Chapter Text
One spring day, boxes start appearing in the hallway between the apartments. First one. Then two more. Then there are so many that they block half the hallway.
Dennis trips over the edge of one of them as he comes home after a long night for a “photographer,” at least. He exhales tiredly, leaning his shoulder against the wall.
“Seriously?..”
The door across the hall is open. Inside, it’s the same chaos, just on a larger scale. And a man in the middle of it. He stands among the boxes calmly, almost meditatively, as if the mess around him doesn’t exist.
“Sorry, it’s temporary,” he says without turning around.
“They’re in the way,” Dennis runs a tired hand over his face, smearing away the remnants of the night’s exhaustion. “And they have been for a while!”
Now the man turns. His gaze is weary, unreadable, with a faint frown, as if Dennis is just another box that needs to be moved somewhere.
“Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby.”
“Dennis.”
A short pause.
No one leaves.
“If you don’t like something,” Robby adds impassively, tilting his head slightly, “you can help.”
Dennis snorts. For some reason, the whole scene strikes him as absurdly funny.
“Great way to introduce yourself, Robby.”
“Well, they’re my boxes that are in your way.”
And that was annoyingly true.
Dennis grimaces, scrunching up his nose in response, and bends down for the nearest box. It looks heavy, maybe even too heavy. He grits his teeth for a second, bracing for the weight, and yet he lifts it more easily than he should have. Much more easily. Without the necessary effort.
He freezes.
Shit.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze. Robby is still watching him. His eyes slide over the seemingly fragile guy, linger on his hands, and he frowns just a little. But says nothing.
“Where?” Dennis asks, sharper than he intended.
“Kitchen.”
So they work together. Awkwardly at first, in silence, the only sounds being the rustle of cardboard and their breathing. But soon, with some stretch of the imagination, it could even be called coordinated. Sometimes their hands reach for the same box. Sometimes they almost touch. Once, in the narrow doorway, their hips brush against each other. By accident. It’s only a second, but Dennis holds his breath for some reason, and Robby seems to stop frowning for that exact moment.
The apartment and the hallway gradually stop resembling a warehouse. The rooms begin to feel more alive.
“You know you didn’t have to help,” Robby says once they’re done and catching their breath.
He’s standing closer now. He places a hand on the back of Dennis’s neck. The touch burns where it rests, but Dennis doesn’t pull away. He actually stops breathing for a couple of seconds.
“You suggested it.”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“Me neither.”
A short chuckle, followed by silence, but this time it’s a peaceful one.
“You know,” Robby begins, and his fingers slide just barely over the skin at the nape of Dennis’s neck, down to his shoulder, and then let go entirely. “I was thinking of ordering some food. From that Thai place…”
“Better than unpacking the kitchen boxes right now,” Dennis replies, trying to ignore the shiver running down his spine.
“No, no. I meant something else.” Robby gives a slight nod and exhales. “Do you want to have dinner… stay for dinner with me?”
Dennis automatically opens his mouth:
“I’m busy—”
And stops. The words sound hollow, and something inside him protests. Against going back to his empty apartment where no one is waiting.
Robby doesn’t push. He just waits. But he already looks disappointed that he even asked.
“Alright,” Dennis exhales, giving in to himself. “But not for long.”
This time, Robby smiles faintly. It changes his whole face. Makes him look younger, softer.
“Sure.”
The food arrives surprisingly fast. They sit in the half-unpacked kitchen, surrounded by boxes. They’re stacked neatly against the wall now, no longer in the way. The food smells warm, sharp, and spicy.
Dennis warms his fingers on a cardboard box of noodles, watching the steam rise to the ceiling.
Robby sits close beside him. Their knees touch. Too close for just neighbors. Dennis feels the warmth even through his jeans, but doesn’t move away. Neither does Robby.
“So, friendly neighbor,” Robby asks, “do you always help people this late?”
“Only the attractive ones,” Dennis chuckles quietly.
“Is that a compliment?”
“More like an observation.”
They eat. They talk. The pauses between words aren’t awkward, they become part of the conversation. Dennis talks about a ridiculous photoshoot request where the client wanted “like Vogue, but with a hamster.”
Robby gives him a quick look.
“So? Did you make it ‘like Vogue’?”
“I did everything I could,” Dennis shrugs. “The hamster, by the way, handled it better and more professionally than the client.”
“That says a lot about the client.”
“That says a lot about the hamster.”
They smile. It’s all so easy, requiring no effort at all.
“So, how long have you been doing this?” Robby asks.
“Photography? A couple of years.”
“And you’re also in med school at the same time?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. How do you balance both? And why?”
Dennis freezes for a moment, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers.
“I balanced it with tears in my eyes, but I didn’t have a choice.” Dennis straightens his shoulders and smirks. “You know, I ran away from home right after high school, on prom night. My prom date helped me, she hid a backpack with all my stuff in her car and drove me to the station. It’s a miracle I got a scholarship, but it doesn’t cover everything. Hence the photography gig. And medicine…” He pauses. “I’ve always wanted to help people.”
Robby isn’t smiling anymore. He watches Dennis more carefully now. But he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment. Just listen. And somehow, that makes Dennis uncomfortable enough to keep talking.
“It sounds worse than it is,” Dennis adds quickly. “In reality, it’s… fine.”
He shrugs, as if it really doesn’t matter. As if he believes it himself.
“That’s… a lot,” Robby says.
Dennis swallows, looks away.
“People have it worse,” he mutters. “What about you—”
Just as Dennis is about to ask about Robby, his job, his interests, his ears catch the sound of sirens. He freezes. First one. Then two. Three.
Then a shout.
Dennis freezes. His fingers tighten around the box. He listens.
A few blocks away.
Shit.
He stands abruptly.
“I need to—”
Robby looks at him immediately, more tense now.
“What?”
“I… I forgot something.”
It sounds terrible.
He knows it.
Dennis has never been a good liar.
Robby watches him for a long, searching moment.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Is it urgent?”
Dennis nods and starts to gather himself. A pause.
“I’ll be back,” he says more quietly.
Robby doesn’t reply right away. Finally, he gives a slow nod.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Just… don’t disappear.”
Dennis freezes at the door.
Those words hit harder than they should.
He turns back. Just for a second.
“I’ll try. Tomorrow, breakfast is on me. At the café on the corner.”
And he leaves.
The door closes. And the apartment suddenly becomes too quiet. Robby remains seated. He looks at the table, where the boxes of unfinished noodles still stand, and slowly drags a hand down his face.
The sirens are getting closer.
He stands. Walks to the window, looks down, and doesn’t understand why he suddenly has the feeling that he’s just let something important slip away.
Dennis smells the suffocating smoke before he sees it. The smell is bitter and thick.
Then he sees the light, orange, jagged, pulsing between buildings.
And finally, the sound reaches him a mixture of screams, sirens, and the crackle of fire.
Dennis stops on the rooftop and sees the apartment building. The windows on the fifth and sixth floors are already in flames. Fire tears out from them, greedy, uneven, as if alive.
“Oh no-no, no…”
A second, and he’s moving.
Web.
Cornice.
Forward.
People scream below. Someone calls for help. Someone is crying.
The fire trucks haven’t even extended the ladders yet.
Too slow.
Dennis is already at the window.
“Let`s go!”
He shatters the glass with his shoulder and bursts inside. Smoke immediately hits his lungs. It’s hot. Too hot.
“Is anyone here?!” he shouts over the roar of the fire.
And then he hears it.
A response. Weak. Quiet. A child.
He listens. And hears a response. Quiet, weak, but a response. By the sound of it, it’s a child. Following the voice, he crouches low, almost crawling. Breathing becomes harder. In the corner of the next room sits a girl. No more than six years old, clutching a stuffed animal. Her wide eyes plead.
“Hey,” he says more softly, lowering himself beside her. “I’m Spider-Man. You know me, right? I’m going to get you out, okay?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly.
Dennis lifts her into his arms. She’s light as a feather.
A leap, and they fly out the window.
The screams from below change.
He lowers her safely to the ground, into the arms of police and a terrified father.
She grabs his sleeve.
“Be careful?”
It sounds almost like a question.
“I will. You take care, okay?”
And he’s already back in the air.
Fourth floor.
Fifth.
The smoke grows thicker. In one apartment, a man is trying to kick down the door to the stairwell.
“Step back!” Dennis calls.
Web.
Pull.
The door rips off its hinges.
“Stairs! Go!”
No waiting.
Up again.
Somewhere behind a wall, he hears someone coughing. He has to break through another door, this time too forcefully, and his shoulder screams in protest
“Shit…”
An older woman inside, barely conscious. He carries her out.
Again.
And again.
He loses count of how many times. Each time slower. Harder. But the fire spreads faster.
Too fast.
The heat burns even through the suit now.
He’s choking but he can’t stop.
One more person.
Higher up.
Sixth floor.
The stairs won’t hold.
Web after web, passing the other windows, he bursts into the one where the room is almost fully engulfed in flames, and in the corner sits a boy. Without hesitation, Dennis grabs him.
Turns—
And of course, at that moment, a burning chunk of ceiling collapses. It hits his shoulder. The air is knocked out of his lungs. Dennis hisses through his teeth but doesn’t stop, carrying the boy to the window.
Web.
They’re out.
A second of silence, and then the cheering roars around them.
Dennis carefully lowers the child into the paramedics’ arms and only then allows himself to exhale.
The firefighters are working now.
Sirens everywhere.
He steps back. His shoulder throbs. His hand trembles.
He looks up at the burning building.
“That’s it…” he whispers.
Flames reflect in his mask lenses.
He stands there for another second, then turns and disappears.
When he returns home, the sky is already brushed with pastel tones, growing lighter. His fingers barely obey him; he struggles to open his window and crawls inside.
Silence.
Cold. Empty. But blessedly quiet.
“Good…”
The mask drops to the floor.
He takes a step and only now allows himself to feel everything. The pain, the exhaustion, the weight in his chest. He sinks onto the edge of his bed and pulls out a fairly sizable first-aid kit from underneath, quietly beginning to treat the cuts and burns.
Five a.m.
Just a couple of minutes before his alarm.
Dennis closes his eyes.
For the first time that night he doesn’t have to run.
Morning comes too fast.
Dennis’s eyes snap open.
Dennis’s eyes snap open, wide, as if startled by something, not just waking from sleep. Light is already streaming through the curtains. For a second, he just lies there, trying to figure out who he is and why his whole body hurts so much like he’s been run over. His shoulder reminds him first. A dull, dragging pain that travels from his shoulder to his fingertips.
“Great…” he rasps.
He turns his head.
The alarm.
05:48.
Shift.
“Shit.”
He sits up too fast and immediately regrets it; the world darkens at the edges for a moment, and Dennis clenches his teeth, waiting it out. He exhales slowly. He slides off the bed, almost mechanically pulling on clothes, careful not to jostle his shoulder. His arm moves worse than he expected. The bandage pulls. Last night’s first-aid kit is still open. The needle, thread, and blood already darkened on the gauze.
He doesn’t look at it for long.
No time for food. No time for coffee.
He grabs his backpack, pauses at the door.
Something’s wrong.
A feeling.
Like he forgot something.
He frowns, tries to remember but nothing.
“Later,” he mutters under his breath.
And he flies out of the apartment.