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There’s someone in Keeho’s living room.
At first glance, it looks like a man. A sleeping man, at that.
On his newly-purchased, eggshell-white IKEA couch.
Through the darkness of his moonlit living room, Keeho carefully approaches to get a closer look. His heart pounds as he inspects the room and sees no smashed windows, broken glass, busted wood, or any other signs of break-in or entry.
Which means one of two things—one, this guy is built like Flat Stanley, or two, Keeho’s stuck in an über-realistic fever dream at the moment.
The man on the couch groans and turns on his side. Keeho immediately crouches behind his kitchen table and grabs the steak knife he’d left out earlier because he’d been too lazy to toss it into the sink.
Wiping excess food bits off the knife, Keeho inches closer to the intruder, holding his breath. His heart pounds in his ears when the man’s body suddenly jerks and he falls off of Keeho’s couch.
“Oh my god,” Keeho automatically blurts out, “Are you okay?”
No response. Keeho grips his knife a little tighter as he shuffles towards the body on his carpet.
“How’d you get in here?” he asks, a little louder this time.
No response.
Keeho’s phone burns in his back pocket.
“I’m about two seconds away from calling the cops, dude,” he warns, pointing the sharp side of the knife at the man, who remains silent.
“Hello?” Keeho tentatively nudges the man’s leg with his toe, almost dizzy with anxiety. Keeho crouches down ever-so-slightly and his heart immediately drops upon hearing the man’s shallow breathing.
“Hey! Dude!”
Keeho tosses his knife in the general direction of his sink and rolls the guy into his back. He can feel the man’s labored breathing underneath his hands as he maneuvers him into a sitting position, propped up by his couch.
“Are you good?” Keeho frantically pokes at the guy’s arm, not wanting to jostle any more of the man’s body. “Dude? Wait—don’t tell me you just died in my living room, that’s so drab—“
The guy suddenly coughs, cutting off the rest of Keeho’s worries.
Or at least, Keeho thinks he coughed. It’s a little hard to tell underneath the guy’s red-and-blue mask.
The guy says something unintelligible.
“What?” Keeho asks. “Say that again?”
Another wet-sounding cough. Keeho cringes.
“Water,” a hoarse voice croaks. “Please.”
Now, Keeho’s never been one to deny someone in need; and this guy definitely needs some help. And perhaps a better wardrobe—is the red and blue a choice, or is he colorblind?
Well, “only because you asked so nicely.”
Without even waiting to hear the man’s response, Keeho stands up, rushes to his sink for a glass of water, almost trips over his discarded knife in the process, and then carefully speed-walks back to the masked man once the glass is reasonably full.
He goes to hand the guy the glass, but stops as the guy struggles to lift the corner of his mask up.
“You need some help with that?”
The guy pauses.
“I…”
A long pause.
“You can’t see my face,” the guy finally says after what feels like forever. Keeho raises his eyebrow.
“Are you ugly or something?”
If Keeho could see his face right now, the man would definitely be giving him the stink-eye.
“The opposite, actually.”
The petty part of Keeho taunts, “Proof.”
That earns him a laugh. And a cough.
Keeho shoves the glass at the man, tamping down his curiosity for the sake of the larger problem.
“Here. I promise it’s not poisoned or drugged.”
The man accepts the glass with a gloved hand.
“Thanks.”
Because he’s a man that’s true to his word, Keeho turns around to give him some privacy. He listens to his intruder tug his mask off and hears it land on his carpet somewhere to his left. The man downs the whole glass in four long gulps, and he taps Keeho on the shoulder.
“A wine glass, huh? Did they have a limited stock at Pottery Barn, or are you just one of those fancy I-own-three-mansions-in-Beverly-Hills kind of guys?”
Keeho almost turns around to glare at the guy. He doesn’t, choosing the path of willful ignorance instead.
“A lot more talkative now, are we?” he asks. “So, what are you doing in my house?”
There’s a sort of embarrassed laugh from the guy.
“It’s actually a funny story,” he says with another cough, “but I can’t really tell you because—“
“—Are you a criminal?”
A snort. “Uh, no. Far from it.”
A lightbulb explodes in Keeho’s mind.
“So you’re a superhero?”
Keeho’s wine glass drops onto the carpet and rolls over to his foot.
“No,” the guy responds through seemingly-gritted teeth. “Definitely not.”
“Who are you, then? And if you’re not a superhero, I’m calling the cops, so answer carefully.”
“I really can’t tell you,” the man says, “but, just—don’t call the cops. Please.”
This immediately arouses suspicion within Keeho, as if the fact that there’s some random dude in his living room on a Wednesday night isn’t weird enough.
“What’s in it for me?” he finds himself asking.
“I don’t have any money,” the guy admits, “or any assets, really.”
A prickle at the base of Keeho’s skull reminds him of an earlier part of their conversation.
“Let me see your face,” Keeho requests, staring at the lip marks on his wine glass.
Another long stretch of silence. The neighbor’s cat wails into the night.
“Okay,” the man agrees. “One one condition.”
Keeho beams, victorious. “Name it.”
“You can’t know my name.”
Keeho almost laughs.
“Who said I was going to ask for it?”
The guy scoffs. “Whatever, man. Just turn around already.”
So Keeho does, and immediately regrets agreeing to the man’s terms.
In front of him is a face so attractive that a heavenly choir starts to sing in the background. A dark mullet frames every angle and nuance of his face, accentuating his pale skin and delicate bone structure. Keeho’s eyes follow the shape of his nose down to the curve of his lips, down to the sharpness of his jaw, down his bruised neck, and down to where the man’s suit covers the bottom half of his neck.
“Stop gawking,” the man gruffly says with a pout that sends a buzz through Keeho’s body. “I know I look like shit.”
Keeho’s jaw must’ve fallen open and he quickly snaps it shut. Keeho wants to tell him that he’s wrong, it’s actually the other way around, but he can’t deny that the guy looks like he’s seen some better times. Dark circles smudge the skin under his eyes and cuts and bruises litter his skin. Dried blood paints the bottom of the man’s chin and there’s a small open cut on the bridge of his nose.
Instead of embarrassing himself by staring any further, Keeho decides to state the obvious.
“You’re bleeding,” he announces, pointing at the man’s nose.
The man looks at him in confusion.
“And?”
“It’s going to get all over my white couch,” Keeho explains before he can filter himself.
That gets him a blank stare.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Then Keeho remembers the miniature first-aid kit his mom had given him when he moved into his new house.
“Wait here,” he instructs, ignoring the man’s protest that “it’s just a small wound!”
He retrieves the white-and-red box from his bathroom cabinet and brings it back to the living room, turning a lamp on as he sits back down next to the man.
Illuminated by the soft orange glow of the lamp, the man’s face seems even prettier and Keeho shoves the urge to gasp deep down into the pits of hell.
“What’s that? Drugs?”
“I don’t know if Neosporin counts,” says Keeho, “but I’ve got some Tylenol if you need it.”
“Adult Tylenol or kid Tylenol?”
Keeho sifts through the bag.
“Adult,” he reads off of the bottle.
The man sighs. “Damn,” he groans, “I only like the kid’s gummies version.”
“Right?” A bright rush of emotion speeds through Keeho’s veins, happy that he’s found someone of similar opinion. “I think the squishy fruits are so much more fun and easier to eat!”
“For real, though! Pills are too advanced for me!” the man agrees with a grin. Keeho tosses the bottle back into the bag and pulls out some other basic medical supplies.
“What are you, twelve?” he jokingly asks.
The man smirks. “I can’t disclose that personal information to you.”
Keeho laughs. “Whatever, man. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He gingerly wipes at the dirt, blood, and grime on the man’s face with a damp cloth—despite the man’s protests that he can do it himself, “calm down, I’m already here and I don’t think you’re up to the challenge of getting up and walking to my bathroom”—and gives him an instant cold pack for swelling on his cheek. Keeho, who took exactly one lifeguarding course back when he was fifteen, insists that the man continually ice the painful areas of his body on a routine-basis until the pain subsides.
“Thanks, doc. Are you a med student, or something?”
Now it’s Keeho’s turn to display his knowledge on stranger-danger.
“I can’t disclose that personal information to you,” he cheekily chirps. “But I’d recommend you take it easy for the next couple of weeks. No lifting heavy objects or getting into street brawls!”
To Keeho’s surprise, the man seriously nods when he brings up street brawls.
“Will do, doc,” the man says, voice a bit squished by the ice pack on his cheek. “Am I all good?”
Keeho takes another look at the man’s face, both in inspection and in interest. Despite not looking like the beacon of full health, the guy certainly looks better and—well, hot.
“Almost,” he says before slapping a Hello Kitty bandaid on the small cut on his nose.
“Now you’re all good.”
The man sighs in relief.
“Thank god I stumbled into a doctor’s place,” he says, a grateful smile on his pink lips. “Thanks, dude.”
“No problem,” Keeho replies, knowing damn well that the man’s radiant smile is going to be his next biggest problem. It’s definitely going to keep him up at night. In a good way, but also a bad way because a guy’s gotta catch some z’s once-in-a-while.
“Speaking of which, how’d you get in here? Do I need to change my locks or something?”
“‘Not that you’re unwelcome,” Keeho adds, even though his intruder should be unwelcome.
The man sheepishly shrugs.
“You might want to consider buying yourself an alarm system. And you might want to board up the doggy door on your backyard door,” he explains without directly telling Keeho he squeezed through the doggy door like a worm.
“The alarm system is a must, especially in these parts,” the man says, “There’s been a strange amount of criminal activity around here lately.”
Keeho didn’t know that—he should probably check his neighborhood news app more often. “How’d you know that? Are you from here or something?”
A laugh. “Something like that. My brother lives here and I like to check up on him from time-to-time.”
“And while you visit you like to break into people’s homes?”
Keeho isn’t really as bothered about it as he should be.
“Who’s your brother?”
The man clicks his tongue. “That’d be a dead giveaway to my secret identity, wouldn’t it?”
The words “secret identity” stand out to Keeho and he takes a closer look at the man’s outfit.
Torn red-and-blue material stretched over lean muscle. Interconnecting black lines that criss-cross over the expanse of the whole suit and an intricately-woven spider design in the middle of the man’s chest. A mask that conceals his whole face with white lenses over his eyes. Spindly fingers and sharp eyes that follow Keeho’s every movement.
“Holy shit,” Keeho realizes, “are you fucking Spider-Man?”
The man blanches.
“Who’s Spider-Man?” He sounds panicked.
“Like, the guy who swings around on webs and shit? Who fights bad guys with the Avengers and is the Neighborhood Watch’s poster boy?”
The man shakes his head as furiously as he can without injuring himself, but Keeho’s got him all figured out now.
“Oh my god,” Keeho gasps, “I didn’t know Spider-Man was, like, my age. Or this fine.”
“What?”
Shock must’ve set into Keeho’s mind, because he can’t stop himself from blurting out,
“Thank god you’re not a forty-five year old pervert. I once thought that it’d be really weird if Spider-Man was some middle-aged loser who ran around the city in spandex because of a midlife identity crisis.”
The man blinks, speechless.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says, scratching the side of his head, “but thanks?”
Keeho laughs in disbelief.
“I can’t believe this,” he gushes, now feeling comfortable enough to open up to their city’s beloved superhero. “Spider-Man. In my living room! On my new IKEA couch!”
“Oh shit, is this IKEA?” The man pats the couch appreciatively. “I love IKEA!”
That’s just so incredibly real of him, Keeho thinks. His appreciation and admiration for the guy only deepens.
“Well—you’re welcome to stay here for the night,” he offers. “My couch is open for your use.”
Wait, what’s he doing? Spider-Man still broke into his house. Should Keeho be okay with it?
Spider-Man takes a moment to consider his offer before shaking his head, much to Keeho’s disappointment.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” says the superhero. “I’ll get out of your hair and just, like, crash at my brother’s place.”
“Are you sure? How far is his place from here?” Keeho asks, concerned for the hero’s current state and well-being.
Spider-Man chuckles, a shockingly high-pitched sound that Keeho’s ears are immediately drawn to.
“I’ll be alright. I’m Spider-Man, remember?”
“So you finally admit it?”
“You deserve the truth,” admits the guy. “And you seem trustworthy enough. I mean, you gave me a Hello Kitty bandaid, for god’s sake.”
Fair enough.
“Were you fighting some criminals before you came here?” Keeho asks out of curiosity.
“Well, yeah. There isn’t much else for me to do besides stress out over my under-paying daytime job and crippling loneliness.”
Keeho gets the loneliness thing—it must be hard to bear the weight of an alter ego alone for the sake of, well, secrecy.
“I would’ve thought that the Avengers would pay well?”
Spider-Man laughs. “Are you kidding? I’m on their part-time payroll.”
“Damn. How’re you able to keep up with that and your normal life?”
“With extreme difficulty and effort,” Spider-Man complains, “and the shitty part is that my life apart from ‘super-hero-ing’ isn’t even normal because I don’t have time to have fun and fuck around like any other young adult. I’ve never even been on a date, for fucks sake.”
Keeho almost reels back in disbelief.
“Really? You? No one’s ever asked for your number or anything? With a face like that?”
“I’m extremely flattered,” says the man with a small smile, “but could you imagine if I tried to date anyone? With all of the late nights I pull and constant near-death experiences? God, that’d be a nightmare to deal with.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Spider-Man adds after a beat.
“What do you mean?”
“Like—I don’t know. The feeling of knowing you’re not the most important thing in someone else’s life, but you’ll never know why because if I told you, some villain would come along and murder you in revenge for something I’ve done to them? Something profound like that.”
Keeho’s chest constricts, the air getting heavier and harder to breathe. He’d never thought of it like that.
“I’m sorry,” he decides to say.
Spider-Man gives him an odd look.
“For what? My sad life isn’t your fault.”
Keeho sighs. “For prying earlier. I just hadn’t realized why it was so important for you to keep your identity a secret.”
Spider-Man shrugs.
“Honestly? It’s kind of nice to be able to tell someone about this,” he admits, picking at a stray thread on his suit.
“Your brother doesn’t even know?”
Spider-Man laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“Especially not him. I’d probably end myself if anything happened to him.”
Keeho’s got a younger brother of his own. He wonders if he should tell Spider-Man about Shota.
“My brother’s still in high school,” Keeho says, “and I think I care about him more than myself.”
“Jiu—I mean, my brother is older than me,” Spider-Man shares after a beat. “And he took care of me a lot when I was a kid.”
“So you’re paying it forward?”
“In a way,” Spider-Man says, “but I also just like to show up, eat his food, and tease him about his love life.”
“Because he can’t tease you about yours if it doesn’t exist,” Keeho concludes. To his surprise, Spider-Man shakes his head.
“I wouldn’t go so far to say it’s nonexistent,” he corrects. “I mean, people have caught my interest before; I just can’t do anything about my romantic feelings except drown them out by listening to my sad boy hours playlist on Spotify.”
Keeho blows out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“That’s some deep shit, man. You shouldn’t keep that bottled up.”
The hero shrugs in dismissal, wordlessly saying “I’m fine” without having to mean it, and Keeho figures that’s that. He’s not going to push—it’s not his business.
Keeho helps the man stagger to his feet and Spider-Man limps to Keeho’s front door. Unlocking the deadbolt on the door, Keeho swings the door open and holds it for his intruder.
Spider-man stops underneath the door frame and looks back at Keeho, uncertainty swirling in his dark eyes.
“Listen…”
“Keeho.”
“…Keeho.” The name seems to bring a smile to Spider-Man’s face. “Thanks for helping me tonight. Sorry for keeping you up so late.”
Keeho’s the furthest from being bothered by it.
“Anytime, Spidey. Feel free to drop by whenever you need some assistance.”
And then,
“Or a listening ear.”
Spider-Man smiles, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His Hello Kitty bandaid scrunches up and Keeho itches to smooth it back down.
“Be careful, I might take you up on that.”
Keeho doesn’t reach out to fix his bandaid, only hands the hero his mask.
Another day, maybe.
“Anytime,” he repeats. “Stay safe, Spider-Man.”
The hero gives Keeho one last wink before pulling his mask over his face and shooting a web to the top of the lamppost by Keeho’s house. He’s gone not even a second later, swinging away into the darkness.
Keeho signs up for first-aid training the following morning. It may or may not be because of a certain insect-themed superhero, but he figures it’d be helpful to have extra medical knowledge in case a dark-haired intruder breaks into his house again.
After the first week of the surprisingly-grueling course, Keeho decides to visit the cafe Shota recommended to him a while back. Granted, Shota’s recommendation was made a couple months back, and Keeho hadn’t had the craving for caffeine until now.
The Grinder is a modest establishment with minimalistic decorations and a clean, modern feel. The only remarkable thing about it are its oddly-specific drink names—after a quick glance at the menu, Keeho decides upon a fairly simple drink called “tfw you’ve pulled five all-nighters to study for a psych test from hell.”
It’s his turn at the register. A tired college student around Keeho’s age, maybe older, takes his order and Keeho feels inclined to slip a twenty in the tip jar out of sympathetic pity.
“Oh, thanks, bro!” The cashier brightens after Keeho slips two twenty-dollar bills in the tip jar. The worker turns toward one of the baristas and jostles his shoulder to get his attention.
“Hey, Tae, look! This guy just tipped us forty fucking dollars!” he excitedly tells his coworker.
Keeho’s heart stops when he sees the barista.
Dark hair in a stylish mullet. Starburst-pink lips. Sharp, sharp eyes that widen in recognition when they meet Keeho’s.
“Oh my god,” whispers Spider-man. “Keeho?”
“Wait, you know this guy?” the cashier asks, looking between his coworker and Keeho.
“You could say that,” Keeho fills in when Spider-Man just continues staring at him in shock. “We’re not too familiar.”
The cashier just laughs. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m just surprised my brother has any acquaintances at all. He’s not exactly the talkative type!”
Spider-Man glares at brother and slaps his arms. “Shut it, Ji. The line isn’t getting any shorter.”
Ji—well, Jiung according to his name tag—turns back to his job with an eye roll, leaving Keeho and the hero to stare at each other.
“I—hi?” Keeho says after an awkward second.
“Hey!” Spider-Man cringes, seemingly embarrassed. “Look, Keeho, I meant to come by earlier in the week, but I got caught up—“
Keeho can’t believe his ears.
“You don’t have to apologize to me, dude,” he says with an amused laugh. “Fighting cri—uh, fighting your inner demons is time-consuming. I get it.”
A relieved grin stretches across Spider-Man’s face.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully. “I really did mean to come by, though.”
“Stop socializing and get to work, nerd,” Jiung calls over his shoulder. “Sorry, Keeho, but he doesn’t get paid to chit chat,” he tells Keeho apologetically.
“No, it’s fine,” Keeho says, moving to the waiting area with a small wave to the superhero.
His order’s ready in less than five minutes. Spider-Man—it feels weird to call him Spider-Man without the mast and spandex—calls out his name and Keeho goes up to the pick-up counter.
He’s about to ask Spider-Man what time he should be expecting him, maybe what foods he likes and dislikes in case Keeho decides to take out some snacks and whatnot, but the hero is already back to mixing and brewing other customer’s orders.
Trying not to feel too snubbed and disappointed, Keeho picks up his coffee cup. Right before he’s about to turn and walk away, someone calls his name again.
“Don’t forget your napkin, sir,” Spider-Man reminds him with a cheeky grin. “Enjoy!”
He turns his back before Keeho has a chance to thank him. Keeho takes the napkin and slips it under his cup in his hand.
A flash of dark blue ink catches his eye. Keeho unfolds the napkin, and to his delight, finds a message written in pen.
He tries to stifle the smile creeping across his face as he reads the message, lest he be caught acting like a complete and utter simp.
friday night, 8:30 at the italian dive on the corner of folsom blvd and seville. don’t be late ;)
— taeyang🕷️