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The city is a living thing.
You can feel its pulse in your own chest - a deep, staccato rhythm that resonates from an apartment below. You can feel its breath, thick and hazy, in your own lungs, chilled against your face as you propel yourself onward. The building beneath your feet is hard and unyielding, the concrete roof smooth as flesh as you take one… two… three… four running strides across the surface to jump down onto the next. The landing is too uneasy for your liking, so you roll forward after failing to find proper footing, and spring back up without barely missing a step.
A month after moving to New York and you’ve has already made the city your own. Brick and steel and concrete acquiesce to your will - allowing you to vault from rooftops, scale the sides of buildings, swing from railings - anything for the now familiar caress of your fingertips. You’re out there every night, a dutiful lover, discovering new and exciting places where you can jump, leap, catch, somersault, and give this place a reason to live.
There’s been this – change – coming on for a while now. You feel it in your legs as you run, as you jump. You move faster than anyone should be able to, leap farther, fly higher. You feel it in your arms as you climb, your eyes as they gleam in the darkness.
You toe the parapet of the rooftop and jump off, reaching out a hand to grab the top rung of a ladder and you grasp… air. You panic as you fall, clawing at the wrought-iron surrounded fire escapes the pass you and clutch only air. You close your eyes and prepare yourself for a fatal collision and oh! there it is.
But, you’re not broken. And you’re not dead, you don’t think. Are you still falling? The air continues to whip past your face, the city’s cruel sigh, but when you manage to finally open your eyes again - you’re flying. You cling tighter to your savior as you soar across the sky, the lights around you a blur of electric color speeding by so fast that you begin to feel dizzy. But just as quick, your feet are on solid ground again.
You stagger for a moment before you steady yourself with your hands on your knees, looking down to keep the city from spinning. You stare down at the red feet in front of you as you catch your breath and as soon as you feel that you can stand upright, you do.
“You’re not supposed to save me,” you say, still a little light-headed but recovering quickly. “I’m a criminal.”
Red shoulders go up in a high shrug, his every motion an exaggeration, and he turns on his heel with grand pageantry before walking away from you. “I’ll remember that,” Spider-Man replies, “next time you decide to throw yourself off of a building.”
“I didn’t throw myself off -!” you yell back, but then stop and growl in annoyance when you realize the boy has no intention of stopping. “Hey! I didn’t throw myself off of a building!” you repeat, louder so that he stops and pivots back towards you. He cocks his head to the side, silently asking for further explanation.
“I threw myself towards a fire escape, okay,” you continue.
You suppose that he’s pleased with your answer, because he’s advancing on your again, too slow and arrogant for your liking. He’s right in front of you again, blocking the light from behind him and casting you in his shadow.
“So what happened?” he asked.
“It wasn’t there,” you say and put your hands on your hips, looking away. You try to beat down the panic growing inside of you because it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there and you could’ve died. Would have, if it wasn’t for Spider-Man, and someone would have had to clean up your bones and brains from the asphalt.
Spider-Man leans towards the side where you’re looking. “The fire escape wasn’t there?” he asks.
You glare at your companion, annoyed. “The ladder wasn’t there!”
“Then why’d you jump?”
“Spidey-”
“I know!” he raises his hands in surrender. “I know.”
You can hear him sigh from behind his mask as he clasps your shoulders in his palms. You immediately relax under his touch and he brings your closer. He slowly slides his silky-slick fingertips down your arms to hold on to your wrists.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he tells you and if he were anyone else you would have rolled your eyes. But his voice is soft and sincere, and instead, you lean into him so that you have to tilt your head up to stare into his reflective eyes. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
You look away from the boy and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, suddenly embarrassed. Who were you to sneak out of your home to wander the city streets? Who were you to wear the night like a cloak just so you could steal a taste a freedom? Who were you to have Spider-Man worried?
He releases one of your wrists and places a gentle handle under your chin so you have to turn back to him. “Not to mention,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “if you keep this up, one of these nights I’m gonna have to take you in.”
You smile too. “But not tonight?”
“No… not tonight.”
You press against him and you’re yourself again, confident, assured, and place your palms against the boy’s chest. “Other big baddies to bring to vigilante justice?” you ask.
His hands are on your hips, keeping you in place. “I think you’re the worst of my problems right now,” he says.
“I leave money,” you tell him innocently as if he wasn’t talking about the twenty or so felonies you have committed over the last month. You look up at him beneath fluttering lashes. “That counts for something, right?”
“Yeah, but there’s still that little question of breaking and entering,” he counters. “And for a -?”
You reach behind yourself and pull out a glittering pink cat collar from your pocket. “I wanted it,” you explain simply.
His grip tightens a bit on your hips. “And you always get what you want.”
You tilt your head. “Not always,” you say as you put the collar back in your pocket.
“No?”
Your hands are on his jaw now, dangerously close to the hem of his mask, but he knows you wouldn’t attempt to take it off.
“I want to see you,” you whisper. But you two have been through this time and time again. “Why won’t you let me?” you ask, your lips grazing his but brushing only fabric. You wants to kiss him. Really kiss him.
“Have I seen you before? Do I know who you are?” you ask, smiling at the thought.
He leans his forehead against yours and wraps his arms around your back. And what he’s thinking is: A month has passed since the day you transferred to Midtown High School from some place in New Jersey. A month and already you have more friends than he has ever had. A month and you have walked past him like he was part of the building, seen through him like he was a piece of glass. A month and everyday he has sat beside you in class without you knowing that he even existed.
“No,” he sighs, “you don’t.”