Chapter Text
His face flushes, a piercing pain on the side of his ribs, like when you run too fast or too much. Tonight, the wind is breezy.
A cold, chilly feeling runs through Miles’ suit, against his spine. His muscles flex, shoulder blades buckle. His arms and legs numb, everytime his body makes the same motion as if he’s swimming in the air, he doesn't feel a thing. Miles feels trapped. Contained. Like a spider webbed his legs together, preying on him.
As he shoots shear thinning liquid known as web fluid, strong enough to sustain his weight while he swings throughout Brooklyn, his stomach drops. It isn’t that unusual, still not getting used to the feeling when going up so high then down so low just like the feeling you get on a roller coaster.
The aching anxiety fills him up inside, flowing in his veins like venom. Blinding lights flash his eyes, they squint, creating star-like bulbs. The ones you get when you stare outside your car window on the highway. Tall street lights stare down at you, passing by over and over again, like a never ending loop.
His vision blurs, thin black lashes flutter in front of him. The air seems so loud, blasting in his head, like whirlwinds popping his ears. It gets harder and harder to breathe.
Miles is moving but he doesn’t feel alive
He jumps, springing his legs, bending his knees to push him higher. He swings his arms in desperation, wanting to reach the sky. Tears flow out and cloud his eyes, the sense of time and space corrupt his head.
His body and mind separate, like divergent plates, his point of view goes from first to third person.
He feels like he’s floating, detached, eyeing his body’s sophisticated movements. Nothing feels real and everything distorts. It’s like he was watching himself in a movie. Even though he was zipping and zapping through the city, his body seemed lifeless, cold. His life was as if it was animated, comical and cartoonish.
Each millisecond felt like a frame. And each frame has a different style, graffiti, abstract, realism, anything and everything. Such visually appealing art Miles couldn’t even imagine was real. Perspective, imagery, all the elements of this concept were captured in one single frame. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, intaking the air, the vibrancy. Miles lets go.
For a split second. Just for a second.
Regaining his vision and back to reality, Miles flings forward, body paralyzed and hard. His back curves, arms down to the sides of his buckled knees. He stares at the building in front of him, his face just inches away from plowing into it.
Before it actually does, an arm hooks around his waist, pulling him to their chest. He gasps, eyes wide open, coughing up the last bit of dignity he had. His arms grasp the air, wanting it to go into his lungs. They hurt, penetrated from the sharp pain of getting slammed into another body. The sides of his stomach feel congested, his organs merging into one another. His body lands on the other's lap, arm swinging on their shoulder.
Miles feels his head bob, up and down. His legs hang over the others thighs, thin but muscled. A voice sounded muffled in his ear, tuning in and tuning out. Without control, Miles felt superficial, numb. Like a robot controlled by a remote, a rag doll.
The two swing into an alleyway, with two others already inside it. Miles gets laid against the wall made of dirty concrete, smelling of rotten food. He groans, looking up at the pitch black sky, millions of tiny speckles filling it. The other bodies mutter words that he can’t understand as he rummages the air hoping to find something, swinging his arms.
He tries to get up but to no avail. It’s like his limbs were against him, against his life. Miles could hear footsteps afar get closer. The sounds that used to sound so quiet, blast louder in his ears. He wants to cover them, he really does. But he wasn’t there.
“Miles.—Miles.” A hand touches his shoulder, shaking him back and forward to get his nonexistent attention. They peel the mask off of him, slowly, with textured hands. It makes a slick pop sound, erupting, echoing through his mind. He flops his head to the side, mummering painful noises. His lips part, eyes narrow wanting to close.
“Jesus bro, are you alright?” The voice asks, a thick accent in its tone. Faces full of worry surround him, looking at him as if he was a lost puppy. “ I wish .” He manages to stutter.
His eyes move back and forth, diverting, staring blankly back at the bricked wall and not at the faces as they leave. Miles sits, hugging his knees. Thoughts swarm his brain, making his head ache. Everything looks neon colored, the lights shining on his hands as he stretches them out.
He hears muffled voices grow farther in the background, shadows still luring over him. Swinging side to side, trying to ease the feeling of throwing up, Miles closes his eyes.
Out of sight, out of mind, a melody that fills his head. He extends his legs, holding his stomach, feeling like it’s going to fall off. If he chooses to peel it off, would that make it any better?
Someone walks up to him, lifting him up and wrapping his arm around their neck, stabilizing Miles. They put an arm on his waist and hold his hand with the other. He looks to his side, with tired eyes and chapped lips.
It’s Gwen
Another person wraps what seems to be a jacket around him, concealing his suit. It’s warm, comfortable, easing him from the chilly cold wind. They pat his back softly, gently, full of care.
Someone slides in between Gwen and the wall, skidding through. He walks in front of Miles and the other two people, his hands in his pockets, a slouched back and neck hanging to his chest. Turning his head to face them, he speaks. “Be careful wit him.”
—--
He stares out the window, watching the cars drive by and rain drops sprinkling down. His back lays against the diner sofa, striped red and white with something pillar- like. The hard, cheap material of it makes his shoulder blades ache, trying to relax them.
His throat tightens, barely able to breathe out of it. Miles digs his nails into his thighs, biting his lip. The stares bore into his skin, he could feel the sympathy and sorrow from his fellow spider people. He feels strange, like he’s not real.
A pawn in a game, made for others. Miles tries to ignore the feeling of shame that fills him but the sound of steps then pulls him out of his trance.
“Hello! My name’s Sammy, I’ll be your server today, what would y’all like to drink to get started?” A tanned skinned girl says, the same one from Miles’ apartment.
He turns to face her, like the other three, with watery eyes, trying to hold them back. Her face lights up, eyes sparkle in her retro outfit, a name tag on her left side of her chest. “You’re-you’re that cute guy from apartment 5C!” She yelps, with a bright smile plastered on her face.
Miles looks at Hobie, who sits in front of him. His jaw clenches, eyes slightly furrowed while staring at “Sammy”. Hobie’s eyes divert from Miles to the girl, every 3 seconds, he counts. “Sure he is, but that’s not important. We’ll take some chocolate milkshakes.” Hobie mutters with a firm voice. “Thank you very much.” Gwen adds on, with the same tone.
“Hehe-sorry, uhm, sure I’ll get that right for you!” She replied, pushing her hair behind her ear, a grimace on her face staring right back at Hobie. Sammy writes on her notepad, then rips the piece of paper and sliding it towards Miles. She winks, walking away.
Miles doesn’t look at the paper, but his friends sure do. He sighs deeply, leaning back on the sofa, closing his eyes. That doesn’t mean he can’t hear though.
“W-what does it say?” Pavi shouts. They are scuffling around, almost ripping the paper, fighting for who gets to read it. Gwen snatches from Hobie’s grasp, just as his face lightens from victory.
“Ok, uhm,—305? oh my god, it’s her number.” She grumbled, sounding a bit disappointed, but also agitated. She crumples the paper, tossing it to Miles as if he wanted it. “Dude, Miles, that chick is hot!” Pavi exclaimed, regretting the statement right after it left his mouth. “I-I mean, not hotter than my girlfriend.” He plays off, scoffing while crossing his arms.
“I’m—not interested.” Miles assured, his eyes still closed.
“ What— how could you not be Miles! It’s a classic cliche. You both live in the same complex, say hi to each other a couple times, then there’s a situation like where you save her life or something, and the rest is history.” Pavi rambles on, boring the others the moment he said “cliche”. His face curls into smiles, a warm sun kissed flush fills his face. “Who knows, maybe you'll smuggle some drugs and impersonate a family.”
A few minutes later the girl comes back, holding a platter with four glasses. “Annd here are your milkshakes!” She beamed, passing everyone their drinks, leaving Miles last on purpose . “Here you are, Miles?” She asks.
“Uh huh.” He mumbles. No matter what happens, nothing but food is opening his eyes. Gwen, sitting next to Miles, leans up to her ear and whispers, “This is coming out of your tip.”
“Okay—well—uhm, what can I get for you guys!” A nervous chuckle leaves her mouth, stretching out her wrinkled apron.
“3 burgers, 3 large fries, but make sure not to put onions or tomatoes on one because Gwen hates those, she’s a picky eater aha, anyway that and a side of cheese fries. You can’t have enough fries, y’know.” Pavi laughs, not really understanding the serious tension around him.
“Uhm—okay. Is that all?” She asks, scribbling down her notepad, this time actually writing down the order instead of her number. “Mhm, yea—wait can you add on—“ “That’s it. Thanks.” He’s interrupted by a now irritated Hobie Brown, silent H. Maybe it was for the best, everyone was starting to think Pavi had Hamlet’s Disease. He might have ordered the whole menu by then.
“Okie dokie, I’ll have that—right up.” She snaps her finger while her then energetic, upbeat voice, demineshes into a saddened one, staring at Miles. His lips were pouted, arms limp and motionless. She could see his chest barely rising up.
“Are you—good?” Gwen asks, roughly. “I-I’m so sorry, I—I’ll just go.”
The waitress leaves, this time zero confidence in her stride.
“Eh, she’s nice.” Pavi muttered, trying to ignore the daggers piercing through his skin.
“Seriously?—She’s all over Miles, and not even taking our order.” Gwen scoffs, a thump hitting her shoulder adding on to her anger.
It steams out once she found out it was Miles, leaning on her. His head slightly nuzzled into her neck, hair touching her jaw. She wraps her arm around him, gently soothing him by playing with his hair. Her fingers tangle themselves in his coils, warm and soft. Gwen doesn’t turn her head, afraid of waking him from the calm state he’s in. But she looks down at him, his slow breathing from his mouth. Looking at the soft sweet Miles below her, she doesn’t notice Hobie looking at him too. She doesn’t notice the sorrow filling his face.
Hobie wasn’t okay, he was jealous, of course he was. He clenched his fists, his face filled with anger, at the sight. But it soften when he remembered what Miles told him. He wanted to be, ugh, god so damn badly, but he knew— this was okay. Miles was in a state of distress, he thought, not really knowing what was going on with him. Hobie was happy still, a bit of joy filling his heart while looking at Miles the same way Gwen stared at him.
The weak dim light above them shined on his face, his eyelashes slightly curled. The building was empty, just them and two drunk guys at the bar. Silence filled his ears, his sense of hearing. But his sense of sight was thriving.
“Aha, oh this is so good.” Pavi teased, eyes locking with Gwen and Hobie. Not a single peep left any of their mouths after that, the air particles were the closest thing to popping their ears. Miles’ snuggled deeper into Gwen’s neck, to find something, anything. Closure. His eyes crinkle, frustrated from not finding it. Miles starts to get “rowdy”, he tugs the jacket covering Gwen towards him roughly but not enough to be dragging her. He tries to pull her closer and closer to no avail. Nothing is enough. He doesn’t feel enough.
A voice interrupts them, again holding a platter filled with steamy, fresh food that fills their noses.
“Here.” Sammy spoke, her voice cold and bitter, nonetheless passing each their food. She looked down at the four, Miles and Gwen already separated. There was something different in her eyes, making Miles feel queasy inside. It was full of want and hunger, a longing with need. Gross. “Your total will be 67.88, cash or card.” She adds.
“67.88?!” Pavi shouts. “Shouldn’t have ordered those cheesy fries.” “How much is that in pounds?” “Not important, who’s paying it.” “Not it” “No, no, whose idea was this.” “Hey,I’m not the one who ordered this much food.” “I didn’t know it was so expensive!”
Blabber and nonsense is almost choking Miles, it was tiring. Living off his parents' sweet, caring donations and the controversial sponsorships, he pulled out his wallet and handed the waitress his debit card while the sound of rambling was still present. The tapping of her heels drifting away made the others pause. “Just eat already.”
—--
With a full stomach but empty heart, Miles walks in the apartment, striping himself of the silking, tight suit, grabbing one of the shirts and sweatpants on his couch from earlier and towards the kitchen. He opens the cabinet above and grabs a bottle of pills.
Everyday use, one pill consistently for 4 to 6 weeks
Consistently . Huh. Miles hadn’t taken his meds in 2 weeks. He was spiderman, he—he didn’t need them. He was stronger, mentally, physically, he was just going through something. It’ll pass.
After the incident, his parents went to the doctor, fearing that Miles wasn’t well, y’know because of all he’s been through. He kept saying, I’m fine, I’m okay. But Rio knew he wasn’t. She could hear sobs coming from Miles’ room, his room messy and disorganized.
The bags that were under his eyes hurt her. It pained her heart to see her son in such a state, ignoring his feelings because he was supposed to be strong, confident, invincible. But nothing is invincible, is it?
She would constantly try to comfort him, and sometimes it worked and he just cried onto her chest, other times he would blow her off.
They started one day when everyone was eating dinner. As Miles was going in for another bite, he froze. Dropping the fork he ate from, his breaths were growing heavy, he was trembling, shaking. His throat filled with nausea as he ran to the kitchen sink and threw up. He felt so hot, feeling sticky, warm sweat all over his body as his parents ran behind him to comfort him after a few seconds of confusion. Feelings of panic filled his stomach, his head, making him dizzy. His mom, who dealt with some situations like this in the hospital, gently patted his back, reassuring him that he’ll be okay while his dad got him a glass of water.
Miles refused to get a therapist though, his parents desperately trying to convince him, so they only went to a psychiatrist. She prescribed him antidepressants and anxiety meds, everyday she said. Even with the pills, whether he was in the kitchen or the living room, or at school, they would happen. He would be so still, for a few seconds, then came the heaving, the gasping for any oxygen he could get to enter his lungs. He trembled, sliding against a wall, his muscles tense, his vision blurring. Everytime this would happen, his head throbbed, as if he was spinning around too much.
18 times. 18 calls from the school. She counted.
Over the course of four months, he’s been taking the pills. But it was still happening, too often . He should be getting better, not worse. It was after a talk with the family that Miles confessed he was—flushing his pills down the toilet for the past two months. Rio was slightly enraged but she knew she couldn’t be, she knew why . That was the start of making sure Miles took his pills everyday, in front of her, for 2 years straight, combined with a couple of therapy sessions and counselor discussions. Trust was gained. Now was lost.
Flashes of memories filled his head, of I’m not mad, just disappointed . He pushed down and twisted the cap, pouring a singler pill into his palm. He doesn’t need this, he’s stronger than this. He can handle it. But it was like his body wasn’t listening to its brain and like accidentally swallowing ice, he gulped it down, with shame and guilt. Closing the cap, and putting the bottle back in the cabinet, that’s what he feels. Shame.
Then he just stares . He stares at his hands which press against the granite countertop. It’s mixed with many types of stones, mostly quartz. His hands seem to sink, sink into the counter. He tries to pull them out, it’s no use , he thinks. It’s like it’s sucking him in, like quicksand. Miles pulls harder and harder, making sounds that are desperate, begging for release. He tugs and tugs, and then falls back , hitting his back hip with the other counter behind him.
His mind twisted, world spinning. Trying not to lose his balance, he slowly walks away from the kitchen and falls on some boxes in his living room. A piercing headache hits him, a whining sound then leaves his mouth. Miles holds his head with both of his hands, afraid it’ll fall off of his neck or something.
Even with all these factors, he turns around and rummages through the boxes, looking for something, not knowing what he’s looking for . His knees lay on the cold floor, Miles opens the boxes, ripping them with such a force. He shoulda put labels or something. He throws the items in the box out of it if it’s not what he wants, scattering random objects on the floor.
Eventually he finds this one particular box with his art supplies. His paint, colored pencils, and an open plastic packet of charcoal sticks that left black markings in the box. His body flushes with relief, but still slightly on edge for some reasons. Miles’ eyes meet the packet which then meets his hands as he rips the already ripped packet to shreds. Tiny shards of black crayola hit the floor, smudging more markings. He grabs the first stick he sees and runs to his room, almost slipping.
Upon opening the door, he smells the leftover takeout food in the room, making him wince. With a single piece of charcoal and two hands filled with want , he scribbles on the wall. The thought of the consequences didn’t enter his mind as he dragged his fingers across the white canvas in front of him.
He started with an oval, two curved lines both vertical and horizontal going through it. Many more oval shaped figures are drawn on top of the main one, some slightly squared, others round and soft. Then a cylinder on the bottom of it for the neck, a wide trapezoid for the upper torso and circles for the shoulders. A guideline is made, just for him. Straight, curved, sharp lines are then made to accustom the lonely shapes under them, slowly forming a face, jawline and chin sharper than the pain in his ribs. Miles draws the nose, a thin rectangle that curves at the bottom and top and narrow circle, then the lips, a little indent in the middle of the upper one. Piercing eyes meet his own, thick furrowed eyebrows above them with two teeny tiny circles up on each side. He draws the ears with earrings and helix piercings accompanying it, the neck drawn with a bobbing adam's apple. A smile from the lips form as they curve like it was chuckling, a bit sweetly. Miles draws the clothes, a guitar strap going through the middle of it, and spikes on the shoulders. He shades the hair, fluffy wick like strips, black and texturized, meeting the scalp. The piece of charcoal is now to the size of a small pebble, so small that he’s barely able to hold it. He drags his thumbs in a curved motion from the ear to the base of the mouth for cheekbones.
Miles touches, and touches, holding the face of the drawing as if it was real. His fingerprints are all over the wall, covering much ground. Now when he wakes up, this is what he’ll see. Black, smudged markings are on his hands, his fingers, inside his nail, his white shirt, now not so white.
He stares at the messy mural on his room wall, filled with some sort of accomplishment, feeling like a little kid. Miles feels proud of himself, not only for getting rid of the uneasy sinking feeling that laid in his stomach, but for the beautiful drawing he made. But still. Something was wrong. After all of that he still felt that something was wrong. He clenched his fists in frustration, feeling empty. Placing his palm on the face of the drawing, his fingers gently grazed through it. He needed it, something he couldn’t get. At least not yet.
A ring on his doorbell shakes him more than hands shaking his shoulders could. Miles runs to the front door, again almost slipping. He twists the door knob, opening it, fast enough to feel a gust of wind hit his face. Yet there’s no one there but looking down at his feet he sees a package. A bouquet of flowers, sunflowers. Picking it up, he accidentally inhales the essence of the flowers, smelling slightly sweet and nutty. A note is attached to it, From your Secret Admirer, it reads.
Miles sighs deeply, disappointed, but also somewhat curious. Walking back to his room, his grip on the bouquet is tight and firm, squeezing hard so that the flowers almost spilled out. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, he just feels so drained. All the work he put in only to come back the same person. He hates it . His anger flows out of him bit by bit, little winces and slamming his feet on the floor, then erupts as he throws the bouquet on his door which conveniently opens it. The flowers scatter the room, sprinkling small amounts of water. Just like how tears start to sprinkle his face. With heavy shoulders and a slouched back that aches, not really noticing the smushed yellow flowers below his feet, he walks to the wall, his head falling against the wall drawing, sobbing into it.
“ I paid a lot for those flowers, Miles.”
A voice spoke that shocked him, sending bolts down his spine, but not enough to make him move. Ghostly like arms wrap around his waist, chilly and cold. A head rests on top of his, looking at the mural. Miles is standing so still, sweat glistening down his face. “Ya got my eyes right, looks just like me.” They chuckle. Miles turns to face Hobie, knowing who it was as soon as he spoke. Hobie pushes then drags his thumb across Miles’ forehead, a bit of pitch black on his finger. “ You got a little on your head sweetie, should watch it next time. ” He says, cupping his face, not to kiss him but to touch him. Miles tippy toes to reach the others height, pressing his nose against Hobie’s, hands on his shoulders as they look deeply into each other’s eyes. They’re breathing the same air, the thought making Miles want to gasp for more. He smiles as they hold each other tightly not wanting to separate. He feels complete.
“You otta pay me back.”
“It was a gift dude.”
“That you ruined.”