Archive of Our Own

Branches crackled under his feet as Froste made his way through the undergrowth, scowling as stray spiderwebs caught in his hair and tree limbs scratched at his arms. Gnats flew at his face, and he swatted them away. 

One flew into his mouth, and Froste hacked out a glob of spit, only able to pray that that’d get rid of it. 

Froste was never going fucking hiking ever again.

He’d lost the path a good while ago, and for some stupid reason, had decided to forge his own. Which wasn’t going too well, since he had no idea where he was and his phone barely had any signal. When he tried to backtrack and find the trail again, Froste had gotten turned around.

Needless to say, he was fucked.

And as if all this wasn’t bad enough, the day was reaching its end. Dusk was approaching, and Froste was beginning to panic, something that he really should’ve started doing long ago.

Had he passed this rock before? Hopped over this tiny stream? Froste had no clue. Weeds reached up to his knees, and there was a nasty crunch as Froste stepped on something he suspected was a cricket. 

He gagged and checked his phone again.

Still no signal. SOS, his phone showed helpfully. Save my ship in-fucking-deed, Froste thought, groaning loudly.

“Fuuuck...” he whined, running a hand down his face. Collapsing on a huge boulder partially coated in a slimy layer of moss, Froste observed the scenery about him, looking for any clues that could hint as to where he was. 

Just when he was beginning to lose hope, someone in the distance shrieked in laughter from his left, and Froste sat up, straining his ears. The sound came again, and Froste thanked every god that existed for his luck. 

As he was standing up, there was a tickle on Froste’s upper arm, and then suddenly, pain. Froste yelped, feet almost slipping, and when he glanced to see the reason for the flash of agony, he screamed.

There was a huge spider on him, speckled red and blue. He caught a glimpse of small, sharp fangs, stained with Froste’s own blood.

Oh my fucking god.

Slapping it away instinctively, Froste got up and raised his foot, before crushing the arachnid into mess of guts and lymph. Once he’d made sure it was fully and completely dead, he observed his wound.

Where he’d been bitten was bleeding slightly, a small bump at the location. What did they say to do with insect bites? Froste panicked, raising his arm to his mouth and sucking at the bite. That’d get rid of poison, right? At least, that was what he’d heard. Hopefully.

He spat into the grass, inhaling shakily through his teeth. Yeah, Froste was really panicking now, as the affected area was beginning to have a numb, buzzing sensation. He was beginning to feel dizzy, as well, but this feeling was more come-and-go. 

Another holler in the distance.

Froste would make his way back to civilization, first, then figure this out.

I’ll be fine, he reassured himself as he made his way towards the voice, breathing in relief as he caught sight of a path in the distance not long after walking a few minutes.

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The odd feeling in his arm faded by the time he got back to the trailhead, and Froste decided that it’d probably just heal by itself. There was no need to get it checked out, especially with the prices nowadays. The cost would probably reach over a hundred dollars; it just wasn’t worth it.

Froste caught a cab back to his apartment, tapped his foot impatiently while waiting for an elevator. It was so fucking inconvenient, living on the 6th floor. At least the view was good enough.

When he opened the door, Froste had to stop and breathe for a moment.

He was alive. Froste had not gotten lost forever. He was okay, lest for an insect bite, but that was whatever. It would heal.

Rummaging through a cabinet, Froste retrieved an expired tube of ointment. It was supposed to be only used for small cuts and scrapes, but a bite was basically the same thing, right? 

Smearing it over the area, spreading the bead of blood that’d gathered there again, Froste cringed as another spark of pain shot through him. Like previously, though, it eased quickly.

He still felt slightly woozy, as well as nauseous. Probably just an after-effect, Froste reasoned. Which honestly shouldn’t have calmed him down at all, but he wasn’t in his right mind.

The stars were peeking through the dark night sky, now, just past evening, and Froste wearily got into bed. He didn’t bother to change.

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Eugh.

There was a sour taste in Froste’s mouth when he came to. 

Forcing his eyelids open, which took a lot more effort than it should’ve, Froste saw the sky streaked with orange and red, then looked at the clock.

His brain stuttered for a moment.

7:03PM, it blinked.

What?

It had to have been past eight when Froste had fallen asleep. 

That meant he’d slept, what, twenty-three hours?

“Holy shit,” he whispered, before scrambling up, searching for his phone. He found it on the kitchen island, left there the previous night.

Tapping at the screen frantically, Froste’s eyes were wide. When his phone blinked on, warning that battery was low, he tapped out of the alert.

And... Yep.

It really was just past seven in the evening, his phone confirmed.

First, he had to find a charger. Then he’d worry over all of this. Whatever was going on.

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Sitting at the table, a measly bowl of cereal sitting in front of him, Froste examined his wound.

It’d healed rather nicely in the span of a day, the only evidence it being a faint scab that Froste picked off with a nail. New skin sat underneath, barely visible compared to the rest of his arm. He was slightly sore, where the bite had been, but it wasn’t unbearable, either.

He sighed, and opened his laptop lid.

After browsing the web, there’d been no good reason Froste’d been able to find for sleeping as long as he did. Physical and emotional exhaustion, it was suggested, but even then, there was no way he’d be tired enough to sleep for almost a whole day.

It was good that this was his free day, he supposed. Though Froste wanted to actually do something on the day he had no work or college, it was better than risking having to make up a shit ton of tests or getting fired.

Froste gave up with a huff, slamming the computer closed and pushing it back. Stirring his cereal meaninglessly with his spoon, he rubbed a hand over his eye, pausing as something, with a quality almost like adhesive, caught on his eyelash.

Did he still somehow have spider guts on his hand, the fuck?

Pulling his hand away, Froste saw that something white and stringy connected his wrist to where it’d stuck onto the cilia of his eye. First came confusion, as he got the substance out of his eyelash, then horror. 

They were webs. Spider webbing, except thicker and much, much stickier. Bringing his wrist back up to eye level, when he poked at where it was coming from, Froste saw spinnerets. 

Poking out of his skin, they were small, but disgusting anyways.

“Holy fuck,” Froste gasped, feeling the webs with his other hand. There was a dull feeling of repulsion sitting in the back of his mind, which multiplied when he tugged slightly and more webbing came out of his wrist. Or, well... his spinnerets. Froste pinched near the base to separate the strands, tossed the loose bunch of webbing aside.

He laughed unbelievingly, blood rushing in his head, tingling in his ears that signaled anxiety.

This had to all be some horrible dream. This wasn’t really happening. 

But when Froste pinched himself, everything was still the same. Maybe it just wasn’t enough pain to snap himself out of it, he thought. Froste stood up on unsteady legs, opening the drawer that contained utensils. 

He retrieved a sharp knife, positioned it over his left wrist.

“This’ll send me back to reality. It’s got to,” Froste giggled nervously, hand trembling.

The need to just snap out of whatever was going on overwhelmed the man’s hesitation, and Froste did not let himself think twice, running the blade over the skin below the spinnerets. It parted easily, revealing blood flesh, and at first he felt nothing, then a burning agony at the site of the injury. 

The pain snapped him out of his panicked daze, and Froste shrieked, the full force of what he just did hitting him. 

He’d just sliced his own wrist open. 

And if he was really bleeding, if this really fucking hurt so much, this was real. All too real. 

Froste scrabbled for the tube he’d used merely the night before on the spider bite, squirted a good bunch on his fingers before rubbing it over the blood mess his wrist was quickly becoming.

It hurt so much. Froste sobbed from it, throat tight, but didn’t stop tending to what he’d just inflicted on his own body. He knew there was bandages lying around somewhere, if only he could just find them. For now, though, Froste folded up a napkin and pressed it onto his wrist, applying pressure. 

Once the bleeding slowed, he looked for the bandages, which ended up being in the same cabinet that the ointment had been. Froste wrapped them around his wrist, once, twice, before tying it tight as he could.

A cast, it looked like. At least if anyone asked, he could pass it off as a broken wrist, or something.

There was harsh clattering as Froste tossed the bloody knife into the sink.

Opening his computer again, Froste searched if a wrist wound could heal without needing medical attention, and scrolling past the helpline that popped up first, Google said that with proper care, it should heal.

Froste exhaled, then started crying again.

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It was midnight, and Froste couldn’t sleep. The blankets on his bed were bunched around him, and he was sweating, but he didn’t care.

His wrist itched like hell, it was unbearable. Froste debated undoing the gauze, but in the end, decided that it wouldn’t hurt to do so. He could change them while he was at it, too.

When the bandages came free, stained with his dried blood, a sense of relief overcame his body. 

So much webbing was released at once, and as they came, the itching slowly ceased. Froste just stared, still unbelieving of it. A harsh reminder of his newly fucked reality. 

Froste tore the stands apart, dumping the mess of gooey string onto his nightstand so he could observe the wound. 

The wrist injury was already scabbing over, abnormally fast. It shouldn’t’ve been possible at all, not for a normal human at least. 

He felt the wound carefully. There was only a trace of pain, now, but the skin was sensitive. Or maybe the sensitivity wasn’t because of the wound, but just the spinners. 

What would Froste do? He didn’t yet know how to control the spinnerets, and if anyone saw them… that wouldn’t be good. 

As annoying and uncomfortable as it would be, Froste would need to cover them whenever he was in public. 

He covered them with a single layer of the bandage, tying them securely. Froste examined it — you couldn’t see the spinnerets through the material, and it would hopefully be thin enough so he wouldn’t sweat. Plus, it could be good for ‘fashion.’ Froste chuckled sadly at the thought. 

Heart heavy, Froste undid the knot and laid the used bandage on the nightstand as well, before curling back up.

Setting an alarm for the next morning, Froste hoped it would be enough to wake him up. He had an early 8AM class, and he had to settle back into the normal rhythm of life at some point, right? 

Might as well start now.

This time, he was able to fall asleep within minutes. 

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Beep-beep! 

Froste groaned and grappled around for his phone, annoyance making him react faster than usual. Or maybe it was more than annoyance? Odd, but it probably wasn’t important.

It was hard to force himself up, to brush his teeth and wash his face, but soon enough, he found himself in front of a bowl of oatmeal he’d halfheartedly prepared in two minutes. Despite not having an appetite, Froste forced himself to swallow a few bites.

Lying on the table beside the bowl was the roll of bandages. Froste might start having to bring it everywhere, at this point, just in case of emergency.

Aughhhhh.

It was still hard to believe, that this was actually happening to him. Froste never believed in the paranormal, or whatever this could be categorized as, so now that he was quite literally living a paranormal life, it was hard to digest.

As was the oatmeal. Bleugh. 

Placing the bowl in the sink and mentally making a note to wash the dishes once he got back, Froste gathered up his computer, some spare paper and pencils, and picked up the bandages.

He wrapped them around his wrists rather quickly, becoming more and more familiar with the rhythm. The rest of the roll, Froste shoved into an unused pocket of his backpack, before setting out to catch the bus.

Thankfully, he made it to the stop just a minute or two before the bus arrived — Froste sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for either having to hail a taxi or call up a friend just to get to school.

The bus was quiet, and it wasn’t long before it was pulling onto Froste’s college campus, the other students on the bus stumbling off like zombies. Froste followed suit.

A horde of guys, some of them classmates, most of them not, rushed past Froste, and one of them was shoved into him roughly by one of their friends. “Sorry!” The man giggled, before being whisked away by the others who were hiding laughs behind the palm of their hand. 

Froste sighed. It was going to be a long, long day. 

His classes were relatively uneventful. A few of his friends questioned him about his wrists, but he just brushed off those he could, gave a vague excuse to the others. It wasn’t hard, people didn’t really care about what you did or wore in college.

Judgement-free zone, it was. That came in handy now.

Lunch rolled around, Froste went out to eat at a local cafe with a few of his friends as usual. He knew he was acting more dry than he regularly was, pretending not to notice their attempts to spark conversation, pulling out some math homework to work on in favor of talking to them.

Froste felt bad, but he really just… wasn’t in the mood.

It felt like there was a cloud over him, just constantly putting a damper on his mood. He felt sapped of energy to interact with others, only mustering up enough to complete his classwork and take some notes. 

Once his classes for the day were finally over, Froste caught the city bus back home. On the bus, he rubbed at his wrists, a habit that was just beginning to develop. They were starting to itch, again. 

He wasn’t surprised in the least when he untied the gauze and more webbing fell out. Froste noted hopefully that it seemed to be less than it was when it’d first started. 

Progress, Froste supposed. 

The old bandages were tossed into the trash can, and Froste sighed. His head hurt from all this new stress, but the day wasn’t over yet.

Making his way over to the sink, Froste tossed on a pair of disposable gloves and got to work washing dishes.

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Froste leaned on the railing of his balcony, gazing up at the vast expanse of pure darkness that one called the night sky. Stars twinkled, and duo airplane headlights flashed like a ripoff version of the more ethereal, burning hot orbs that hung in the sky.

Leaning his weight against the cold metal, Froste rested his chin on top of his arms. His soul felt at peace. Everything was so nice out here, him and the heavens.

But then, maybe from corrosion, rust, who knew? The railing suddenly gave out on him, and Froste’s screech pierced the air as he grappled for something to save himself, but his fingers only grazed the balcony edge, then there wasn’t anything to rescue him. 

Just windows, and concrete wall. 

Just Froste, falling seventy feet towards the ground. 

Only the sidewalk lay beneath his falling form, not a single thing that could cushion the drop in sight.

Wind whooshed in his ears, and Froste’s heart was pounding in his chest. This was it. This had to be it.

I’m going to die, Froste thought, then streaks of white shot out of his wrists, adhering to the side of the building, and Froste hit the bricks with a thump.

Webs kept him suspended in the air, saving him from an almost certain demise. There was a constant foreign tugging sensation in his wrists from needing to support his own weight.  

Oh, his head hurt like shit, but it was better than dying from falling off a balcony, fuck’s sakes. A wave of emotion rose in him, and Froste laughed, the sound full of shock and just, terror in general.

He still had to get down, somehow.

There was a fire escape to his right, and if he could just get there…

How had he just been able to aim the strands just now, anyways? Had he been able to control them? 

That was a satisfying thought. If Froste’s body were to be fucked up he’d at least want some semblance of control over it. Who wouldn’t?

Experimentally, Froste pulled his hand away from the rough concrete, before willing himself to ‘let go’ of the webs. 

It took a moment of concentration, but slowly, the connection was broken, and the weight was all dumped onto his other wrist. 

Ough. That did not feel good in the slightest. 

Froste tried imagining webbing shooting from his wrist to a position where it’d let him make it to the escape, and a large amount shot out. 

Well, at least he could kind of control where it’d aim as well as timing. Controlling quantity could come later, after he got out of this fuckass situation. A sticky situation, one could call it. 

He let go of the other wrist’s webs, and the momentum of gravity pulling down on Froste helped him swing down and onto the rickety fire escape. It creaked threateningly when Froste landed, but held strong. Froste broke the threads still connected to the wall and tried to calm himself down, deep breaths in, deep breathes out. 

This was the second near-death experience he’d had in, what, only a few days? Froste was going to go insane if he kept this up. 

All he had to do now was climb down the ladder and then he’d be on solid ground again. Then he’d have to report the broken rail. 

Froste’s body felt jittery, as he made his way down. Paranoia made him cautious and slow, up until the last rung, and he could almost cry when his feet hit the concrete below. 

So he did. 

His knees gave out, and he crumpled against the cold ground, a strangled laugh leaving him before tears followed. Big, fat ones that rolled down his cheeks and plopped onto the ground.

Froste was just so, so tired.

When the chill started to get unbearable, he forced himself up, taking a sweep around.

The alleyway he landed in was shadowed, only a single flickering street light lighting it up, and even then, it was difficult to see. Froste took a step towards the light, and his foot nudged something hard lying on the ground. 

It was the pieces of the railing, scratched and dented. 

He ground his teeth together. It’d almost killed him, that stupid fucking shitty scrap metal. Useless, worthless, and unreasonable rage rose within Froste. He drew a leg back and kicked the metal hard as he could in an attempt to draw out some anger.

The metal flew back much further than it should’ve, even with the amount of strength he’d used. It flew through the air and hit something, Froste wasn’t sure what. There was a loud clang, and Froste shivered. He was suddenly scared. Terrified of himself and his new, changed body.

Someone would come investigate soon enough; the sound was loud enough to echo through the night. Froste ran, almost stumbled, back to the building entrance, back into the elevator, back into his apartment. It seemed almost like an illusion, that he was still in... moderate shape. Though his noggin still hurt like a bitch, the rest of him was fine. His heart was still going. His mind was not dead.

Froste was not dead.

He really had to grasp that concept, as hard to believe as it was.

A napkin was used to wipe up his drying tears, then Froste splashed some water on his face. His hand rested on the sink handle with the intention to turn it off, but he just caught his own eyes in the mirror and looked at himself for a moment.

A sigh.

Then he turned the handle, the water ceased, and dialed his insurance company.

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When Froste was bored during class or on the bus, he found himself unconsciously drawing little designs on the gauze concealing the physical evidence of his secret. 

He preferred to draw stars, swirls, and sometimes spiders. Which was strange, considering he didn’t even like arachnids before all of this happened. 

Things changed, he supposed.

And change they did. With the spinnerets came delicacy, with the superhuman strength came acute cramping if he used it too much. Froste learned more and more about his own body, as well as how to use webbing to swing from higher and risker places, how to shoot them at his own will, etcetera. Froste learned that webbing would dissolve on its own after an hour or two, so he didn’t really have to worry about leaving a mess.

A month or two in, he thought he had it all figured out.

Like hell he did.

The rush of adrenaline that came with flying through the air from place to place eventually became something Froste craved, and when he had the spare time, he’d go out and satisfy it, putting on concealing clothes just in case anyone caught sight of him. 

He’d make a suit one day, Froste swore. At least make himself look cool if he happened to be spotted. 

On one of these dark nights, the decision was made to try a different path ‘round the city, almost twice the length of his usual route. It wouldn’t hurt, it was just like exercise, anyways, he supposed.

In a way, he was right. When a human being exerts themselves for an elongated period of time, their body will eventually give in to the exhaustion overwhelming it. And just like a human being, his webbing had their own limits too.

Froste was quick to find this out when he was in the process of swinging to a building, sticking his wrist out to shoot webbing, and nothing came out.

His wrist sputtered, a pitiful amount of string clung to his skin, and no more followed.

Thankfully, he wasn’t too high off the ground, and landed with a grunt. His knees took most of the impact, Froste would feel sore as hell in the morning for sure.

Froste tilted his head towards the heavens. 

He’d learned something valuable tonight.

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Two years passed. Froste became used to the parts of his mutated figure, and always kept something covering his spinnerets wherever he went. It became a habit, just part of his everyday life.

College was winding to a close. Froste was in his junior year, now, and there were only a few weeks left before it was over. Exams put a load of stress on everyone, last-minute study groups forming left and right, and the school library was almost constantly packed from dawn to dusk. 

Froste studied better alone, so it wasn’t all too hard to find a spare seat somewhere. He dumped his backpack on the ground next to his seat, before sitting down with a tortured exhale.

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Calculus homework was genuinely something from the deepest pits of hell, Froste decided, barely twenty minutes into it. 

“Integrals, integrals,” he muttered in frustration, flipping through pages of the textbook sitting in front of him. “Where the hell are they?” Froste’s fingers almost hurt from constantly leafing through the sheets, and it took a lot longer than it should’ve for him to finally find the page he was looking for.

Before he promptly lost it, body jolting as a heavy bag thudded onto the desk next to him. 

Someone with a head of curly black hair pulled out the chair next to Froste before sitting down, not sparing the latter a single glance, which only served to piss him off more. 

Froste stared at the guy, mouth open in pure outrage. “Dude.” he demanded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck.”

“Hm?”

Innocent brown eyes turned to look at him, and Froste got a creeping suspicion that the man thought they’d get him out of this situation. Like hell was Froste going to back down so easily, though. He could sense the fakeness of the look in those eyes.

Even if they were a little effective... Ugh.

Whatever. Fuck this dude, god damn. 

“What is wrong with you? Couldn’t you see I was studying before dropping your fatass bag next to me?” Froste waved his hands around in indignation, and he could sense when the other’s eyes trained onto the gauze, eyes narrowing.

He completely ignored Froste’s question, in favor for asking his own. The audacity of this guy. 

“What’s with your wrists?”

Froste furrowed his brow. He was used to other people noticing them, but a stranger? Never in his life had Froste met someone so direct, who asked that question as their first words to him.

Scowling, he drew them back, almost hiding them instinctively in the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“It’s nothing.”

Faster than he could blink, a hand wrapped around his wrist, and Froste had to stifle a yelp as the sensitive skin protested against the rough grip. The man examined the designs he’d scrawled onto the bandages with pen earlier in the day, before turning his wrist over, and Froste froze, before tugging his wrist out of the other’s hold and packing his things up as fast as he could. 

He left the library without a single word in fear that they’d give him away, and Froste could feel eyes following him out.

The school year ended without Froste ever seeing the guy again. Odd, on this rather small campus, but Froste wasn’t arguing.

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Froste made a suit for himself out of leftover fabric and clothes lying around his apartment.

It was scrappy, sewn together by inexperienced hands, but it worked. As long as it concealed his identity, and as long as Froste could breathe in it, then it didn’t need to look perfect.

It was beautiful, though, in Froste’s opinion. It was red and blue like the spider that’d bitten him (though he’d chosen the colors without realizing the correlation at first) and a rough spiderweb pattern was drawn onto it with black fabric paint. 

There were holes cut where his spinnerets would be when Froste was wearing it, so he could use those while dressed up. Kind of crucial, since that was the whole point of the costume, to let him swing around to his heart’s desire anonymously.

Froste felt safe when he was in it, as well. That was an added plus.

Every day, Froste would bring it with him. The suit didn’t take up a lot of space, so it was convenient to carry around. 

The first time he actually used it in public was when Froste was just going for a walk outside. The sky was cloudy, a fluffy layer of whiteish-gray blocking out the sun. The street was a bustling hub of people chatting and strolling about, when all of a sudden, Froste was shoved off the sidewalk, onto the grass, by someone with a mask on. They sprinted past him, seeming to be headed for the alleyways that lined the spaces between buildings. A policeman ran by a few moments later, panting into his radio about some “criminal on the loose,” “too fast to catch.”

And a moment later, “gun.”

Froste was filled with the irresistible urge to go help, and he knew it was risky. But what if someone died? Froste could prevent a death right now, he couldn’t just stand by and watch.

Moral won out, and Froste automatically ducked into a small shop next to him, running to the bathroom. He tossed the suit on swiftly, struggling with the zipper on the back, before exiting back into the main area of the store. A few people looked at him weird, but Froste just ignored it. He ran for the ‘Employees Only’ door instead of using the front door, which would definitely draw too much attention. The exit was located quickly from there, and Froste burst through, immediately shooting a web to launch him up into the sky.

This was the first time he’d done this in broad daylight, and it was thrilling. He could see everything from this height, all those miniature people walking about, dwarfed from the height. 

He had someone to catch, though.

Clambering to the top of a taller building, Froste squinted as he tried to see where they could be... and there. 

Flashing police lights drew his attention to the approximate area where they were located, and Froste promptly spotted the criminal, still running from the now-group of police on his tail. Within seconds, he was headed towards the moving figures, fast as a hawk, zeroing in on the crowd.

Froste shot a final strand to fix his trajectory, and sensed with satisfaction that none of them had noticed him above them yet. That’d be soon to change.

There were surprised yelps, especially from the criminal, as Froste landed on him, decking him to the ground with the force of his momentum. Clicks as guns trained on him, frightened policemen circling the two with bewildered looks on their faces. Fingers rested on triggers, tense and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Yeah, Froste felt the same when he first realized what he could do, too. 

Masked eyes met fearful eyes, gun barrels pointed straight toward Froste’s heart. Really not a good way to thank someone who’d just taken down the person you were hunting, honestly. This was bad etiquette.

People were really so rude now. 

For the time being, he had to get out of there before he was captured, interrogated, or shot full of bullets. Because one of those were sure to happen if he stayed there. 

People hated what they didn’t know.

Lightning-fast, Froste took off and into the skies, epinephrine still flowing through his veins.

A single shot rang out behind him, then there was shouting. Froste didn’t bother to look back if they caught the runaway. If they couldn’t catch the man despite him being rammed into the ground, that was on them, really.

Froste had done what he had to. The rest wasn’t his business.

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“... and lastly, several policemen and bystanders report witnessing a person with spider-like qualities tackle a runaway criminal out of seemingly nowhere. A few witnesses state that the figure came from the skies, but there is still no solid evidence as to what really happened. We will report back to you with more details as we find out more about this ‘Spider-Man,’ as the mysterious person has been nicknamed. 

Thank you for tuning in with us, KTLA 5 News daily to deliver news straight to your television!”

Froste twisted his lips, clicking the power button on the TV remote. 

The screen blipped to a matte black as it shut off, and Froste sat there in silence. 

He’d made news everywhere with his performance. Hell, Froste was sure that if you checked news in Asia, he’d be on that as well. No one had ever seen anything like them, especially not a whole crowd of people, of witnesses. 

Fingers were pointed everywhere at potential suspects, but they all lead to dead ends. Froste had been a little wary around others, afraid they’d somehow see right through him and see what he was keeping quiet, but no one did. He’d left no evidence, and the store he’d changed in had no security cameras. If they did, he’d have been in trouble, Froste seriously got really lucky there.

He was rubbing the skin near his spinnerets again. Froste forced his fingers to stop; he really had to cut this habit. They were already sensitive enough, more caused by irritation really wasn’t needed. Just another thing he had to fret about.

Back to the news.

Headlines were filled with his name — or, well, his nickname, that was. It was everywhere, all over every website. Some viewed him as a hero, some as a villain (somehow) whilst others were unbiased. Unbiased news sources were really the holy grail, god bless the journalists’ hearts.

It was like a rabbit hole, reading entry after entry of speculations about him. Odd, it felt, to read things that others had written about you, but it was entertaining. Always someone demanding that they were onto something. Constant banter over whether something was really true or not.

Only Froste knew exactly what was real and what was not.

It felt good, the attention. Knowing that he’d helped someone. Froste liked it a lot. 

Maybe he’d chase the feeling more often, he debated. The screen door to the balcony slid open as Froste stepped onto the platform, a soft breeze ruffling his hair. The rail had been fixed a while back, but even still, Froste didn’t trust it. Though he knew that he could save himself if he did happen to fall again, the paranoia was still constant in the back of his mind, an irrational fear caused by something that one could probably consider trauma.

At this point, Froste might need a goddamned brick wall in place of the railing just to feel safe. Stable.

Nothing like watching stars with a strain from fear on the heart, right? Haha.

Froste stayed near the door, not daring to stray towards the edge.

“Spider-Man,” Froste muttered under his breath, before letting out a soft chuckle. “Corny ass name.”

It could be worse, he figured. He could’ve been nicknamed Cobweb Conquerer. Spiderweb Sucker. That was an amusing prospect. It could be a hell of a lot worse, indeed.

When he was beginning to shiver from the cold, Froste made his way back inside, glancing back at the television one more time.

Spider-Man, hm?

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.

The feeling of being someone’s, or multiple someones’, savior never got old. There was always something new going down, especially in a city like Los Angeles. Sometimes things got dangerous, but never life-threatening ‘til this moment. 

Never before had Froste considered that there was anyone going through anything like him.

So imagine his surprise when he was intercepted one night by a figure who appeared out of thin air, two swords strapped across his back. 

The person had a suit quite like Froste’s own, yet not as raggedy. Stained in blood and some other type of visceral substance that could only be caused by the suffering of others. Or themself. Similar physique, too, so Froste assumed it was a man. 

Within a moment, Froste had a pocket knife drawn and pointed threateningly at the other’s pharynx, which, reflecting back on it, was just plain silly. The man had katanas, for crying out loud.

And as such, he just laughed. From the only slight deepness in his voice, Froste assumed he was about Froste’s age. Either that, or a little bit younger, maybe? That was only a rough estimate. Froste could be completely wrong about this, for all he knew.

“I wanted to meet the famous Spider-Man.” The man’s tone was jeering, and sounded almost slightly familiar. Froste shook off the faint, eerie sense of recognition that overcame him. He realized that the other was still talking. 

“... not as high and mighty as I thought you would be, actually. Being caught so easily.”

Froste scowled, not wanting to give away that he hadn’t even heard half of his yapping. Deflect and redirect, that was what the people said.

“Who the fuck even are you?” Froste laughed, trying to inject menace into his voice. It came out all wrong, though, jumbled up somewhere between his pounding heart and his racing mind. To make up for it, he poked the tip of the blade into the other’s neck. There was no reaction, not even a slight flinch. Did the man have no sense of survival instinct at all?

“They call me Deadpool.”

The name did not strike Froste as familiar. Deadpool was almost able to tell what he was thinking, and tacked on, “You likely have never heard of me. They like keeping the truly villainous superhumans a secret. I’m also just good at keeping myself hidden... Unlike you.”

“Truly villainous superhumans?” The gall of this man. Was his ego artificially inflated, because there was no way someone was naturally this brazen. The undertone of mirth in Froste’s voice was obvious despite his efforts to keep it out, and he could see... Deadpool’s... eyes narrow. 

“I could kill you right now, you know. I wouldn’t make fun of me if I were you.” Deadpool raised his arm to take one of the handles of his katanas in hand, a slight suggestion of muscles showing from the movement. Froste dragged his eyes away.

“And I could escape right now if I really wanted to, you know.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

Deadpool was silent, as if confused by the question himself, like even he didn’t know why Froste was still alive. They were at a stalemate, like a king against a king, able to circle but never to kill.

“Killing’s wrong,” Deadpool forced out like the words physically hurt him.

Froste just huffed, eyeing him up and down. “I strongly doubt you really believe that.”

The annoyance from the other man was palpable. He stepped back, shaking his head, gestured for Froste to leave. “Just go, I couldn’t give a fuck. I’ll see you around, probably.”

“Looking forward to it,” Froste shot back sarcastically, before taking off.

There was a strange feeling of déjà vu that followed him, as if the eyes that watched him go now had seen him leave before.

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.

“... and tonight on KTLA 5 News, Spider-Man strikes again. There are still no new leads as to who they could be, but police are very thankful for their help with dealing with prisoners.”

Same old, same old.

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The next time Froste saw Deadpool was by chance; when he was just going out for a walk, or a swing, heh, at night, and Deadpool just so happened to be in the same area as him. They caught each other’s eyes, before each pretended like they hadn’t seen the other.

Deadpool lived in the same region as Froste, huh? Good to know. Absolutely fantastic. That just meant he’d see him around every once in a while.

Just great.

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.

“Fight me, pussy!” Deadpool taunted, as Froste closed in slowly. There was a manic look in the other’s eyes, probably matching Froste’s own.

They were in a field, maybe on someone’s property, maybe not. Didn’t matter.

Blood had been drawn. Red was spilled all over the grass at random, red mixing in with green. A nasty bruise was forming on Deadpool’s cheek from a particularly powerful hook Froste’d thrown.

A gash was opened above Froste’s eye by Deadpool’s sword, throbbing in agony with every single movement.

It hurt like hell, a hell that Froste was learning to enjoy.

A crazy grin stretched across his face as he leapt towards the other, going for a quick uppercut followed by sweeping his legs out from under him. His punch hit metal instead of flesh, and sparks traveled along Froste’s arm, nerves crying in protest.

It wouldn’t hurt for them to cry a little harder; maybe it’d build character.

This wasn’t even about saving anyone, anymore. This was just them, hatred in their movements, misdirected anger in their eyes. 

Froste landed a punch to Deadpool’s shoulder, and heard a crack. Deadpool cringed, took his shoulder in his opposite hand, and pulled until there was another crack. So odd, the guy. 

“Who’s the—” A butterfly kick, then an elbow strike. “Who’s the goddamn weak one now, hmm?”

“You!” Deadpool cackled. “You’ll wish you were never alive after this, fucking piece of shit!”

“In your dreams!” 

Another solid punch, blood splattered from Deadpool’s face. He swung his sword like a psychopath, and one caught Froste in the side, opening a wound that bled like there was no tomorrow. Froste’d have to sew up his suit later.

Neither came out on top in the end, though if you asked one of them, he’d claim he had overpowered the other.

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.

Morals really weren’t all too great of a motivator, once the initial explosion of attention wore off. It was like the honeymoon phase of a relationship; it was beautiful, you loved it until it was over, then you just wanted out.

Sometimes Froste just didn’t want to do this anymore. 

He’d be perfectly content being a normal young adult working a nine-to-five job. Even still, sometimes Froste wished that spider had never gotten within a hundred mile radius of him.

One night, when Froste stumbled across Deadpool sitting at the edge of a building roof, he walked towards him, then just took a seat.

Then they talked. 

Froste could relate to Deadpool, honestly. They did this for the adrenaline. The rush of dopamine. Just carried out their goals in different ways. 

He learned how Deadpool became the way he was. Cancer, he’d said. They’d taken him in and experimented on his body, until they’d managed to fuck him up enough for him to become how he was now. There was torture, he said, and didn’t elaborate. Froste got the sense that it was a sensitive topic for him.

They conversed until the sun peeked over the horizon, then Deadpool said he’d have to go. One last thing, though — “Could I see your face? I’m just curious.”

The concept of the first person to see Froste’s — Spider-Man’s — face being someone who was supposed to be his enemy was terrifyingly exciting. He hesitated, though, because was that really a good idea? Deadpool might hunt him down and kill him in his sleep afterwards for all he knew.

“No pressure,” the other shrugged, and suddenly, for some unknown reason, Froste realized he trusted the other. Maybe it was because he was the only other person who was alike to Froste in the slightest, who knew.

Froste swallowed. Nodded.

Deadpool tipped his head, looking at Froste inquisitively. “Oh, really? I mean, alright.”

Before Froste could think about it again, he tugged at the zipper down, pulled down the section of the suit covering his face, and tilted his head towards Deadpool, a smile, mostly nervous, tugging at his lips.

Deadpool didn’t react at first. He just stared, but then his eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Oh my god,” he sputtered. “Fuck. Fuck. I have to go.” 

Then just like that, he was gone. Teleported away, probably. Leaving Froste there alone, sitting in front of the rising sun with a sinking feeling in his gut.

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Froste hadn’t seen Deadpool after that night. That was a good thing, he told himself, but was it really?

Months passed.

A year.

One year, two months, seventeen days.

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.

Even fighting crime started becoming dull.

He’d just drop by, take the perpetrator down, and leave before the police could catch him. It was a rhythm, a steady one at that. Froste could probably do it with his eyes closed, at this point.

So when he heard screams coming from a more broken-down area of the city, he didn’t think much of it. Just changed, opened a window (yes, stupid as it was, Froste would rather climb through a window than that damned balcony,) and leapt into the open air. 

Strand after strand, Froste knew by heart how much webbing was needed to hold up his weight. He didn’t want to waste what he could save.

There was a strange nagging feeling in his stomach, a sense of danger. One that he hadn’t felt before. Froste ignored it, though, assuming that it couldn’t be anything that bad, right? He could deal with it, no problem.

Except when he landed on the concrete, there was nothing but a small bluetooth device lying on the ground, playing pre-recorded shrieks on full volume. Froste eyed it, moved to take a step closer, then thought better of it. 

What...

Then something hard thudded against the back of his skull, rattling his brain, and he was almost immediately out. Before his eyelids fluttered shut, a familiar red and black figure appeared in his peripheral, yelling something, someone else yelled something back, was this all Deadpool’s doing?

Then everything went dark.

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.

Froste floated in and out of consciousness. When he forced his eyes open a sliver, he saw Deadpool, surrounded by a crowd of men, bearing weapons. They were fighting, Froste could process that. War raged around his limp body, a twenty versus one. Which side was Deadpool on?

His eyes closed again.

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.

Next time he came to, he was strapped down in a chair. Ropes dug into his skin, and Froste realized with dull horror that his suit was gone. He felt naked without it.

“He’s awake,” someone that Froste hadn’t noticed muttered into a radio. Froste’s head snapped towards them. They regarded him with bored eyes. 

“Don’t try to escape. We sedated you, your super-strength won’t work.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Where am I?” Froste croaked. His throat was uncomfortably dry, he was dehydrated.

“The Los Angeles County Jail System.”

Shocked, Froste choked on his own breath. “What?”

“We found you unresponsive. We figured that we would bring you in for interrogation.”

“Who the hell is we?” Froste demanded, tears pricking at his eyes. This had to be his worst nightmare, right here. “Why are you going to question me? I didn’t even do anything!”

“We would like to run experiments to see why you turned out the way you are.”

The word ‘experiments’ was like a shock to Froste’s system, and he could almost hear Deadpool’s voice again. 

They said they’d run experiments on me to see what cure there was for my cancer. Then they tortured me. No one cared for my screams. No one gave a single fuck.

I want them to suffer for that.

“No! No! I’m fine, leave me fucking alone! I will kill all of you if you even touch me, I swear to everything—” 

Then from a door Froste hadn’t realized was behind him, two people walked in, and one of them stabbed a syringe into the side of his neck.

Froste went limp.

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“In today’s news, we have discovered the identity of ‘Spider-Man.’ He has been taken in for questioning.

“Spider-Man’s name is Erind Puka.”

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Froste was drugged almost twenty-four seven, just so he wasn’t able to escape. 

Braces were strapped around his wrists, covering his spinnerets, and nothing could come out of them. No webbing, no nothing.

First it itched, it itched like hell, then the pain came. 

It was lightning-hot, his wrists swelled. His wrists were red, the skin tight. And Froste couldn’t do a single thing about it. Trying to tug his wrists free only hurt him more.

Blood started dripping from below the braces, a few days in. Pus, after infection set in. So much pain. So much agony.

He screamed, Froste yelled, cried for help, through his tears, through pure unfiltered anger. 

They just came in, drew blood, ran tests, ignored him. Probably seeing if this ran in his genetics, Froste supposed.

 Skin became soft from constantly being covered in cloth. His skin broke down, the infection got worse. When days were bad, Froste could barely move his fingers. 

The life left his eyes, his body, the longer this went on.

From the never-ending pain, Froste quickly found himself going insane. First came rage, then delirium. After that, weakness. His body hung limp as scientists came and left, doing whatever they wanted to him.

Maybe this was the rest of his life.

Maybe he’d die like this, at their mercy, held at the brink of death for who knew how long.

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Drunkenly, brown eyes flickered open as screams filled the prison, an announcement broadcasted from the speakers scattered about. 

“Emergency Lockdown, I repeat, Emergency Lockdown! There has been a break-in at the Los Angeles County Jail System, a man with a suit has breached the perimeter. Please report any abnormalities you detect as soon as possible.”

He blinked once, then the suited man was in front of him, and the bars to his cell were broken open. Bent at an angle that suggested that whoever this was had forced their way in.

“Hey...” Froste slurred, a goofy smile on his face. “Nice seeing... you here... Wh’ts your... name?”

The man didn’t respond, just tugged the ropes crisscrossed around Froste’s limp figure free, caught him when he collapsed, unable to even support his own body. “Woah...” he giggled. “Dizzy. Ev’rything looks weeeeird.”

“What did they do to you...” was muttered, Froste caught traces of it. 

“Experiments. Like Deadpool said. Heh... Dead. Said. I’m rhyming.”

“Fucking hell, Webs.”

Froste was thrown over a broad shoulder, and with a blip, they were out.

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.

A water bottle was lifted to Froste’s chapped lips, and eased down his throat. Froste drank his fill, then when he whined, the bottle was drawn away and placed aside.

Deadpool removed the braces around Froste’s wrists easily, exposing the raw, cracked skin to the open air. He hissed in a breath through clenched teeth, opening drawers and cabinets in a frenzy to find medicine.

“How’d you know... where I live?” Froste blabbled. His eyes weren’t even opened.

“This isn’t your apartment. This is my house.” Deadpool gritted out, locating a large bottle of antibiotics of which he pried open, before smearing a thick layer around the skin crusted with dried fluid. 

“Weird to... see you care. No one ‘lse did.” 

Freezing, Deadpool glanced at Froste. His eyes were still shut.

Froste wasn’t in his right mind at all.

His spinnerets throbbed, begging to release the webs that’d clogged up around the entrance. He could almost cry in relief when fingers started massaging the area around it, only a little bit of webbing coming out at first, but then more and more was released, plopping onto the floor.

After that, Froste wasn’t sure what happened. He went unconscious, again. 

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His fever was receding.

Frost awoke on an old mattress, a thin comforter tossed over his burning body. He could almost think clearly now, he just needed to gather his thoughts. Remember how he’d gotten to... wherever he was.

Then a man walked in and Froste screamed.

It was the same man he’d met in that library so many years ago, with that soft black hair and fiery personality. Except now, there was a nasty scar stretching across the pretty face, skin rough like it’d been replaced by a scab spanning his entire body.

“Where am I? Why are you here? What the fuck happened to you?”

“My apartment, jesus, calm down!” The man yelled. “I’m Deadpool, how do you not remember?”

Deadpool?

Then it all made sense. How he’d reacted after seeing Froste’s face. How he disappeared after they’d met that first time, in the library.

It all made sense.

“You’re— You’re Deadpool?” Froste choked out. 

The man blinked. “Yeah?” Then he glanced at himself, and realized. “Oh. Shit.”

“All this time, you knew, and you just disappeared?” demanded Froste, furious. “Were you the one who knocked me out and got me trapped in that hell in the first place?”

“Fuck no! I’ve literally gone through that torture, I wouldn’t wish that shit on my worst enemy!”

“Then who—”

“It was a setup by the police, alright? They wanted to solve their little mystery, people were getting scared from the concept of the unknown, and they had to stop it.”

“There’s no way—” Then Froste considered everything he’d been subjected to, and reconsidered. “... Okay.”

The man came up to him, took a wrist in unexpectedly gentle hands, rubbing the still-inflamed skin.

“So... what’s your name, then?” Deadpool muttered. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned it.”

Froste quirked his lips. “Why would I?”

“Not answering my question.”

Bitch. “I’m Erind, but I go by Froste. What about you?”

“Deadpool.”

Froste ground his teeth together. “Not what I meant.”

“Fine, fine.” He massaged circles into the delicate skin. “Name’s Yan. Classify as a nickname. Classy for short.”

A nod to show he’d heard him.

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.

“I can’t take care of you forever, you know.”

Even though Froste knew this, the words still hurt to hear. He knew he was a burden. It was hard enough for someone fresh out of college to take care of themselves, and to add another person to it? It was unfair, Froste had to admit. 

Classy didn’t make money through work. He wouldn’t let the government get their hands on him, to know that he was still alive. He scammed, always tapping away at a computer when he wasn’t tending to Froste or messing around in the vast world around them.

They’d grew close, drifted apart. They’d laughed, they’d fought. Fought over everything there was to be fought over, swore never to talk to each other ever again about once a day. 

But this couldn’t last much longer.

There was a lump in Froste’s throat, and he swallowed. “Alright,” he said, but his voice wobbled, and Classy looked at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely loud enough for Froste to hear.

Froste was silent.

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.

His wrists were fucked.

Froste turned them over, examining them. Even after weeks, maybe even months, they were still sensitive and any webbing he managed to shoot was weak and stringy.

Froste was not sure if they’d ever heal. Classy had done what he could to help, then dropped him off at his apartment entrance, where Froste stood now, feet rooted into the ground.

It was scary. If anyone recognized him, his name... 

Froste inhaled shakily, then walked in. The receptionist at the front desk didn’t give him a second look as he walked by and clicked the button that’d bring the elevator. 

Even if they didn’t recognize him now, that didn’t mean they never would.

So when he got to his apartment, the damned place where he’d lived for so many years, Froste packed all his things into a suitcase, glanced around one last time, and left. 

As he walked down the sidewalk, some people tossed him weird glances, but no one said anything, because there was no way the actual famous Spider-Man was walking among them, right? 

Or, as the news had oh so considerably announced to the world, the famous Erind Puka.

His life would be, was, in shambles. Froste had gotten laid off from his job in the time he was gone, due to disappearing without a trace, and he couldn’t apply for another without being caught. Even if he gave a fake name, there was no way to change how he looked like. What if they decided to take a blood test, for whatever reason? That’d be it.

How would Froste survive without money? 

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Froste didn’t have it in him to do what Classy did, either. He was weak-hearted.

There was that same fire escape right there that Froste had climbed down so long ago, in the alleyway right next to him. Froste took an abrupt turn and walked into it, the faint odor of mildew reaching his nose. The sky would darken in about an hour, before night would cloak the world.

Froste shoved his suitcase aside. He wouldn’t need it for long.

Then, he sat down on the mossy, untended sidewalk, and waiting.

The moon peeked out at the world, and when the sky began to change to a deep red-orange, Froste struggled to his feet.

He was still weak, but if he just took his time, this would work.

The fire escape was as old and unstable as he remembered it to be. The paint coated over the metal had gradually chipped away over time from erosion, rain, all things natural and all things not. It’d gotten old, worn out, a bit like Froste himself. 

Froste’s muscles cried in protest as he hauled himself up the rungs, walked up step after step, stamina ruined after not using his body for too long. Atrophy, Classy had said.

Floor after floor, the ground became further and further from him, and when he got to the roof, his luggage was reduced to only a speck on the grey expanse of concrete below. 

The sky was streaked with the blood of the defeated day making way for night, and it was beautiful. 

It’d been far too long since Froste had watched the sun set from such a height. 

He’d missed it. The air was warm, and felt nice on his skin. Cars honking and the general murmur of hundreds upon hundreds of people talking reached him, even from so high up, and it was a calming ambience. 

Despite what happened, Froste’s life hadn’t been too bad. He’d suffered a lot, but he got his moments of fame. People always had to pay for being famous, Froste just had to pay a different price than usual.

That was it. 

Maybe he’d deserved the torture. Had it coming for him.

Froste’d met Classy, too. Even if it was just a snapshot, part of the end of his life, Froste was grateful for it, and sorry that all his work would go to waste.

Classy wouldn’t want this. Deadpool wouldn’t want this, but what say did he have in Froste’s life, anyways?

He traced his fingers along the rough, almost jagged edges of concrete that lay around him. It calmed him, serotonin, serotonin. Serotonin through his blood, a replacement for the epinephrine that would’ve been there if time just rewinded one year.

Froste shuffled to the edge, swung his legs over and dangled them there, swinging his feet back and forth. 

The moon was fully out, now. The sky was dark, shadowed, and it felt oddly similar to that first night Froste had discovered he could control his webs. The only difference was now, his spinnerets were wrecked.

 Digging his fingers into the side of the building, Froste exhaled, slowly. 

He was ready.

Froste hoped no one would miss him. He wasn’t sure who would, actually. Maybe Classy, but probably not.

His heart hurt. Torture in its own right.

Froste pushed himself off the side, fell the maybe hundred feet down, just like that night when he was younger and so much more naïve. Except this time, there were no spiderwebs to save him.

His body hit the ground with a disgusting explosion of skin, flesh, and guts. Searing pain, then nothing. Then it was just his fading heartbeat, his dying mind.

A mess of something previously so alive.

Just like that spider he’d crushed at the very beginning of his story. They’d call it a tragedy, maybe. The hero who’d ended up alone. Or maybe they’d villainize it.

Either way, Froste wouldn’t be around to see it.

It was fine, Froste was okay with it.

So much time, so much work, ended in a second. A long and winding tale come to a sudden end.

At least Froste’s life had ended at his own hands, rather than those of another.