the many marks on Will’s face, right on the edge of his jaw, and his upturned eyes, and – 

The very obvious lack of a cut on his face. 

Mike stares for a second longer, before he hurries into his apartment, and spends a good minute staring at the wall across from him, the space right next to his newly built bookshelf. He presses his lips together.  

He’s definitely going insane.

VI. Nearly die ( again ).

Mike is beginning to think that the universe is trying to send him a message. 

“If I’m being completely and utterly honest,” Robin says, looking to where the ground is several feet away from their window, “this isn’t the worst Friday I’ve had.” 

And, if he’s also being completely and utterly honest, their office building burning down isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him. He’s pretty sure he was more upset about the time Holly broke his cassette player six years ago, which is probably more telling about his priorities than anything, but still. 

“At least we don’t have to listen about Martin’s honeymoon escapades anymore,” Mike mutters, and Robin snorts. 

“I don’t know how he’s still coming up with ways to say sex,” she retorts. Mike barely registers their cubicles currently being burned down, and his throat feels a little itchy. 

He shakes his head, peering down at the street again. He could make the jump. Probably. Not really. “He is so making them up!” He protests. “Matrimonial polka? What the fuck does that even mean?” 

Robin grins, which is probably a bad look for them when it was just the two of them and a few others, still waiting to escape the on-fire building. “Me and Betsy were dancing the goat’s jig, if you catch my drift,” she mimics, voice overdramatically low, and Mike cringes. “Putting the bread in the oven, if you will. Basket-making. Tromboning. Buttering the –” 

“Enough,” he groans, pushing at her, and her laughter won’t stop when she lets herself get jostled, and they definitely look suspicious, joking around at a time like this. 

“Maybe even doing two-person push-ups.” 

Both of them whirl back to the window, where Spiderman’s face pokes through, upside down and tilted to the right when he looks at the duo. Robin lets out a snicker, raising a hand for a high-five, which Spiderman returns. “You get it!” 

“Let me get burned alive,” Mike says, and Spiderman brings up both hands in surrender. How he’s holding onto the building is beyond him, although he supposes an advantage of being part-spider means being, like, sticky. And stuff. 

“No can do,” he chirps. “All workers must come back unscathed. Part of the handbook.” 

“Uh-huh,” Mike replies, unamused, but his mouth quirks up in a slight smile. 

Spiderman slips through the window, fluid and effortless, and he offers a hand to Robin. “Ladies first,” he prompts, and Robin looks surprised. 

“Oh,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows when she turns to Mike, “a ladies’ man.” 

Mike flips her off when they both escape through the window, and then he’s all alone. It’s then, when he turns to look at the rest of the room, where a printer is on fire, and there’s half the room catching aflame, that he realizes he’s the only one left. The rest of the occupants seem to have been saved while he and Robin were trading euphemisms. Or, rather, Robin was throwing them onto him, much to his dismay. 

“Alright, cool guy,” Spiderman begins, and Mike turns back to the window, “your turn.” 

“Great,” Mike responds dryly, and there’s no offense taken when Spiderman lets out a laugh. 

Mike doesn’t want to call it familiar when Spiderman wraps an arm around him, secure in its hold, but Mike doesn’t feel as surprised, although there are still remnants of something buzzing and – electric, as Dustin would claim, when Spiderman tugs him close and swings them down to the ground. 

The entire experience is only a few seconds of wind rushing in his ears, his eyes shutting against the force of it, and he digs his fingers into Spiderman’s shoulder, the superhero unflinching as they descend to the sidewalk. 

There’s a crowd of workers, reporters, firemen, and useless policemen when he lands, Spiderman’s hand on his back to steady him when he lands with a lack of grace, and he feels like the fire got to him, with how warm his face feels. 

Now, though, when he’s on the ground, he feels a little lost as to what to do. He’s pretty sure there’s a proper protocol to follow when a building is on fire which no one had followed, and he can’t spot his boss anywhere, and Martin has swept up an unfortunate Robin in a conversation. 

She sends him a look, mouthing, Help me.

He sends her a thumbs up and a grin. 

He feels Spiderman shift beside him, presumably ready to shoot off and do important superhero things, like help old women cross the sidewalk, and an idea clicks into his head. 

“Can I hitch a ride?” 

Spiderman pauses when he turns to look at Mike, tilting his head when he replies, “Sure.” He sounds somewhat surprised, but not displeased. “Where to?” 

Mike presses his lips together, looking down at his watch. “My apartment, I guess,” he answers, a little unsure. “I have the next four hours to myself, so. I mean.” 

Spiderman slowly nods, and he seems like he’s considering something, which is a little impressive, seeing as his face is entirely covered. Mike wonders if he’s so expressive unmasked, if he’s compensating. 

“I can do that,” he finally says, and there’s a pause, and he almost seems nervous when he suggests, “but I can also take you somewhere else?” 

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering to kidnap me?” 

“I – no!” Spiderman squawks, nudging at Mike’s shoulder with a hand, and Mike grins. Spiderman shakes his head. “I just go to this one place sometimes, and I thought you might like it, so,” he waves a hand abstractedly, “you know.” 

Mike very much did not know, but some part of him wanted to find out. “Okay.”  

“You – really?” Spiderman asks, surprise in his voice, and Mike shrugs. It’s only twelve p.m., and his work building caught on fire. He’s up for an adventure.

“Yeah, why not?” He returns, although he could probably list a few reasons. Still, and although it kind of hurts to admit it, he trusts Spiderman. At least, enough not to get kidnapped. Hopefully. 

Spiderman doesn’t move, for just a second, before pushing back into motion. “Okay,” he says, sounding at a loss. “Sure, yeah, okay. Let’s just – I mean, yeah. Here.” 

The fumbling is slightly endearing, seeing the superhero out of bounds, and it reminds him all too much of one specific artist, and the thought makes Mike flush even darker, especially with his own theory of Spiderman and Will being one and the same. 

The idea that it’s Will pushing them close, his arm keeping Mike in place, his offer to take Mike somewhere else, his face under the mask, it – 

Mike thoroughly puts it in the back of his mind. He can’t risk thinking about it right now, or he might explode and accidentally frame Spiderman for murder. Or something. 

“Hold on,” Spiderman says, and Mike tries to control the undeniable redness of his face when he ravels an arm around his shoulders, similar to previous times, which is a thought that makes the entire thing worse, because the concept that Spiderman giving Mike trips through the city via superpowers makes his head spin, just a little.

He clears his throat when he is safely situated, although he has a feeling he could mimic a motionless piece of spaghetti and he’d be just fine, with Spiderman’s super-strength and all. Mike needs to stop thinking immediately. “Okay. I’m good.” 

“Cool,” Spiderman replies easily, and then they’re off. 

Mike suspects he’ll never be able to help the way he immediately holds on a little tighter, something akin to shock every time they’re midair, and his fingers press into the material of Spiderman’s suit, skin-tight and midnight blue. 

Spiderman doesn’t seem to mind, however, no reaction when Mike pushes himself a little closer, and there’s the barely noticeable tightening of his grip on Mike, maybe out of reassurance than anything. Mike swallows, before forcing himself to relax. 

It’s less startling, the third time around, and maybe that’s in experience or a desperate attempt to finally be less embarrassing. As it is, he lets out a deep exhale, and focuses on the blurring figures of buildings whizzing past them, the firm body of Spiderman next to his, and the tide of wind washing over them. 

And – it’s fun. He can admit that.

“Okay?” Spiderman asks, voice soft amidst the rushed breeze, and he turns to face Mike. 

Mike feels oddly breathless when he gives a slight nod, tongue heavy and too aware of the lack of space between them. “Yeah.” 

Spiderman lingers on him for just a second longer, tipping his head to the side, before looking away and forth, swinging them around a skyscraper and heading away from the general direction of Mike’s apartment. 

Mike couldn’t guess which way they were heading if his life depended on it, too scattered with the jerk and recoil of traveling by spider thread, and the hold Spiderman has around him is also distracting, no matter how hard Mike tries to focus on where they’re going. 

It’s almost the same sensation as last time, and Mike would bet it’s less scary to be the one controlling their swinging, although he couldn’t trust himself to handle someone else with him, so high up in the air. Confidence is key, he supposes. It only adds to the charm. 

Surprisingly, the time spent in the air is fleeting, because they’re headed straight for a tall, abandoned building, and when Spiderman doesn’t turn away from where they approach the balcony, gliding over the railing and onto the platform, Mike guesses this is their destination. 

He lands facing the coast, where the sun still shines brightly, but the building is tall, and the skyscrapers and work firms look like tiny blocks, cars nearly microscopic and clouds in the distance, yet they feel almost reachable.

Mike has never been one for sight-seeing, but he lets himself savor this, looking down at the city he still kind of detests, but a little like an annoying sibling, and there’s a brief moment where he can admire it, with it’s sparkling billboard and constant crowds, but they’re all so far away now. 

Up here, it feels distant, less city-like, as though they were floating above it all, a solidified version of swinging through the city on silk. The honking of cars is barely notable, instead the breeze that crawls past them, and the sunshine that lands on them. 

“Cool, right?” 

Mike nods, slowly dragging his eyes away to face Spiderman, who hangs upside down from the awning of the building, clutching onto a thin strand of spider-silk. He’s still eye-level, despite dangling midair, and Mike has the urge to nudge him. “Totally.” 

Spiderman looks away from Mike to the city, before looking back. “There’s also something else,” he slowly mentions, tilting his head to the right. 

Mike turns to where he had gestured, back to New York when he’s faced with a wall full of graffiti.

The entire concrete wall is covered with paint, varying from spray paint to presumably acrylic, with equally random subjects that seem to blend in with one another. There’s spots of flowers, a figure with buzzed hair, a bicycle, mountains, and blurs of colors where ideas had blended together. 

Over it all, however, stretching from the far left to the middle, is a detailed dragon, shaded tones of red and the fire that runs out of one of its many heads, flames that swirl prettily and barely cover up the several layers of art that peek out from underneath the fire. It’s as though the rest of the work is set aflame, burnt and set aside with the presence of the hulking creature. 

“This is amazing,” he breathes, eyes tracing over the eyes of the dragon, the wings, its three heads. The figure of the dragon is familiar, enough for a reminiscence of his childhood, and his brain is a little slow on the uptake, gradually thinking of dice and character sheets. He squints, slowly realizing, “That – is that –” 

He turns to look at Spiderman, who’s already staring at him, facing hovering inches away from his own, and he’s barely a gasp away.

Although he has the mask on, the superhero has never felt so transparent, and Mike can feel his gaze on him when he carefully swallows, palms itching at the shred of distance between them. He lets out a breath, and Spiderman doesn’t move away. 

“What?” He asks, quiet in the day, and it feels like they’re hidden away from the rest of the city, no bystanders or reporters when Spiderman stares at him, but Mike feels exposed anyway. 

“I,” Mike begins, but his mouth runs dry when he tries to think of anything else to say. He wets his lower lip, chews on his inner cheek when the silence drags on, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Spiderman slowly drops a hand to delicately place it against Mike’s cheek, sweet and careful when he brushes a curl away from his face, and Mike sucks in a shuddering breath at the gentle, phantom feel of it. Neither of them move. 

His teeth pierce through the skin of his cheek, and he tastes copper. 

Mike can’t help it. 

“Who are you?” 

And – maybe he’s a fool to ask and expect an answer, or maybe he had only asked for the sake of asking, because he doesn’t really know why he had let the question float between them. He hadn’t particularly cared until he thought Spiderman could be Will. 

Mike wants him to be Will. 

“You can take off the mask,” Spiderman whispers. There’s a pause. “If you want.” 

Mike’s heart skips a beat, and he blinks once, twice, just to see if one of them would disappear, but they still stay in place, and a crowd of reporters or fans don’t burst down the door, and there’s only the slight breeze of a summer day, sun shining on the both of them. Spiderman doesn’t take back his words. 

Mike runs a tongue over the wound in his mouth, and slowly brings up his hands. Spiderman doesn’t flinch when Mike’s fingers stutter against his throat, just where the slip of his mask begins, and he pauses, just in case he wants to take it back. He’s met with silence. 

He slides his fingers underneath the material of the mask, warm to the touch, and Mike can feel it on his fingers when Spiderman swallows, feeling the movement of the motion against his fingertips. It’s almost comforting, knowing they’re both nervous. 

He tugs on it to reveal a sliver of tan skin, littered with moles, and he tries not to think about it too much, tries to pretend he isn’t desperate to line up any similarities he can when he keeps pulling, over an Adam’s apple and over his jaw. 

Mike hesitates, before sliding the mask further. 

Then there’s Spiderman’s mouth, bitten and pink, like he’d been nervously chewing on his lips, and Mike wants to press a thumb against it. The mask goes no further than his cupid’s bow, and maybe that’s because Mike is a little terrified to go beyond it. 

He takes his time to observe it all, almost committing it to memory with the attentiveness of his stare, at the dip of his mouth, the line of his lips, the slope of his chin. Mike’s fingers brush over the skin of his jaw, and it blushes pink under his touch, and he presses a finger against the edge of his jaw, a birthmark right on it. Will has the same one. 

Mike blinks at the thought, faltering in his movements, and he freezes. Will has the same one. 

“I can’t,” he breathes out. Spiderman is unmoving when Mike pulls his mask back on, stumbling back, and he shakes his head. “I – I can’t,” he insists, although there had been no protests. “I can’t, I –” 

Not like this, he wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut, still shaking his head as he steps backwards. 

“I can’t,” he says again, keeping his eyes on Spiderman, “I – I’m sorry.” 

The hero tilts his head as he watches Mike shuffle away, and he makes no move to convince Mike to stay, complacent in Mike’s refusal, and he only stares as Mike makes for the exit. It’s almost worse. 

He doesn’t say anything at all when Mike’s hand finds the doorknob to the staircase, and Mike stares at him, the way he is still compliant to whatever Mike wants, even though he had brought him here, had brought Mike to see where he paints and had welcomed Mike’s touch. 

If you want, he had said, all the room in the world for a refusal. If you want.

“Sorry,” Mike forces out again, before he flees. 

It’s a thirty minute walk from the abandoned building to his apartment, but it gives him all the time to think. 

Mike nearly walks into three different cars, and the honking had done nothing to break him out of his thoughts, too caught up in trying to connect everything to think about anything else, because –

Because Will had lied to him. Kind of. 

But Mike can’t find it in him to be angry, because that would be stupid. There’s a very good and obvious reason why he had lied by omission, although it doesn’t explain the attempts to talk to him, the way Spiderman – Will had taken several moments to come to the rescue and establish them as at least acquaintances, maybe even friends. 

It makes sense, now that he thinks about it, because Mike had found himself nearly falling for the superhero, too, which he couldn’t think possible, not with his enamored self with Will, eager for their date and anxious for the art show coming up. He had pushed it all in the back of his mind, but it comes out to drown him alive, now. It makes sense if they’re both the same. 

Mike waits at a green light, and barely registers it when everyone around him suddenly begins walking. He hurries to catch up. 

Mike couldn’t have kissed him then, though. Not like that. Mike needs to kiss him right, when Will knows Mike is kissing him for Will, not – not whatever superhero he is in his spare time. Mike likes all dimensions of him, he can confess, but he likes Will the most. 

Mike’s not angry. He knows that. He’s just – a little confused. A little blown away. A little bit of everything. 

He wonders if he should feel betrayed, angry at being befriended under a different identity, but all he feels is swept up, almost flattered, a little confused, because Will by himself had been more than enough to get Mike flustered and giddy, and he hadn’t thought Spiderman as anything beyond a hero, almost a friend. He feels a little lost. A little like he still wants to kiss Will. Properly. 

Mike would kiss him properly, if Will would let him. 

The art show is in two days, and their date is in three.

Another light turns to red, and he continues walking. 

VII. Go to an art show. 

Despite himself, Mike is nervous. 

Which – is stupid, probably, because it’s not like he’s showing off his work, because it’s Will’s art show and all Mike is doing is going over to gawk and praise him, because Mike hasn’t even seen any of it, but he knows it’s got to be good, but also, above it all, because Mike is nervous about acting normal.

And that’s also probably stupid, because it’s not as though Mike had been doing a good job of acting normal before he had known Will is Spiderman, but it’s worse, this time around, because he knows, now, and he’s about to see Will and his art, and that would already put him to be a bumbling mess, but adding Will’s alter-identity to the mix is not doing great things for Mike’s heart rate. 

Still, Mike is, if nothing, persistent. 

He spends an entire hour figuring out what clothes to wear, because although Will had insisted that anything besides sweatpants was fine, Mike – well, maybe Mike wants to impress a little, maybe show up looking a little better than he usually does, because God knows most of their encounters had lit Mike in a less than appealing light.

He tries on four different shirts and nine different pairs of pants, and he didn’t even know he had so many pants, much less three in the exact same pattern, but he settles on a blue button-up, one that Nancy had gifted him for Christmas, and throws on the leather jacket that he’s worn to death, and hopes high that he fits in, amongst art snobs and Will’s cool classmates, and if he spends a little more than a long time fiddling with his naturally messy hair, then that’s no one’s business but his.

He takes a little detour before he arrives at the gallery, somewhat terrified for his life when he steps in, marble floor and high ceilings. 

The universe bids him mercy for once in his life, because when he steps into the grand hall, looking around the clusters of crowds around him, he seems to have followed the dress code pretty well, and he watches a man in a pink boa walk by. If anything, he must seem a little boring. He hopes Will doesn’t think he’s boring. 

He clutches the flowers in his hands, pressing a petal between his fingers. Is bringing flowers to an art show weird? Maybe this is a bad idea. Eleven dollars on a bouquet of flowers is normal, probably. Would Will even want flowers? 

Nonetheless, his onslaught of nervous questions are fruitless, because Mike looks around to find Will chatting with a woman with a purple bob, and Mike fiddles with the paper of the bouquet. He wonders if it’s too late to throw away the flowers. 

Even so, just as he passes a painting that looks a little like Chris Pine, Will looks away from the woman, and their eyes meet from across the hall. Will brightens, before waving Mike over, and the woman in the purple bob is gone when Mike approaches. 

“Hey,” he greets, trying to go for nonchalant, cool, I’m so not nervous and I go to these things all the time, and not I am about to pass out from anxiety. 

“Hi,” Will smiles. He looks nice, in a yellow button-up and brown sweater vest, hair pushed away from his forehead and looking fancier and more like the art-professional type, a little like the sort Karen Wheeler would coo over, different from his paint-splattered jeans and band t-shirts. He still looks good, not too starkly contrasting with how Mike knows him. 

“Hi,” Mike says again, wincing when he realizes he had just said so, and Will’s grin widens. “I – um, I don’t really know if people bring flowers to these sorts of things, but I wanted to, you know,” he motions to the bouquet, “congratulate you, I guess. So. Um.” There’s a beat. “Congratulations.” 

Thankfully, Will looks more charmed than horrified, cheeks bunched up in a smile, and he takes the flowers easily, running a hand across a petal. “Thanks,” he replies, and he’s sincere as he looks at Mike. “You really didn’t have to. I appreciate it.” 

Mike shrugs, feeling a little awkward, a little bashful, and he wants to curl into his leather jacket with the way Will is earnestly staring at him. “No big deal,” he returns. “You look nice,” he adds, because he can’t help it. 

It earns him a pretty blush, one he wants to hold in his palms, and Will says, “Thanks.” He fiddles with his sleeve, and reaches up to run a hand through his hair, before he halts, and lets it drop. 

“So,” he starts, and Will raises an eyebrow. “Art.” 

“Art,” Will echoes agreeably. “Want me to show you some?” 

“Yes,” Mike answers immediately, and Will leans a little closer. He adds, “Yours, preferably.” 

“Okay.” Will’s fingers wrap around Mike’s wrist, bouquet in his other hand, and Mike’s heartbeat hikes up. “Let’s go.” 

Mike’s no expert in art, but Will is probably the best artist to have ever existed.

He racks up enough of a crowd around one of his larger paintings; a cityview in saturated oil paints, high in a bird’s eye view, and each bit of detail is a blot of paint, layered over, thick enough to pop off the canvas, and it’s large enough to nearly cover an entire wall. Mike’s hands itch to reach out and touch, push into the paint. 

There are a few other paintings of Will’s hung up, varying in style and colors, and still in theme of being an observer of sorts, and Mike likes it all, wants it hung up on his walls and inside his brain. There’s a painting in purples of a bare-chested man pulling on a pair of oversized jeans, and Mike spends a good few minutes staring at it, trying to commit the stretch of fabric and the man’s twisted mouth to memory. 

In an objective standpoint, Mike can tell, Will is good, and that can probably be noted with him being featured in an art show. 

Still, even after a few hours of wandering around, when Will departs to chat with other people interested in his work, and Mike spends some time looking at other paintings and sculptures and works, asking questions to eager or pretentious artists, Mike still finds himself drawn back to Will’s section.

It feels very official, seeing W. Byers on a little golden plaque under his paintings, and Mike’s always been a physical person, and the urge to touch everything has him shoving his hands in his pockets, leaning close to look at the swatches of pink in a painting of a woman spilling a milkshake. 

He likes the way Will makes people look, he decides, which is probably a stupid thing to say, except he gets them right, in the awkward bend of limbs and clumsy expressions, smiles a little too wide or posture too poor or teeth a little crooked. It feels nice. It feels like life. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

“‘Course,” Mike replies, looking away from the painting to see Will. His face is still the consistent pink it’s been all day, and his hair is more floppy than it had been before, worn down from the day. He’s shoved up his sleeves, and his forearms are bare, except for a watch. Mike spends a normal amount of time staring at them. 

When he looks around, for just a second, it’s only them and a few other occupants in the gallery, dusk having fallen since he first arrived, and the population of people is dwindling. It’s only the two of them in front of Will’s paintings, a rare occurence from the attention it had garnered earlier.

“Thanks for sticking around,” Will says, when they both step away, and now they’re both standing in front of the large city painting. “You didn’t have to.” 

Mike shrugs. “I wanted to.”

“And for the bouquet,” he mentions, and Mike waves it off. “It was sweet of you.” 

“I didn’t know if it’d be weird,” Mike says. He tugs at his sleeves. “I’ve actually never gone to one of these, so, um.” He peers down at shoes, his beat up Converse, and holds back a cringe. “I, uh, didn’t want to show up looking like a penguin or something, so. You know.” 

“You look nice,” Will tells him, shoving his hands in his back pockets. When Mike looks up, he’s staring at Mike’s button-up. Mike had left the first few unbuttoned, feeling suffocated otherwise, and now he’s a little too conscious of it. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks. Although, I was mostly going for cool and intimidating.” 

“Alright, cool guy,” Will laughs, but it doesn’t feel demeaning, and Mike bites down a smile. Will steps a little closer. “I’m not sure about all of that.” 

Cool guy, Will says, like nothing at all, and Mike’s heart squirms in place. Cool guy. It feels like a secret. If he wasn’t sure before, Mike is more than certain, now. 

Mike doesn’t know if he can wait any longer, because he had planned on mentioning it tomorrow, sometime after the movie, after he’s snuck his hand into Will’s and tugs him along the streets of New York, maybe kisses him under a streetlight and says, I think you’re pretty cool, too.  

Mike has always been impatient. He says, “Will, I’ve been –” 

As it so happens, Will begins, “Actually, there’s something I –” 

They both pause, before Will huffs a laugh, lips lifted in a smile. Mike raises his eyebrows. “You, first.” 

“Well,” Will starts, and he looks a little nervous, tugging at his fingers, and he clears his throat. “I just – I wanted to say,” he pauses, taking in a deep breath, before he looks up at Mike, “that I really like you.” 

Mike is beet red, he’s sure of it. “Oh,” he squeaks, like the charming man he is. Will bites his lip, looking like he’s holding back a laugh, and Mike wants to squeeze him. He barely remembers what he was planning on saying. “Oh! Yeah, I – I mean, I really like you, too. Like, a lot,” he unnecessarily adds, and Will tilts his head to the side. 

“That’s good,” he hums, voice all velvety and soft, and Mike can feel his insides melting, “you really had me worried there.” 

“Well, I do,” Mike states, again, just to be completely clear. 

Will nods. “But,” he continues, and Mike’s stomach swoops low, “I – I haven’t been completely honest with you.” 

And, the thing is, Mike has a pretty good idea of what Will is about to say, but anxiety fills up his body anyway, pinpricks in his palms and nervous when he fiddles with his fingers. 

“Which,” Will continues to ramble, slowly growing increasingly flustered, and Mike lingers on Will wetting his lower lip, which – it’s definitely not the time for this, because he’s saying, “sounds pretty bad, and it isn’t! Well, I guess, it could be, but – God, this is harder than I thought, but what I’m trying to say is –” 

Some part of Mike wants to interrupt, say, I know, it’s okay, don’t worry, but maybe some part of him also wants to hear it for himself, get a solid confirmation that Mike isn’t insane and that – 

“I’m Spiderman,” Will blurts, and Mike stares at him. 

“Oh,” he says, and his voice sounds surprisingly calm. “Okay.” 

Will blinks once, twice, before he seems to do a doubletake as he exclaims, “‘Okay’?” 

“I mean,” Mike elaborates, and now the nervousness kicks in, “I – I did piece it together a week ago.” 

There’s a pause. Will stares at him, before he continues blinking, almost frozen in place when he looks at Mike. It’s almost unnerving. 

“A week ago,” Will echoes. He blinks some more. 

“But I didn’t know for sure until, like, three days ago,” Mike adds, trying to be reassuring, but it doesn’t seem to work when Will presses his lips together.

“Three days ago,” he repeats, and he’s still blinking. A lot. 

“I’m sorry?” Mike offers. 

That seems to finally break Will out of his haze, when he shakes his head and looks up at Mike. “What? Why are you sorry?” 

“I wasn’t supposed to know!” Mike points out, and Will gives him an astounded look, disbelief written across his face. 

“Mike,” he begins, and Mike really shouldn’t be paying so much attention to the way his name sounds in Will’s voice, “I just told you myself a few seconds ago.” 

“Still,” Mike insists, and Will finally laughs, a little shocked, a little bewildered. It’s somewhat loud in the gallery, but they’re finally the last ones in the large room, only a few lights left on. It’s almost isolating, but Mike has Will beside him. 

“What were you about to tell me?” Will asks, shock no longer lingering in him, and Mike rubs a hand across the back of his neck, sheepish. 

“That I knew,” he admits, “but you, uh, beat me to it, I guess.” He bites his cheek. “And that I also really like you.” 

Strangely, Will raises his eyebrows, as if surprised. “Really?” 

“Will,” Mike emphasizes, like if he says it with enough exaggeration, he’d get his point across, “I just said I liked you.”

It’s Will’s turn to look sheepish when he shrugs, averting his eyes. “Yeah, but – if you took it back, after – all of that, then,” he shrugs again, “I wouldn’t have blamed you.” 

Mike frowns. “No way,” he shakes his head. “I don’t think I could ever take it back.” 

Will gives him a look. “You could.” 

Mike returns it. “I don’t want to.” 

Will furrows his eyebrow, eyes glancing between Mike’s, and Mike doesn’t let his stare waver, not until Will seems to find what he’s looking for, shoulders deflating and unstiffening. “Okay,” he replies, and it sounds like much more. 

“Okay,” Mike reiterates, and he feels brave when he takes a step closer. Will doesn’t move away, but his eyes glance low, for just a second, and Mike’s chest feels like it’s twisting inside out. 

The constant urge running through him all day, the one to reach out and touch, finally wins over when Mike leans forward and catches Will’s hand in his, loose enough for Will to wrench his hand away, but rejection never comes. His hand is a little clammy in Mike’s, but he can’t find it in him to mind. It’s a nice reassurance. He tangles their fingers together, and gets a sweet smile in return. 

“I know,” Mike murmurs, voice low and secretive in the empty room, “I just got you flowers, but I was hoping to give you something more of a congratulations.” 

Will raises an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?” He questions, although he seems to already have an idea when he leans a little closer. 

His hand brushes against Mike’s side, underneath his jacket, and Mike moves forward to cup the side of Will’s neck, warm skin against warm skin. Will leans into the touch, tilting his head up when Mike steps between his legs, and he’s so close, breath fanning across Mike’s mouth. 

Will swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Mike’s eyes drop to it, just for a second, trailing up to his mouth that shines just a little from nervous chewing, and Mike presses a thumb against Will’s jaw, tipping his head up just a little more. 

“Maybe,” Mike whispers, and he shivers when Will’s hand presses against his ribs, “something like this.” 

The end of his sentence is nearly discarded when Will pushes up into Mike’s mouth, lips snagging onto his, mid-word, and Mike can’t help but sigh into it, angle in a little deeper, and pull Will even closer, hand gripping his and fingers swiping over his skin. 

Will is a good kisser, he decides almost immediately, something warm and fluttery pooling low in his stomach, and he feels electric to the very bones. He’s firm in every way, steady when Mike is a little too eager, and he’s solid when Mike lets go of their hands to dig his fingers into Will’s arm, curling over his bicep, and Will brings up a hand to tug at the lapels of Mike’s jacket.

He stumbles a little when Will pulls on him, and Will laughs into the kiss, and then they’re both giggling against each other’s mouths, still standing in front of Will’s painting, and Will looks better than any piece of art when Mike finally leans away. 

“I know we have a date tomorrow,” Will mumbles, hand sliding around Mike’s neck, barely inching underneath his button-up, “but – do you want to have dinner together?” 

“Yes,” Mike assents easily, ever so quick and incriminating, but he can’t find himself to care when Will grins. “Sounds good to me.” 

Will pulls him down again, lips brushing when he says, “Cool.” 

“Cool,” Mike agrees, and is halfway interrupted with a kiss.  

Disclaimer: Results may vary.

“Does my hair look stupid?” 

Will looks up from where he tosses something that probably belongs to a supervillain into his backpack, mask off and suit on, and he freezes, gaze lingering on Mike’s chest, where he’s thrown on another button-up, before trailing up to his hair, then his face. 

His cheeks are very obviously red when he shakes his head. “You look good,” he says. He steps a little closer. “Handsome. Professional.” 

“Okay,” Mike complains, even if he likes the attention, face flushed, and Will in such close proximity really isn’t helping. “I’m supposed to look professional. I need to wear a tie. I don’t know how to tie a tie. Can you –” 

“Come here,” Will is already telling him, gesturing him close, and Mike hands him the tie in his hand. Will presses his hands onto Mike’s shoulders, pushing him downward, and Mike grants mercy on him to lower himself while Will wraps the tie around his collar, and he tries to pay attention to whatever Will is doing, losing track after another loop. 

His eyes glance between the tie and Will, who purses his lips as he focuses, until he pulls it done and pats Mike’s chest, satisfied. 

“Done,” he claims, taking a single step back. 

“Thanks,” Mike smiles, fiddling with it, just a little. He presses his lips together, before he looks back at Will. “I’m nervous,” he admits. 

Will shakes his head. “They’re going to love it,” he says, sounding more certain than Mike thinks he should. “You’re a great writer. It’s an amazing story. You’re handsome. It’ll go great.” 

“Uh-huh,” Mike replies, feeling a little stuck on the third thing. “Um. I hope so.” 

“I know so,” Will refutes, and reigns him in by the tie to kiss him. 

It’s sweet and short, but the nervousness dies down, just a little, and he holds onto Will’s hand, ever so grounding. He can’t find himself to care for the feel of the skin-tight material, but he likes knowing it’s Will’s hand he’s holding onto, slotting their fingers together. 

“It’ll go great,” Will announces, and his tone leaves no room for argumet. 

“It’ll go great,” Mike repeats, and it feels more plausible. 

Mike checks his hair once more, before shoving on a proper pair of dress shoes, ones that make him feel properly adult, and he almost looks like it when he looks in the mirror one last time. Will zips up his backpack, and tugs on his mask. 

“Sunny’s for lunch?” Will asks as he walks over to the window, sliding it open as he perches on the sill, and Mike nods. 

“Yeah,” he answers. He watches Will duck under the window, leaning out into the air. “Good luck with your – thing.” 

“Thanks,” Will replies, raising a hand in a wave, and he sounds like he’s smiling. 

Mike has barely any time to process it when Will steps out of the window, flipping upward, and he disappears from view as Mike rushedly calls out, “Wait!” 

A gust of wind hits him from the open window, and there’s silence for a few seconds, before Spiderman’s masked face falls back into view, peering at him upside down as Mike looks up at him. 

“Yeah?” 

He doesn’t budge when Mike reaches up to tug his mask down, just a little, just enough to reveal his mouth, quirked up in a small smile, and he moves in a little lower when Mike cranes his head up to meet him in a kiss. 

It’s a little strange, kissing someone upside down, and Mike’s nose bumps against Will’s chin, but the awkward position is worth it for the feel of Will grinning against him, tongue swiping at his lower lip, and Mike tries to swallow down the feeling. His hands hold Will in place, moving him this way and that, and the kiss tastes like the pancakes Mike had, for once, successfully made and only slightly burnt. 

They stay like that for a little longer than intended, but it can’t be helped when Will sighs against his mouth, licking over his teeth, and Mike shivers, only parting when Will leans away. 

“Kiss for good luck,” Mike explains, grinning widely, like a cat that had got the cream, and Will tsks, reaching out to brush a thumb against his cheek and pressing one last quick, close-mouthed kiss. 

“Good luck,” Will finally bids, pulling his mask back on. 

Mike nods, licking his lips. “See you,” he says, and watches as Spiderman shoots away. 

It’ll go great, he thinks, one last time, as he steps out of the apartment, clutching his bag. This time around, it feels true.