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He does this thing, Alex notices, where his eyes get all wet and wild and there’s nothing he can really do about it. He blinks, dreams forming against his eye sockets—blackness becoming vivid, blurry colours—but he can’t really do anything else.
It’s something. Something weird like his super strength or his heightened senses. It’s something he’s actually super keen on ignoring because he really doesn’t have time for it. He has work and school and a boyfriend and he pushes it to the back of his mind.
Henry is halfway across the word and he’s stuck in Boston for some debate his mom is doing. She’s more into politics than Alex ever remembers her being, and now, with the divorce finalized and June busy in university, she has to drag her barely 16 year old son across the country for meetings and speeches.
His foot is tapping a little to fast against the floor of the redecorated gym floor of some public school, only half listening to what his mother is preaching. He feels bad for not paying attention, a buzzing at the back of his mind, just like the rapid, flapping wings of a particularly annoying mosquito—like the ones at his Dad’s lake house back home in Texas.
He can’t pay attention to his mother, he just can’t. His brain is going all weird, tingling numbness running up all his limbs. He rubs his thumbs against the top of each index finger, as if he was trying to bring back their circulation, as if the feeling is nothing more than a normal human thing. It’s not. He knows it’s not. He knows it’s not because nobody else can feel it, can see it. Nobody else can see the blackness just underneath Jimmy Richard’s skin.
He has never felt so wrong while looking at a person, never felt the aching of his ribs as he takes a breath, heart beating, twisted with anxiety, has never felt the complete and total fear he feels looking at Richards. Alex isn’t even sure Richard’s first name is Jimmy, he’s sure it was announced at the start of the debate, but he isn’t sure. He was too uncomfortable to remember to jot it down in the small notebook he has grasped in his clammy palms, resting in his lap. Maybe it’s Jeffery spelt weird like Geoffrey. He’s pretty sure it started with a J.
There is something not right about Richards. Alex already knew he wasn’t going to like him—of course he wouldn’t, he’s on the completely opposite side of his political standpoint and he’s arguing against his mom on something that Alex thinks shouldn’t even need to be argued about, like taxes or something vaguely adult and kind of boring for a teenager to listen to.
He’s worried for the crowd of teachers and other politicians sitting around him in the same stiff, grey chairs he’s known to come with these kind of events. He’s worried for Zahra standing at the back of the gym, keeping an eye on him and his mom like some sort of badass feminist bodyguard. Of course, he’s also super worried for his mom, who has to stand next to Richards and can’t feel the terror rushing through Alex’s veins. He’s a predator, and she is his prey, and it’s so obvious he wonders when the large sign with blinking lights with appear over them. Maybe there will even be a red arrow to go with it.
His mom keeps talking. Richard catches his eye and Alex has to fight himself to look away, instincts eating at his insides.
Somehow, he survives the debate without incident. However, he can’t get Richard out of his head. There’s something about him he hates, anxiety and rage burn in his belly, coiling tightly into this burning hate and fear that he doesn’t remember ever feeling before.
So, of course, his next course of action is to call Henry at eleven at night. Good plan, Alex.
It’s five AM in London, but Henry still picks up, groggy, and almost drops his phone as soon as he answers the call.
“Henry!” Alex greets as soon as he sees that the call has connected. He rolls onto his back and sets the phone on his chest, trying to pretend the heat is Henry’s body on top of him.
“Alex,” Henry responds with way less enthusiasm. He can hear him shuffle around in bed.
“What are you wearing right now?”
“You did not ring me at five in the morning to ask what I was wearing. You could have just texted.”
“But I didn’t. Bonus points?” he tries.
“No. Is that all?” There’s no annoyance in Henry’s voice, it’s all very fond and it makes Alex’s heart feel all warm.
“No, I actually have something to say,” he says.
“Well, spit it out then. I’ve got to be up for polo practice in two hours and I’ve got to at least pretend to get some sleep.”
“Okay, so you know how I got bit by that spider like, two years ago? And you know how it gave me powers? And you know how that includes being able to sense things way better than normal humans?”
“If you are showing off your mutation to me, I’m going to get over there and bludgeon you to death with a hard object. The point, love?”
Alex laughs. He runs a hand through his hair, still wet from the shower he took right after his three hour flight home.
“Alright, alright. Okay, so, I was at my mom’s debate, right? And there was this guy—Richards. He was going up against my mom. I dunno, something about him was off. Like, spidey-sense activated off,” he explains.
“Well, you Americans and your politics. Most politicians are bad,” Henry reminds.
“I know! But he was bad bad.” He’s gotten bored of staring at his ceiling, and has sat up, flicking his wrist, picking up dirty clothes and whipping them into the hamper at the side of the room.
“You’re Spiderman. America’s favourite superhero. What would Spiderman do?” Henry asks, unsure.
“Keep an eye on him?” Alex suggests. “Kill him?”
“Isn’t Spiderman’s unwritten rule ‘do not kill’?” Henry asks.
“I think that’s Batman’s.”
“Oh. Sorry? Anyway, I don’t Spiderman could kill anybody.”
“Yeah,” Alex says after a moment, “me either.”