Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

-

Uh, wakin’ up, feelin’ like the thankful one

Count up my ones, lacin’ up my favorite 1s

One-of-a-kind, one of one, the only one.

–

The first time Martin meets James, Seonghyeon is the one (generously) doing the easy part for both of them: introductions.  The first-time meetings mumbo jumbo; the kind of painfully normal social ritual Martin has never quite figured out how to do without sounding either too awkward or accidentally too eager.  ‎Seonghyeon, to his credit, probably knows exactly how badly this could go if left to the two of them alone.

So he talks enough for everyone, his words spilling out swiftly, one hand slung lazily around James’ shoulder as if to physically force some kind of social stability into the interaction.  Martin only catches about probably half of what he’s saying.  Something about classes, blah-blah-blah, and something about James transferring in recently, which had piqued his interest, in fact.

What Martin does catch the most, however, is the way James looks at him.

Well, he’s not staring, exactly. (Not in the overdramatic, rom-com kind of way either; the sort Martin gets roped in to sit through during movie nights with his friends, only to spend the entirety of it pretending he absolutely does not care while secretly getting invested enough to complain about the ending.)  James just looks up at him with enough attention to make Martin straighten up without realizing it.  Enough to make him suddenly aware of the way he’s standing, the way his hoodie probably looks wrinkled, the fact he definitely should have fixed his hair before leaving his dorm instead of flattening it down with one hand and hoping for divine intervention.

And, unfortunately, the fact he probably looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

Most people would probably assume he’d just been busy studying too hard, staying up all night finishing up assignments.  ‘Locking in,’ as the saying goes.  Typical college things.

And sure, technically, some of that was true.  He had spent a frankly unreasonable amount of time hunched over his laptop and textbooks recently, surviving mostly off caffeine and the vague hope that deadlines were more of a suggestion than a legally binding threat.  Juhoon’s advices had become something of a survival guide for him at this point.

Still, Martin liked to think he was managing.  Barely, but still managing.

But mostly, it was because Martin was New York City’s one and only, (insert title card)—

Spider-Man.

(Which sounded significantly cooler in theory than it actually felt constantly limping back to his dorm late at night with scars and blood drying uncomfortably against his sleeve.)

Honestly, being Spider-Man had turned out to be about forty percent helping people, thirty percent terrible timing, twenty percent nearly dying in increasingly creative ways, and ten percent wondering if this was the exact concussion that would finally take him out.

Sometimes it was stopping robberies, sometimes it was rescuing civilians from fires, sometimes it was rescuing cats from trees.  And sometimes it was nearly getting flattened into the pavement by people or things significantly larger and stronger than him—and way too passionate about destruction.

Sometimes, it was also patching himself up alone in his dorm bathroom at three in the morning, staring at a fresh bruise blooming ugly beneath his ribs and wondering whether any of this was sustainable.

Because no one really tells you the exhausting part of being a hero.  All of the pain; the aching; the hiding; the constant balancing act of pretending to be some normal kid while carrying the heavy weight of things on his shoulders people around him don’t even know happened.

And okay, sure—being Spider-Man gave him approximately zero excuse for neglecting himself, he knew that.   People had reminded him enough times and scolded him enough, too.  Sleep more, Martin.  Eat real food, Martin.  Take care of yourself, Martin.

But how exactly was he supposed to juggle classes, responsibilities, and the occasional life-threatening catastrophe while simultaneously trying to save all of New York?

Oh, and, for extra fun, evade the police and the FBI because apparently being a widely known vigilante came with the deeply inconvenient side effect of law enforcement wanting to arrest you.

Martin had considered quitting before.  A lot, actually.  But every time he seriously thought about walking away from it, all he could hear was his uncle’s voice from years ago, grounding and certain in a way Martin had never quite figured out how to be.

With great power comes great responsibility.

And Martin had taken those words to heart.

Suddenly, he realizes James is still looking at him.  Which is somehow worse, because he might actually have a healing bruise peeking out near his collarbone if James stared too hard.

So naturally, because Martin has always made catastrophically terrible decisions in the face of pretty people, he flashes James a crooked smile.  Hopefully not one that looks humiliatingly shy around the edges, or hopefully not obvious in the way that says hi, I already think you’re cute and this is actively ruining my ability to function.

James smiles back.  Martin had not prepared himself for that.

But Martin, who has spent enough years pretending he’s cooler than he actually is, manages to keep himself looking perfectly unaffected.  If the sudden swarm of butterflies staging a violent protest in his stomach says otherwise, well.  Nobody asked.

James is noticeably shorter than him.  Seonghyeon slightly taller than him, too, somehow making Martin feel weirdly oversized in comparison considering he was about six feet tall.  But despite that, James still manages to feel oddly imposing in a way Martin can’t explain.

“Nice to meet you, man,”  James says after a beat, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck.  “I’m, uh, James. Seonghyeon’s friend, as you already know. And you’re Martin, right?”

Well, yes.  Seonghyeon had already handled the whole exchanging-names thing approximately five minutes ago, but Martin guesses James just needed something to say.

And, okay, maybe Seonghyeon had been right.  This is painfully awkward without him.  Which is ridiculous, because wasn’t this supposed to be some wholesome go-make-friends-before-you become-one-of-those weird-shut-ins situation Seonghyeon had practically shoved him into? Since, according to Seonghyeon—the ever-dramatic, painfully devoted friend—Martin had spent entirely too much time hiding in his dorm making music and slowly transforming into some “mysterious music producer recluse,” as he calls him.

Instead, it feels suspiciously like the opening ten minutes of a terrible first date.  (Martin realizes he’s been watching too many rom-coms lately.)

Still, Martin stretches his smile into something passably normal and sticks a hand out. Seonghyeon, apparently understanding the assignment, drops the arm he had slung around James so the gesture doesn’t become weirdly difficult.

“Yeah, that’s me,”  Martin says after, smoothly. 

“That’s a cool name,”  James says, reaching forward to shake his hand.  His grip is warm and soothing; Martin’s first coherent thought.  “I think it means something about Mars, right? Like the planet.”

That gets something softer out of Martin before he can help it.  He hadn’t exactly prepared for James to know random facts about his name.

“Oh,”  he says, a little sheepish now.  “Yeah, probably why my mom picked it.”  He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head at the thought.  “She seemed committed to symbolism.”

(Or maybe she’d just thought it sounded cool.  He’d never asked, really.)

Their hands separate after a second, brief enough that Martin almost misses the warmth of it.

Across from them, Seonghyeon glances between the two with the expression of someone watching a scene that could either blossom beautifully or combust into more unbearable awkwardness.  Then, apparently deciding silence has gone on too long, he claps his hands once.

“Ah, hyung,”  Seonghyeon says toward James, jerking a thumb toward Martin,  “did you know he makes music too? Same as us.”

Martin already knows where this is going, and unfortunately, Seonghyeon continues.

“He acts all mysterious about it,”  he adds, grinning,  “but he’s actually really good. Like, really good. Maybe even better than me.”

Martin blinks.  Oh, come on.  Is Seonghyeon seriously trying to market him to James right now?  This is the same Seonghyeon who has, conservatively speaking, written enough songs to qualify as (emotionally) concerning. A hundred of them currently rotting in unfinished drafts because Martin keeps telling him to post them and Seonghyeon keeps refusing like he was some kind of artistic martyr.

Martin shoots him a look that says Absolutely not.  Way to make this weird, dude.

“Oh, no,”  Martin denies quickly, already shaking his head, laughing under his breath.  “He just likes hyping me up for fun. I’m not that good. Honestly, don’t trust anything this guy says.”

James seals his lips together like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.  Which was sort of a win for Martin.  A small one, but still.

Seonghyeon gives him a flat look.  “Oh, really?”  he says.  “Then what’s all that spending-every-hour-in-your-dorm-making-music thing?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m good at it,”  Martin clarifies immediately. 

Which, technically, is true.  Sure, Martin spends an unreasonable amount of time shut up in his dorm whenever his roommate Keonho isn’t around.  Most of the time, Keonho is out somewhere anyway—usually with Seonghyeon—which, if Martin is being honest, makes things easier for him.

Because while, yes, some of that time is spent producing music or halfheartedly attempting to write songs, a decent portion of it is also dedicated to recovering from whatever fresh injury he’s picked up while throwing himself around New York trying not to die.

Turns out vigilante work and college have terrible compatibility.

And whenever Keonho is around, keeping secrets becomes more difficult.  It isn’t exactly impossible, but Martin struggles with the idea of lying so easily to people who are supposed to be his friends.  He’s always hated lying.  Yet the irony isn’t lost on him—he spends every day hiding the fact that he is the world’s one and only Spider-Man, concealing his true identity behind countless lies.

Seonghyeon only smiles wider at Martin’s answer, which feels deeply unfair for him knowing he could only hold back.  Martin chooses not to acknowledge it.

“It’s just a hobby,”  he adds, casual as he glances back toward James.  “Nothing serious.”

James is smiling again by then, quieter this time, expression softening slightly at watching the two of them bicker.

And the thing Martin notices is that James has that kind of smile that feels weirdly contagious.  It’s infectious enough that it makes Martin smile back before he even realizes he’s doing it.

“So you really do music?”  James asks, more direct this time.

“Yeah,”  Martin says, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie as if mirroring James.  “Mostly producing. According to Seonghyeon, apparently I spend all day locked in my dorm doing it.”  He pauses.  “Sometimes songwriting too. If I actually have time.”

He nods towards James.  “What about you?”

James nods in acknowledgement at Martin’s words, seemingly more relaxed now and less guarded than before.  Maybe this meant their conversation has successfully breached the dangerous threshold from the painfully awkward stage into the more comforting stage.

“Music too,”  James says.  “I produce sometimes. Mostly for fun.”  He shrugs lightly.  “I like choreographing more, though.”

“Oh?”

The surprise slips out before Martin can stop it.

James reaches up to scratch the back of his neck again, though this time it seems less nervous and more habitual.

“Yeah, I dance,”  he says, casual, like this isn’t objectively cool information to casually spring on somebody.  “Been doing it for years. I choreograph for performances sometimes.”

Martin folds his arms loosely across his chest, interest snagging almost immediately.

“That’s actually really cool,”  he says, and means it.  “I can’t dance at all. I mean, I try.”

“You definitely can, Martin,”  Seonghyeon chimes in immediately.

Martin turns to him with betrayal.

“Nah, I absolutely cannot,”  he says.  “And don’t act like you didn’t call me a dancing giraffe once, dude.”

Seonghyeon just shrugs, looking entirely unashamed at the accusation.

James lets out another laugh at that; a more authentic one this time.  Martin hates how satisfying it feels to hear it.

“I doubt it’s that bad,”  James says.

“Oh, trust me,”  Martin replies.  “It’s… something.”

James shakes his head, smile lingering now in a way that feels less hesitant than before.  “Well,” he says, softly,  “maybe I can judge that myself someday.”

Yeah, Martin is not going to think too hard about that sentence right now.  Instead, he just nods coolly.  “I bet.”

Across from them, Seonghyeon looks between the two with an expression that emerges as suspiciously victorious.

“Great,”  he says.  “You guys found common interests. My work here is done.”

“You’re leaving?”  James asks.

“My dorm is calling me,”  Seonghyeon says solemnly.  “And by dorm, I mean instant ramyeon.”

Martin raises a brow playfully.  “Sounds like this isn’t your first rodeo.”

Seonghyeon is already halfway gone when he calls back,  “Of course it is! You got this, bro!”

Martin huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.  Typical.  He figures he can survive this alone now without Seonghyeon’s help.  They’ve found common ground and they’re talking casually.  Nobody has combusted from awkwardness yet.

Everything is fine.

Totally cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

Then he feels James’ piercing eyes boring into him once again, lingering just long enough to render Martin weak in the knees.

“So,”  James says, somehow easy and reserved at the same time.  “Music.”

Martin brightens instantly, smirking slightly.  “Yeah,”  he says, probably too quickly.  “Music.”

He’s fidgeting now, fingers brushing against the fabric inside his hoodie pocket.  He can’t quite tell if it’s because he wants James to like him—or because, somehow, he already likes James a little too much for a first meeting.  He decides to ignore it first than let the second thoughts overcome him.  Better later than now.

“You wanna hear some stuff?”  Martin asks instead.

James lights up almost immediately.

“Yeah,”  he says.  “That would be cool.”

Martin would think later—with all the unbearable embarrassment of hindsight—that this might’ve been the exact moment things started getting complicated.

Or at least the moment James started mattering more than he probably should have.

–

Three months is apparently all it takes for Martin to realize that whatever he feels for James has long since crossed the line of friendship.

Developing crushes has never exactly been difficult for him.  Feelings come easily to him, sometimes embarrassingly so, attaching themselves to people only to disappear a few weeks later when the novelty wears off.  It happens often enough that Martin has stopped paying much attention to it.

Except, this isn’t one of those times.

Because James doesn’t leave his thoughts.  If anything, the opposite happens.  The more time they spend together, the worse it gets.  Martin catches himself waiting for James’ texts, finding excuses to sit a little closer to him, lingering a little longer whenever they’re together.  He notices how much he misses him afterward too, how strangely dull everything feels once James leaves, as though the energy gets sucked right out of the room with him.

He likes James.  Shit, he really likes him.

And, unfortunately for Martin, those feelings don’t seem interested in fading anytime soon.

Part of it is James himself.  When they’d first met, Martin had assumed he was quiet by nature, maybe even shy.  It hadn’t taken long for that assumption to fall apart.  Once James grew comfortable around him, he turned out to be every bit as energetic as Martin was, matching his enthusiasm without effort.  He was funny too, effortlessly so.  Half the time Martin was already laughing before James had even finished whatever joke he was trying to tell.

James was also extremely talented in ways that made Martin look up to him.

Whenever James wasn’t buried under assignments with Juhoon in his dorm, frantically trying to finish research papers before deadlines caught up to him, they’d find something else to do together.  Sometimes it was making music in Martin’s dorm room.  Other times it meant following James to one of the local dance studios he frequented around the city.  James would spend hours teaching him choreography, correcting his steps, laughing whenever Martin completely butchered a move.  Martin never minded looking ridiculous if it meant getting to spend another afternoon with him.

They bickered too, though never seriously.  Most of the time it was James provoking him for his own entertainment, tossing out teasing comments just to watch Martin react.  Martin always complained, always threatened retaliation, but he never really meant it.  The truth is that he had a huge soft spot for James, one he suspected was obvious to everyone except the very person it concerned.

Then again, James could be unsurprisingly oblivious.

There were days when James acted more like a tutor than a friend, patiently helping Martin finish assignments that had been neglected for far too long.  Considering how often Martin submitted work after the deadline, it was probably the only reason some of his professors hadn’t completely given up on him.  In exchange, Martin tried helping James adjust to life in New York.

He knew moving across the world for college couldn’t have been easy for James.  New city, new language, new people.  Everything familiar left behind.  James talked about home often enough for Martin to know how much he missed it.  Sometimes he’d mention his family in passing; other times he’d go on for several minutes, talking about things he missed seeing or places he wanted to visit again.

Martin always listened.

They spent an almost unreasonable amount of time together.  Some days were spent messing around and accomplishing absolutely nothing.  Other days turned unexpectedly deep, their conversations stretching late into the night when neither of them felt like sleeping.  James’ English improved a lot as the months passed, becoming more natural every week.

Martin liked listening to him talk.  Which was probably another problem for him, because James loved talking once he got started, bouncing from one topic to another with barely any warning, and Martin found that he never really got tired of hearing it.  Sometimes he’d barely contribute to the conversation at all, content to sit there and listen while James filled the silence.

And somehow, without either of them noticing when it happened, that became normal.

Weeks turned into months.  They were together so often that people had started expecting to see one wherever the other was.  Even Seonghyeon (all thanks to him) had commented on it once, sounding vaguely amused as he admitted that he hadn’t expected the two of them to become this close.

Neither had Martin.

Though, judging by the way his heart pounded rapidly whenever James smiled at him, perhaps he should have.

–

Perhaps Martin should have seen this coming—how attached he’d become to James.

How his life would later become a little too complicated to handle alone.

Because normal people probably don’t spend their evenings swinging between skyscrapers while frantically checking text messages every thirty seconds.  Normal people probably don’t feel their stomach drop at the sight of their friend’s typing bubble.

Martin, unfortunately, is not normal people.

He’s currently flying over Manhattan with one hand wrapped around his phone and the other shooting webs at buildings as fast as he can manage, nearly clipping a billboard in the process because James has texted him again.

(jjami: where are you??)

(jjami: you can’t be late again like last time.)

(jjami: you sure you didn’t oversleep again?)

Martin winces at the texts.  And the thing is, he admits James has every right to be annoyed.  They had planned to hangout, and the theater was Martin’s idea.  The movie was even Martin’s suggestion.  The plans had been made three days ago, confirmed yesterday, and then confirmed again this morning when James had sent him a thumbs-up emoji and Martin had confidently replied, see you there.

And yet somehow Martin is still late, again.

In his defense, crime doesn’t exactly schedule itself.

In James’ defense, that isn’t actually a defense.

A few hours earlier, Martin had fully intended to head straight to the theater.  He wasn’t lying.  Then suddenly a convenience store robbery turned into a car chase, which turned into an armed gang situation, which somehow turned into Martin spending most of the afternoon hanging upside down from various buildings while trying not to get shot.

By the time he’d remembered he was supposed to be meeting James, he’d nearly webbed himself in the face.

At this point, Martin knew James was probably getting tired of it.  Not that he’d ever say so.

James has always been far kinder than Martin deserves.  He accepts his excuses, even when they’re terrible.  He listens to the explanations, even when they make absolutely no sense.  Somehow, despite months of Martin’s suspicious behavior and insufferably inconsistent stories, he still trusts Martin enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Which only makes Martin feel worse, because he knows every excuse is a lie.  Every missed hangout comes with another hastily assembled story, and every cancellation requires a new explanation.  Martin honestly isn’t sure whether all of them even fit together anymore.

Sometimes he wonders if James has noticed by now.

Actually, scratch that—James has definitely noticed already.  Martin knows this because there have been moments where he showed it.

The most memorable one involved a giant talking rat.  (Which, admittedly, is not a sentence he ever expected to think.)  He’d promised James he’d stop by his dorm after class so they could listen to some new music he’d been producing, all thanks to Martin’s influence.  Martin had agreed immediately, mostly because James talking excitedly about his hobbies was one of Martin’s favorite things to hear.

The plan had been simple.  Unfortunately, so had the Rat King’s plan.

The Rat King—or, as the thing repeatedly introduced himself, the ‘Superior Rat King’—had emerged from somewhere beneath the city and immediately decided that New York’s rodent population deserved representation.  Martin still isn’t entirely sure what the guy’s—or thing’s—actual end goal was.  Something involving sewer supremacy, probably.

The important part is that it took nearly an hour to stop him.  The less important part is that Martin got absolutely wrecked in the process, and while he didn’t want to admit it, the stupid Rat King hit surprisingly hard.

By the time everything was over, Martin was sporting enough bruises and enough cuts to concern everyone else.  Treating those injuries took another hour, which was when he finally pulled out his phone and discovered approximately a million notifications waiting for him sent by James, who had been texting him for nearly two hours.

Martin remembers staring at the screen and thinking, with absolute certainty, oh, I’m fucked.  He also remembers how the whole moment went down.

(James had opened the door wearing a gray cardigan over a gray shirt and matching pants, his glasses perched neatly on his nose.  The lenses caught the light from the hallway, drawing attention to his pretty eyes in a way that made  Martin completely entranced—finding it deeply unfair considering he was currently held together by adrenaline, bandages, and what could generously be described as terrible decision-making.

Even bruised and exhausted, Martin remembers taking one look at him and immediately comparing the two of them.  James, who looked like he’d stepped out of a fashion runway.  Martin, who looked like he’d been dragged through three separate alleyways.

There was a clear winner.  Obviously, James perfectly scored the goal.

“Where’ve you been?”  James had asked, though his voice wasn’t angry.  He simply stood there with one eyebrow raised, staring up at Martin with suspicion that suggested he’d already reached several conclusions and was merely waiting to hear which lie Martin planned on choosing.

Martin’s brain immediately emptied itself.

“Well, I was...”  he began.  Not a single usable excuse came to his mind; and usually, they came to him faster than this.  “...doing whatever I was doing, you know. I didn’t mean to be late again. I just kind of lost track of time.”

James blinked at him, expressionless.  “You know,”  he said carefully,  “you could just tell me you overslept again.”

Martin immediately sealed his lips shut.  The thing was, he probably could’ve said that.  Or should’ve.  The problem was that he’d already used the oversleeping excuse so many times that even he was getting tired of hearing it.  Surely there was a limit before James stopped accepting it.

“Right,”  Martin said.  “Right. I would’ve. But after that I was out doing stuff.”  He paused, emphasizing his words with a gesture of his hand.  “Important stuff. Like feeding Choco.”

James frowned.  “Choco?”

Martin nodded with far more confidence than the situation deserved.  “Yeah,”  he said.  “Choco.”

“Juhoon’s turtle?”

Martin continued nodding.

“I thought Juhoon was at dinner with Seonghyeon and Keonho,”  James said slowly.  “He told me earlier and brought Choco with him.”

Martin stared.  Of course he did.  Of course Juhoon had to bring the damn turtle!  And of course James knew that.  Why wouldn’t he know that?  Him and Juhoon literally dormed together.

At this point, Martin was beginning to suspect the universe personally hated him.

He forced out what was probably the least convincing laugh in human history.  “Oh, yeah,” said Martin.  “I met up with Jju last minute before he left. Couldn’t resist feeding Choco, you know? Cute little thing.”

The silence that followed stretched just long enough for Martin to wonder whether James was calculating the exact statistical probability of every word he’d just spoken being complete bullshit.

To James’ credit, he never called him out on it.

Instead he stared at Martin for another second, his expression caught somewhere between skeptical and weary, before letting out a sigh that suggested he simply did not have the energy for whatever this conversation was becoming.

“Yeah,”  he said.  “Sure.”  Then James stepped aside and gestured toward the room.  “Just come in.”

For reasons Martin still doesn’t entirely understand, relief flooded through him immediately.  Maybe because James wasn’t asking him more questions, maybe because James was still letting him stay.

Or maybe because despite all of Martin’s lies and excuses and increasingly suspicious behavior, James was still here for him.

“Cool,”  Martin said, perhaps too quickly.

James just gave him a look, and Martin immediately nodded out of compliance.

“Cool, cool.”

Martin slipped inside before he could accidentally make the situation any more embarrassing, which was saying something considering he’d already lied about feeding a turtle that wasn’t even in the damn building.)

One second, Martin’s staring at his phone, frantically typing out another apology to James while trying to make up for being catastrophically late again.  The next second, as he’s swinging, there’s suddenly several hundred pounds of metal directly in front of him, making him nearly slamming face-first into a traffic light.

Martin gives a yelp, before his reflexes save him as a web shoots out and his body jerks sideways to avoid the incoming traffic light.  However, his phone slips from his hand, yet somehow, he manages to catch it again before it can plummet twenty stories to the ground.

The victory lasts approximately half a second.  Because when he finally looks down at the screen, his soul leaves his body.

(You: sorry hyung. got caught up with submitting work almost past deadline.)

(You: i’ll meet you tjehre soon. 😘)

Martin stares in disbelief at the kiss emoji remaining exactly where it is.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Martin mumbled under his breath.  He also spots the typo, but it doesn’t matter.  The typo could’ve been ten times worse and it still wouldn’t matter.

Because Martin has accidentally sent James a kissing emoji.

A kissing emoji.

To James.

James, who is his friend.

James, who definitely thinks they’re just friends.

James, who absolutely wasn’t supposed to receive what appears to be a suspiciously overly affectionate text message from Martin while he’s already running late for what is essentially a movie date that definitely isn’t a date. 

The emoji had probably appeared when he nearly collided with the traffic light.  His thumb must've slipped across the screen.  There is a perfectly logical explanation.  But unfortunately, James doesn’t know that.

All James knows is that Martin had just texted him a kissing face.

Martin watches the typing bubble appear from James, only for it to disappear, then appear again.  Then disappear.  His stomach keeps dropping a little further every time it happens.

(jjami: • • •)

The bubble vanishes, returns, and vanishes once again.  At this point Martin is fairly certain James is either drafting a response, deleting it, drafting another response, or discussing Martin’s strange behavior with a panel of experts.  (Panel of experts, meaning the Three Musketeers: Seonghyeon, Keonho, and Juhoon.)

When two full minutes pass and James still hasn’t sent anything yet, Martin is already contemplating every decision he’s ever made.

Then his phone vibrates.

(jjami: 👍)

That’s it.  Just a thumbs-up emoji, with absolutely no question marks, no hostile remarks that would make James anything less like the James Martin is familiar with, literally no mention whatsoever of the fucking kissing emoji.

Martin doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified, all because James simply didn’t acknowledge it.  The possibility that James just ignored it out of politeness is almost worse than being called out directly.

Still, he’ll take it.  A thumbs-up is survivable enough.  A conversation about why Martin accidentally sent him a kissing emoji while frantically apologizing for being late is not.

Martin stuffs his phone back into his pocket and swings harder toward the theater, trying very unsuccessfully not to think about it.  Unfortunately, there is one small problem remaining.

He still has to actually see James. In person, face-to-face, after sending perhaps the most mortifying text message of his entire life.

For a brief moment, getting punched by an enormous talking rat feels considerably easier.

—

A year passes before Martin really notices it.  Well, not the passage of time itself.  No, what Martin notices is that somehow, despite all that time passing, nothing about the way he feels for James has gotten any easier.

Which is unfortunate timing, considering they’re currently celebrating Juhoon’s twentieth birthday and James still manages to look good while just doing absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

The evening’s already gone on for hours by the time they reach the karaoke room.

There’d been presents first, then the birthday song, followed by several speeches dedicated to Juhoon.  Somehow those speeches had turned into a competition over whose was the best, with Martin arguing passionately that he deserved first place despite having spent most of his speech embarrassing Juhoon in front of everyone.  Then there was dinner, countless photos, enough laughter to leave his face sore, and finally the five of them crammed together in a private karaoke room with far too much energy remaining.

Martin notices how James thrives immediately.  Of course he does.  Because the second a microphone ends up in his hand, he’s almost impossible to ignore.

Sometimes he’s singing.  Sometimes he’s rapping. Sometimes he’s yelling the lyrics with such passion.  Every performance he does somehow evolves into dancing, his entire body moving with the music as if the idea of sitting still would physically wound him.

Martin spends most of it laughing, and everyone else does too.

James has always had a way of dragging people into whatever fun he’s currently having.  Before long, Juhoon, Keonho, and Seonghyeon are singing, and Martin is right there with them.

At some point, nobody can later remember exactly when, the group collectively decides that holding hands while screaming lyrics is a fantastic idea.  When that happens, Martin finds James’ hand almost immediately, or maybe James finds his; he’s honestly not so sure.

What he does know is that their fingers slot together effortlessly, warm and familiar.  James doesn’t pull away.  If anything, he holds on tighter, bouncing enthusiastically in place as another song starts.  Martin feels his heart pound rapidly.  Then all of a sudden, a microphone is shoved toward his face.

“Woo! Let’s go, Mars!”  James is practically vibrating with excitement as he says it, looking up at him with bright eyes and an enormous grin.

Martin nearly misses his cue when something unpleasantly similar to butterflies erupts in his stomach, but he swiftly regains his composure.

“Let’s go, Jamie!”  he hollers back excitedly.

The lyrics flash across the screen and Martin starts rapping along, nodding his head to the beat while James cheers him on like he’s witnessing the greatest performance of all time.  Then at some point, James releases his hand; Martin mourning the loss for approximately half a second before James attempts to throw an arm around his shoulders, only to fail because of their height difference being a problem.

Martin laughs and bends down enough to help, slipping an arm around James’ waist while James finally succeeds in hooking an arm around his shoulders triumphantly.  Problem solved.

James immediately returns his attention to singing.  Martin, meanwhile, is trying very hard not to think about the warmth pressed against his side.  And yet, he’s not entirely successful.  But he knows he is exactly where he wants to be.

The next several songs pass in a blur of music, and eventually even James runs out of energy.  He walks away and drops back onto the plush booth bench with an exhausted sigh, reaching immediately for the chocolate milk Martin had bought him earlier.  Martin follows trail without really thinking about it as the others continue singing.

For a while, they simply sit there; James drinking his chocolate milk in silence, with Martin watching the karaoke screen closely.  Or, well, pretends to, by how his attention keeps drifting sideways to glance in James’ direction.  Martin notices how James lifts the carton to his pretty lips again, and Martin tries not to think too hard about the sight right now.

But he wants to sit next to James.  Wants to be closer to him.  Wants to talk to him.  The bench is wide enough that there’s still some space between them.  Not much, but enough.

Without really deciding to do it, Martin scoots slightly closer to James, who doesn’t seem to really notice.  Or if he does, he doesn’t comment on it.

Martin realizes that if he keeps sitting here in silence without making a move, he’s going to spend the next ten minutes staring at him like an idiot.

Martin clears his throat nonchalantly, before turning slightly toward James.  “So,”  he says, searching desperately for literally any topic that doesn’t involve the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with his best friend.  “You having fun?”

James immediately perks up at the question.

“Having so much fun, bro!”  he says, stretching the words out with that particular brand of enthusiasm that only appears when he’s genuinely enjoying himself.  He leans back against the bench, chocolate milk still in hand as the others continue butchering a song in the background. “Juhoon picked a really good place. I haven’t done karaoke in forever, you know?”

Martin smiles despite himself.

“Yeah, me too.”  He leans back slightly against the booth as well.  “Although, technically, I helped him pick this place. He asked me for recommendations.”

James immediately grins at that.

“Oh wow,”  he says, drawing the words out as he tilts his head slightly.  “Do you want a cookie for that or something?”

Martin laughs and raises both hands in mock surrender.  “I’m just saying.”

“Right, right,”  James says, amused.  He takes another sip of his chocolate milk before adding,  “Maybe not a cookie for helping Juhoon pick out a venue, but maybe a cookie for the rapping earlier.”

Martin blinks at that.  “What?”  he asks.

“The rapping.”  James points at him with the straw.  “I liked it.”

The compliment catches Martin off guard more than it should.  James compliments people all the time.  He’s complimented Martin plenty of times before too.  Somehow, though, this one lodges itself directly into his chest and refuses to leave.

“Oh, really?”  Martin asks, grinning.

James snorts at the latter’s reaction, before asking,  “Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because you’re...”  Martin hesitates, fumbling with his words before finishing it off with,  “...you.”

“That’s rude.”  James deadpans jokingly.

Martin grins.  “I’m just making sure you’re not messing with me.”

James’ brows furrow for a moment before his expression softens into something almost incredulous.  “Of course I’m not,”  he says, sounding mildly offended by the accusation.  “Mark my words, Martin Edwards. That’s one of the best performances you’ve given. Five stars.”

Martin laughs at the dramatic delivery.  Then James narrows his eyes slightly, as though reconsidering something.

“Actually,”  he says,  “four and a half stars.”

Martin lets out a groan, tipping his head back before looking at James again.  “Come on, for real?”

“You messed up the last part of the lyrics,”  James points out.

“It was one line.”

“And it was a very important line,”  James says matter-of-factly.

“It wasn’t.”

“It absolutely was.”

Martin laughs again, shaking his head.  “So no cookie then?”  he asks, conceding.

James considers this with far more seriousness than the topic deserves.

“Yes, there will be a cookie,”  he declares confidently before lowering his voice into something drier.  “But it’s a maybe. Only if I can actually bake it.”

“That’s a low blow, man. You know you can’t bake.”

“That’s why I said maybe,”  James replies playfully.

He laughs at his own joke before suddenly holding his chocolate milk out toward Martin.  The offer catches him so off guard that he simply stares at it for a second.  Usually, James treats his chocolate milk like a prized possession.

“You want some?”  James asks.

Martin shakes his head.

“Nah, I’m good.”  He nods toward the carton.  “Besides, it’s basically halfway gone already.”

James lets out an offended noise that quickly dissolves into more laughter before taking another sip anyway.

For a while, they simply sit there watching the others sing.  The karaoke machine blares loudly throughout the room, and while Martin tries to focus on their performance, his attention keeps drifting toward the person seated next to him.  He expects James to stay quiet for a bit, content to sip his chocolate milk and watch the others.  Instead, James suddenly lowers the drink from his lips and goes still.

Martin notices, then, how James’ gaze lingers on him for a second longer than usual before slowly drifting downward.  At first, Martin thinks nothing of it.  Then James’ eyebrows pull together.

“What’s that?”

Martin blanks.

“What’s what?” he asks.

James gestures vaguely toward his collar.  “That.”  His expression immediately shifts into concern.  “It looks like a bruise. Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

Martin’s stomach drops, finally realizing that he knows exactly what James is talking about.  He brings his eyes downward to his collarbone and he nearly winces.

Shit.  The bruise.

He got it a few days ago while stopping a robbery that somehow escalated into him getting slammed shoulder-first into a concrete wall.  Before coming tonight, he spent nearly ten minutes covering it up with makeup and chose a higher-collared shirt specifically to keep it hidden.  Apparently, several hours of singing, dancing, and sweating beneath karaoke room lights completely ruined that plan.  The makeup had worn off enough for the bruise to become visible.

Of course James noticed it.  Of course James chooses the exact moment Martin doesn’t want attention to suddenly become observant.

And now he’s looking at Martin with genuine concern, completely unaware that the injury he’s worried about comes from Spider-Man getting launched through a wall.

Martin immediately slaps a hand over his collarbone.

James’ expression only grows more worried.

“What’s wrong?”  he asks.  Then, as if Martin’s situation isn’t already bad enough, he scoots closer.  Their arms brush together, and Martin has to actively stop himself from stiffening.  “Did you get injured from something? That looks pretty bad.”

Martin quickly shakes his head.  “Nah, I’m fine,”  he says instead.

But he’s not fine.  The bruise still hurts whenever he stretches too far, but James doesn’t need to know that.

So instead, Martin does what he unfortunately has a lot of experience doing these days.

He lies.

“It was just some accident at the...”  He pauses, desperately searching for an excuse.  “The basketball court. Yeah. The basketball court.”

James stares at him, his expression barely even changing at all.  “The basketball court?”  he repeats.

Martin simply nods.  “Yeah. The basketball court.”

“I didn’t know you played basketball now.”  James tilts his head slightly.  “You told me you were bad at it.”

Martin internally curses.  Of course James remembers that.

“Yeah, well,”  Martin says awkwardly, lowering his hand from his collarbone.  “A friend started helping me practice more.”

James nods slowly, saying, “Okay,” but Martin doesn’t easily trust that okay.  James continues on,  “Then what happened at the court to get you that bruise?”

Before Martin can answer, James reaches over and lightly brushes a finger against the edge of the bruise.  The touch barely lasts a second when Martin slightly flinches at the contact; not because it hurts—well, not entirely because it hurts.  But because he simply didn’t expect James’ touch.

“I tried to do a slam dunk,”  Martin says quickly, placing his hand over the bruise again before James can inspect it any further.  “And then I just...”  He punches the air with his fist for emphasis, immediately realizing halfway through that the gesture makes absolutely no sense.  “Completely missed and landed on my shoulder. It’s nothing, really.”

James doesn’t look convinced enough, yet he doesn’t push further.  “You should’ve told me,”  he says. 

Martin blinks once more.

“What?”

“You should’ve told me,”  James repeats.  “It doesn’t even look like it’s healing properly. I could’ve helped you, you know?”

Martin falls silent at that.  

If only James knew.

If Martin were just Martin, of course he would’ve let James help without a second thought.  He would’ve complained dramatically about the pain and accepted whatever advice James offered to ease the wound.  The problem is that he’s not just Martin.  The problem is that this bruise doesn’t even come from basketball.  It doesn’t come from clumsiness or a stupid accident.

It comes from being Spider-Man.

And telling James the truth feels a lot harder than it should.

Martin is aware of the things people say about him.  Some people love Spider-Man.  Some people think he’s a hero.  Some people think he’s reckless, irresponsible, or actively making the city worse.  Martin honestly can’t say all of that criticism is unfair.

The truth is that he has absolute no idea what James actually thinks about Spider-Man.  Maybe he likes him.  Maybe he doesn’t.  Or maybe he doesn’t even care at all.

Whatever the answer is, Martin isn’t brave enough to find out.  So again, he does what he’s been doing for months now.

He lies.  Once again.

“Yeah,”  Martin says, forcing a small smile.  “I’ll do that next time.”

James seems satisfied enough with the answer, but Martin isn’t.  They both know that, deep down, he’ll probably just show up with another mysterious injury someday.

And when that happens, he’ll tell another excuse.

And another.

And another.

The worst part is that James still believes him just enough for the lies to keep working.

The best part is that James cares enough to ask in the first place.

Martin isn’t sure which one hurts more.

—

The next time they’re hanging out in Martin’s dorm, it’s early February; which feels strange somehow, because (according to Martin’s apparent definition about February in his personal dictionary) February is supposed to mean red things and heart-shaped candy and couples outshining themselves and making everybody else miserable in public, and instead James is sitting in front of him painting his nails black.

Which feels significantly more fitting.

James sits in the chair dragged over from Martin’s desk, one knee bouncing absently every now and then while he concentrates.  The television drones quietly in the background, some news station Martin had turned on solely for the purpose of pretending he has something else to focus on.

Not that it’s working particularly well.

Because James keeps taking Martin’s hand into his own whenever he needs a better angle, fingers warm where they cradle his palm without seeming to think anything of it.  Sometimes he leans closer too, head tilting slightly in concentration until Martin can feel the faint brush of his breath against his skin—which Martin is trying very hard not to think about.

Instead, he focuses intensely on the television behind James, pretending he cares deeply about whatever catastrophe New York is currently surviving.

Probably crime.

Potentially Spider-Man related crime, which would be embarrassing considering Spider-Man is, unfortunately, him. 

“You have nice hands, Martin,”  James suddenly says, breaking the quiet.

Martin nearly freezes upon hearing that, heat rushing to his face.  It isn’t even a particularly strange compliment, but hearing it come from James somehow makes it feel like one.

He glances down at him and finds James looking completely unbothered, still focused entirely on painting his nails as if he hadn’t just said something super casual that didn’t sound casual enough to Martin at all.

“Oh, uh,”  Martin says, stumbling slightly over the words, the concept of language already abandoning him.  “Thanks.”

“Yeah, I think the black really matches with it,”  James says, turning Martin’s hand slightly like he’s inspecting his own work.  “And your rings too.”  He taps lightly against one of his rings with his finger.  “Maybe a bracelet would go well with it.”

Then he glances up briefly, dark eyes catching Martin’s.  And for a second, Martin finds himself staring back, trying make a conscious effort not to look away first.

“Are you giving me fashion advice on my hands right now?”  Martin asks finally, aiming for teasing and hoping it doesn’t come out sounding too fond.

James lets out a quiet snort at that, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he returns his attention to Martin’s hand.  “I don’t see why not,” he says lightly.  After another second, he squints slightly at Martin’s nails, head tilting as if reconsidering something.

“Although,”  he says, thoughtful now,  “shouldn’t you be going with red instead? To match the whole February vibe.”

“And what exactly is February?”  Martin asks dumbly, genuinely lost for a second.  James had easily emptied his thoughts.

James pauses upon hearing that, looking back up at Martin with something that hovers close to disbelief before a small smile slips onto his face.  “Did you seriously forget?”  he asks, shaking his head, amused.  Then he returns to painting.  “It’s Valentine’s.”

For a moment, Martin completely blanks.  Oh, right.  It’s Valentine’s Day.  The month of the color red, and lots of flowers and chocolates and confessions and people telling their loved ones how much they appreciate and care about them.  Of course he’d forgotten, because those things have never really applied to him.  At least, not in the way he wishes they could.

Because there are some things he can’t say, and some people he can’t love out loud.

“Right,”  Martin says, forcing himself to sound casual, but only landing somewhere neutral.  “I think I’m good with black. I’m not really feeling anything red. Or Valentine’s-themed.”

James hums softly to himself as he listens.  Then he glances back up at Martin.  “You don’t have a Valentine?”  he asks after, tone all light and easy, but curious more than anything.

Martin shakes his head.  “Nope,”  he says, trying very hard to sound unaffected by the deeply unfortunate irony of this conversation.  “Don’t really need one.”  Then, because apparently self-sabotage costs nothing to him, he adds,  “What about you?”

James stills briefly before shaking his head as well and returning to painting.  “No,”  is all he says, and the answer comes so easily.

Martin hates that.

Martin hates how effortless James always sounds when answering things.  It’s almost like he never lingers on his thoughts, never circles back around them the way Martin always does.  Sometimes Martin wonders what actually goes on inside James’ head, if he thinks about things longer than he lets on.

“I mean,”  James adds after a moment,  “a girl from class asked me out, but I said no.”

That catches Martin off guard.  Well, not because someone liked James—that part feels unsurprisingly inevitable.  James is handsome in a way that sneaks up on people, talented without trying too hard, and easy at making others feel comfortable.  Martin would be more surprised if people weren’t asking him out.

But James never really talks about romance.  He never talks about wanting someone, or finding someone, or any of the things people are apparently supposed to care about.

Still, Martin had figured eventually James would end up with someone.

And maybe then Martin would finally be forced to stop feeling everything so intensely for James, to stop holding onto something he already knows can’t become anything.

“Oh,”  Martin says awkwardly, because somehow that’s the only word his brain can manage.  “Why’d you reject her?”

James shrugs like the answer is obvious.

“Simple,”  he says.  “I just didn’t like her. I mean, she’s nice. Really nice, actually. Smart too. We helped each other with assignments all the time.”  He halts briefly, shoulders lifting again.  “But that was kind of it. I only ever saw her as a friend.”

“Okay,”  Martin says slowly, nodding along.

This isn’t even the first time he’s heard James talk about rejecting someone.  Somehow, though, Martin always finds himself curious about the reasoning behind it.  James always makes it sound so uncomplicated, but it never really feels that way.

Because it would always be the nice ones that James so easily rejects.  Sweet girls who, from Martin’s perspective, seem perfectly worth dating, and James just turns them down without much hesitation.  Which makes Martin wonder, more often than he probably should, what exactly James even likes in a person if his standards seem this impossible to understand.

“Okay, but,”  Martin says after a second, leaning back slightly,  “this has got to be, like, the sixth girl you’ve rejected, dude.”  He squints at him.  “What do you even look for in someone?”

James glances up at him then, expression unreadable for a second.  “You mean my type?”  he asks flatly, unabashedly straightforward.

Martin feels heat creep up his neck immediately, though he does his best to pretend otherwise.

“Well yeah,”  Martin says,  “I mean, it can’t hurt to know. Besides, you never really talk to me about…”  He gestures vaguely.  “Love. You know.”

James shrugs again.  “I talk to you about my family,”  he says innocently.  “I love them.”

Martin groans immediately.

“No, like—”  he stammers, hands moving uselessly as though that’ll somehow explain things better.  “Like love love. Feelings. Deep feelings for somebody.”  He exhales wearily.  “Come on, you know what I mean, Jamie.”

James lets out a soft laugh under his breath.  “Yeah,”  he says, amusement slipping into his voice,  “I knew what you meant.”

Martin shoots him a glare for that, though there’s nothing serious behind it.

By now, James seems finished with Martin’s nails, quietly setting aside the polish and supplies before sinking back into his chair.

“You seriously wanna know my type?”  he asks.

Martin grins instantly.  “Yeah,” he replies, pointing at him accusingly.  “You’re weirdly secretive about it. Be an open book for me for once.”

James grins back.  Then, unexpectedly, he pauses.  He subconsciously drifts away for a moment like he’s genuinely thinking about it, and Martin realizes this might be the first time he’s seen James consider something for longer than five seconds before answering.

Eventually, James looks back at him.

“Okay,”  he says with an air of finality.  “I’ll tell you my type.”

Martin straightens up a little without meaning to.  While there are objectively more important things in the world than figuring out what kind of person James likes, somehow this feels far more significant for him than it probably should be.

“Except,”  James says easily,  “I don’t really have one.”

Martin furrows his brows.

“What?”

James leans back a little, expression thoughtful in a way Martin doesn’t see very often.

“I don’t really get the whole type thing,”  he says after a moment.  “People always talk about wanting someone funny, or sweet, or smart, or whatever, and yeah, those things are nice. But anyone can be funny. Anyone can be attractive or cool or easy to talk to.”

He glances down briefly before looking back at Martin.

“I think what matters more to me is connection,”  he says.  “Like, how close you actually are to someone. If being around them feels easy. If you understand each other without really having to explain everything.”

James stops for a second to carefully choose his words, fingers idly tapping against the armrest as he did so.

“But I think people focus too much on checking boxes,”  he continues on when he finds the right words,  “like, for example, someone has to fit this specific image in their head or else it won’t work out, but I don’t really see it that way. I think feelings happen because of who someone becomes to you.”

Martin doesn’t interrupt to give his own insight.  It feels unnecessary somehow, especially when James sounds unusually genuine, speaking with a level of thoughtfulness that catches him off guard.  Instead, Martin does what he always does and listens.  There’s something calming about James’s voice—the steady tone, the way he puts his sentences together—and Martin finds himself quietly taking it all in.

“If you really know someone,”  James says,  “and deeply know them, even the parts they don’t really show other people, and you still care about them anyway… I think that means a lot.”  His expression softens just slightly.  “Especially if you’re different from each other, but somehow still understand one another.”

He hesitates briefly.

“I don’t know,”  James says with a small laugh, almost feeling bashful by how serious he suddenly sounds.  “I just think connection feels more important than whatever someone’s type is supposed to be.”

Of course James says something like that.

Martin hates, a little bit, how naturally wise James always sounds without even trying.  How easily he turns ordinary things into more deeper parts that people usually overlook; and seeing meaning in places everyone else rushes past too quickly.  But more than anything, Martin admires him for it.

Martin likes every version of James that exists, and maybe that’s exactly the problem.  So no, he can’t really feel disappointed.

Not when James is being so painfully, impossibly James about it.

So instead of accidentally inflating James’ ego—or, worse, saying something so sincere it made his feelings embarrassingly obvious—Martin only gives him a flat look.  “Why do you always have to sound so incredibly wise, man?”  he asks, voice tinged with something close to envy, though the small smile pulling at his mouth ruins any attempt at sounding genuinely annoyed.

James blinks at him, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughtful mood he had walked into before huffing out a soft laugh.  “I’m not trying to,”  he says lightly, shaking his head once as though the accusation itself is ridiculous.  “That’s just really how I feel.”

Martin’s smile stretches wider despite himself, thinking back on James’ words.  “I actually agree with you, though,”  he says quietly, sincerity seeping into his voice.  “About connection. Having something real and special with somebody you’re genuinely close to…”  He pauses briefly, glancing toward James before forcing himself not to look away.  “I think that kind of thing really is everything.”

“Yeah,”  James replies, and there’s something different about him too now.  He’s a little quieter this time, something thoughtful lingering underneath his usual calmness.  He looks at Martin for a second longer than necessary, nodding once.  “It really is everything.”

Silence permeates the room after that, though not an uncomfortable one.  The television still chatters quietly somewhere in the background, forgotten almost entirely now, while Martin finds himself lingering in the moment longer than he probably should.  James remains silent, expression distant in that way he gets whenever he seems to be quieter than usual, lips pressed together slightly as though turning Martin’s words over in his head.

Then, almost abruptly, something shifts in his expression.  James blinks once, lets out a small sound of realization beneath his breath, and leans toward the bag he had dropped onto Martin’s bed earlier.  “Oh, right,”  he murmurs, rummaging around for a second before pulling something out and holding it toward Martin.

It’s a red, heart-shaped box.

A Valentine’s chocolate box.

Martin stares at it for a second before instinctively reaching out to take it, confusion washing over him in waves almost immediately.  “You’re giving me this?”  he asks, glancing up at James.

“Take it,”  James says, voice strangely softer at first before he clears his throat and slips back into casual.  “The girl I mentioned earlier gave it to me. I felt bad knowing I probably wasn’t gonna eat it, so…”  He shrugs, acting as if this isn’t remotely a big deal.  “I figured you’d probably like it more.”

Oh.

Right.

Of course.

Martin’s gaze drops to the box again, and only then does he notice the yellow sticky note attached to the front.

I LOVE YOU.

Which is—well. Definitely meant for James and James only.

Martin does his best to push away the unpleasant feeling twisting in his stomach before it becomes noticeable that it’s clearly affecting him.  Instead, he looks back up and offers James a smile that feels tighter than he intends.

“Thanks,”  he says quietly.

“And,”  James adds, brightening again as though remembering another thought halfway through,  “since you apparently don’t have a Valentine…”  He gestures toward the chocolates with a grin that feels unfairly easy.  “Happy Valentine’s, man.”

Martin’s expression wavers only briefly before he manages to smile again, wider this time.

“Pretty early for that, don’t you think?”  he asks, tone playful despite himself.

James only gives him a wry look, though something warmer crosses his face too, tucked somewhere between amusement and fondness.

Martin can’t help smiling for real then.

“Happy Valentine’s to you too, Jamie.”

—

It’s near the end of Martin’s twentieth birthday when he finally gets a moment alone to himself.

The dorm had been loud for hours, crowded with too many voices layered over each other, half-bad and half-good music choices, half-finished drinks abandoned on random surfaces, and the familiar sense of warmth that only existed when people cared enough to show up for you.  Somewhere between Seonghyeon nearly dropping the cake and someone—Martin still isn’t sure who, probably Keonho—trying to start a karaoke session, the night had slipped away from him.

By the time everyone leaves, the room feels strangely empty.

Keonho, generous in a way that always catches Martin off guard, had disappeared sometime after midnight with the declaration that no twentieth birthday should end without “actual food,” and gone out hunting for Martin’s favorite kebab place despite the hour.  Which means, for the first time all day, Martin has the dorm to himself.

He sits cross-legged on the floor for a while, sorting through his birthday gifts.  Letters first for him, then the gifts come second.

Most of the cards easily crack a laugh out of him.  Some are stupid in a way that only his beloved friends can get away with, filled with embarrassing photos or inside jokes stretched so far they barely resemble their original form anymore.  Others are sweeter than he expects, sentimental in ways that make his chest feel oddly full.

James’ letter sits untouched beside him the entire time.

Read mine last, he’d said before leaving, annoyingly smug about it too, because he already knew Martin would listen.

So, unfortunately, Martin listens.

James’ gifts sit beside him on the bed first: vinyls packed with A$AP Rocky songs and a black leather pyramid-studded bracelet that looks incredibly expensive in the casually effortless way James always manages to pick things.  And apparently, according to James, it was a limited edition—one that was supposed to make Martin look “way more swag” and elevate what he’d called Martin’s “already powerful brand of swagness.”

Martin had nearly laughed himself sick hearing it.  So, he puts the bracelet on immediately, and promises himself to never take it off.

Eventually, he climbs onto his bed, knees bent toward his chest, the room dim except for the warm orange LED lights Keonho had installed months ago after declaring their dorm looked “boring” and “depressing” to look at.  The lights cast everything in this strange sunset glow that makes the room feel warmer and softer somehow.

Martin turns the envelope over once in his hands, observing it.  The card itself is obnoxiously James.  It’s all space-themed, donning glittering stars stretched all over across the dark blue cardstock, with the planet Mars right in the center—a cute little nod to the nickname James insists on calling him, Mars.

His stomach flips before he’s even opened the whole thing, which feels ridiculous.  It’s a simple birthday letter, not a life-altering confession, he reminds himself.  Still, his pulse stutters as he opens it and reads it.

Dear my favorite planet Mars,

Happy twentieth birthday, man.

First of all, congratulations on officially becoming old.  Not older than me, obviously, which means I still get seniority and the right to occasionally act wiser than you even when I’m probably not.  I think you’d disagree with that statement, but this is my birthday letter, so I’m choosing to be correct.

Jokes aside, I really do hope today was good to you.  You’ve been one of the most important people in my life for a long time now, Martin.  I don’t think I say that enough.

I know people always talk about birthdays as if they’re supposed to mean something big, as if everything will change overnight, but I don’t really think that’s true. You’re still you.  Just twenty now.  You’re still always late to our hangouts, forgetful about random things, and still somehow capable of making even boring days feel less boring.

I think what matters more is everything that comes with time.  The people you keep beside you.  The things that stay.

And if there’s one thing I hope never gets old, it’s us.

Our conversations.  The ridiculous things we somehow always end up talking about at two in the morning.  The way we somehow understand each other even when we’re completely different.  The fact that even when things get difficult or weird or life becomes… whatever life decides to become, being around you has always felt easy to me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this properly, but I really value what we have.  I value our connection.  A lot, actually.

I think it’s rare to find someone who understands you in the way that matters.  Someone you can know deeply and still want around all the time.  Someone you somehow end up carrying along with you, even in the smallest moments.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that knowing you has been really special to me.

I’ll always cherish the memories we’ve had, and the ones we haven’t gotten to yet.  I hope time never turns us into strangers, even if everything else changes around us.  I hope we still have stupid conversations years from now.  I hope we still get to dance and make music together.  I hope we still somehow end up finding our way back to each other, no matter what life looks like then.

So yeah.  Happy birthday, Martini.

No matter how old you get, you’ll always be younger than me, and unfortunately for you, probably still my favorite person to bother.

I’ll always love you, man.

— James.

By the time Martin reaches the end of the letter, it feels like his heart is trying to force its way out of his chest from the weight of it all—though mostly because of the final five words James had left him with.

I’ll always love you, man.

Fuck, it shouldn’t land this hard.  It really shouldn’t.  But it does.  Because James doesn’t usually say things like that.  Not outright.  Not even to Martin.  He’s more of the type to show it instead, in quieter ways, in gestures Martin has long since learned to recognize for what they are—care, affection, appreciation.  Love, maybe, in James’ own shape of it.

It’s just never something to be spoken aloud by him, at least not like this.

Though Martin knows what it obviously means.  James probably means it platonically.  Brotherly, maybe.  Nothing more.

Just another endless reminder that James will probably never look at him in the way Martin has unfortunately spent far too long looking at him.

Still, even through the gut-wrenching feeling twisting low and sharply inside his stomach, turning him inside out, another feeling clouds over it.  The feeling of passion and love reserved only for James.

Because regardless of what James means by it, the letter still means something.  And Martin finds himself grateful anyway.

Sitting there on his bed, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and birthday cards, he thinks back on all the years of knowing James, on every conversation and late-night moment they somehow always ended up sharing.  Somehow, despite the hollow feeling sitting inside him only minutes ago, his heart still feels unbearably full.

No matter what happens, Martin knows he’ll always love James.

Even if the circumstances are unfortunate for him.

Eventually, he starts putting everything away; from the gifts then to the letters, then to the mess around the dorm.  Afterward, he slips on his headphones and lets music fill the quiet space of the room, figuring he should probably try to sleep now.  It’s late, and the exhaustion from the day is finally beginning to catch up to him.  But then he remembers that Keonho was probably still out there somewhere hunting down kebab for him.

Which means sleep could wait a little longer—

Knock!

Martin startles slightly, his thoughts cutting off as a sudden series of abrupt knocks echoes from outside the dorm.  He slips off his headphones and places them onto the nightstand.

It’s Keonho, probably.

Without thinking much of it, Martin climbs down from the bed and heads toward the door, already expecting greasy takeout and at least three complaints from Keonho about how difficult it had been to find food this late.

He swings it open, and freezes.

Because standing there is not Keonho holding kebab.

It’s James.

“Hyung?”  Martin blurts out before he can stop himself.  James is probably the last person he expects to see right now.  Especially this late, considering James is usually the type to already be asleep by now.

Martin tries very hard to act normal, as though his heart hadn’t broken a little earlier only to get painfully stitched back together again by a mere birthday letter.

“What are you doing here?”

James is still dressed the same as he had been during the party—a dark navy zip-up thrown over light-wash jeans, and Martin catches himself gazing at the latter from head to toe a second too long.

Shit.

Before he can stop himself, he smooths out the front of his loose gray T-shirt absentmindedly, suddenly aware of how unimpressive he probably looks right now.  Hopefully James doesn’t notice.

“I...”  James starts, then pauses oddly, like he’s trying to choose the right words.  Martin raises a brow at that.  “I forgot something in your dorm.”

Martin’s expression softens upon hearing that.  He’d honestly assumed James had just wanted an excuse to hang around longer.

“Oh,”  Martin says, quieter now.  “You did?”

“Yeah.”

Martin can’t quite explain it, but he swears there’s something odd about all of this.  Hell, he could even feel his spider senses tingling at the interaction alone.  He just knows something about James feels strangely different standing there.

“What is it, then?”  Martin asks anyway, turning back toward the room and letting his gaze sweep across it.  He’d already spent time straightening things up and organizing, so he couldn’t think of anything that might belong to James.  At least, nothing he remembered seeing.  Still, maybe he’d overlooked something.  Looking back at him, he adds,  “And where’d you last place it? I’ll help you look.”

He’s already starting to step away when James suddenly reaches out and catches his wrist—the movement so quick that Martin nearly misses it.  James’ fingers wrap gently around his arm, settling directly over the bracelet circling his wrist.

“No,”  James says, the word coming out urgent than expected.  “I can look for it myself.”

Martin glances down at the hand holding him in place, then back up at James.  For a brief second, something wavers across James’ face—panic, almost—before he quickly reins it in.  His eyes drop to the bracelet instead.

“You’re wearing it now?”  he asks.  The question he gives sounds just as surprised as Martin feels.

Slowly, Martin lifts his wrist between them.  “Yeah,”  he says, studying James’ expression.  “Shit, was I not supposed to? Is this what you were looking for?”

“No. No—”  James shakes his head immediately, stumbling over the words.  “I’m fine with you wearing it. Really. I just...”  He trails off, letting out a small, nervous laugh.  “I guess I’m surprised you started wearing it so fast.”

That earns a grin from Martin.

“Of course I did.”  He raises his wrist again, admiring the bracelet with pride.  “It’s a really cool thing. And you were right—it definitely gives me more swag.”  The grin widens.  “Thanks, Jamie.”

For a moment, the tension seems to ease between them, until Martin remembers why James had shown up in the first place.

“Oh, right.”  He gestures toward the dorm.  “You were looking for something. You can come in and—”

“No, I’m not looking for anything, Mar,”  James interrupts abruptly.

Martin’s smile falters.  The unfamiliar, hurried tone in James’ voice makes him feel uneasy in the stomach, and suddenly he’s wondering if he’s missed something, if he’s accidentally done or said the wrong thing.

“Then what is it?”  he asks carefully.  “Did I do something—”

The last thing Martin hears is James muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a curse under his breath.

Then James surges forward, rises onto the balls of his feet, grabs a fistful of Martin’s collar, and tugs him down before either of them can think better of it.  Their lips crash against one another, sudden and inevitable all at once.

For a moment, Martin simply freezes, and the words he was letting out earlier die in his throat.  His brain lags several seconds behind reality, struggling to catch up with what is actually happening, all because James is kissing him.

James.  Kissing him.  On the lips.

Martin must be dreaming. 

But when he feels the faint movement of James’ lips moving against his—hesitant at first, as though he isn’t entirely certain he wants to be doing this—Martin realizes it’s all real; and whatever restraint Martin has been clinging to finally gives way.

He kisses him back.

A full year of deeply buried feelings rush to the surface all at once.  His hands find James’ waist almost instinctively, drawing him closer until there is hardly any distance left between them.  Martin bends slightly to meet him, deepening the angle of the kiss, and James’ grip tightens on his shirt as though letting go isn’t an option.

For a few seconds, the rest of the world seems to disappear.  Right now, it’s Martin and James’ world only.

James melts against him for all of half a second before tensing up again, and Martin would almost miss it if he weren’t paying such embarrassing amounts of attention to him.  He swears he can feel the bashfulness underneath it all, hidden beneath the determination that drove James to grab him by the collar and kiss him in the first place.  Every time James seems on the verge of pulling away and coming to his senses, he lingers instead, caught somewhere between hesitation and the fact that he clearly doesn’t want this moment to end any more than Martin does.

Not that Martin is doing any better.

Without really meaning to, he takes a step backward, and James follows him easily as he closes the door.  Then another step, and another, until neither of them is paying attention to where they’re going anymore.  The back of Martin’s knee catches the edge of a chair, sending it scraping loudly across the floor, and they finally break apart just enough to stare at each other before dissolving into breathless laughter.

When it finally fades, Martin finds himself looking at James again, properly looking at him, and suddenly he can’t stop thinking about everything that led them here.  All those months spent hopelessly pining after him, convincing himself that whatever he felt was one-sided and destined to stay that way.  All the times he’d forced himself to swallow down his feelings, bury them somewhere deep enough that they couldn’t ruin their friendship.

And yet here James is.  Standing inches away from him.  Looking back at him with those dark pretty eyes of his that somehow still shine even beneath the dim orange glow of the LED lights.

When Martin’s gaze drops briefly to James’ mouth, his rapid heartbeat immediately makes things worse.

Because now all he can think about is the fact that those pretty lips had been on his moments ago.

The realization of it alone leaves him completely dazed.

Now somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Martin wonders just how oblivious he’s been.  Looking back now, there are probably dozens of moments he should have noticed.  Dozens of signs.  Maybe James had been paying attention to him for far longer than he’d ever realized.

Eventually they end up sitting on the edge of the bed, neither entirely sure how they got there.  James perches comfortably on his lap, and Martin can’t help being mesmerized by his beauty for a moment.  The soft, delicate curve of his smile.  The warmth in his expression.  The faint hint of scarlet rising to his cheeks when he catches Martin looking, already looking flustered.

Martin feels his chest tighten with admiration.  He realizes he’s spent too much time holding things back.

This time, he doesn’t.

“I love you, Jamie.”

The words leave his mouth before he can overthink them.  For a second, James simply stares at him, before his expression softens, choosing to never shy away from his feelings ever again.

“I love you too, Mar,”  he says quietly.  “I always have.”

Martin can’t stop smiling once he hears it; what he’s been longing to hear for so long.  Then, James reaches for him again, and whatever uncertainty had remained earlier seems to fade beneath the relief of finally saying the truth out loud.  Martin leans closer to press his lips against James’ once again, unable to help himself, this time with a deeper sense of urgency and longing; the desperate need for James’ touch that he had craved for so long.

James meets him halfway in return, responding to the kiss with more intensity and passion, guiding the moment as they lose themselves in each other.  When they become more entangled, Martin begins to tip back until his head meets the soft bedsheets.  James allows it to happen, giggling into the kiss as he gently climbs over Martin, cradling the side of his jaw and deepening their kiss even further.

Then, Martin switches their positions until he is the one hovering above James.  He leans down and peppers a trail of gentle kisses along James’ jaw before moving lower to the side of his neck.  The quiet hums that escape James in response brush against Martin’s ear, and he finds himself feeling far too pleased by the sounds.

After a moment, he pulls back.  His hand comes up to caress James’ jaw as he gazes down at him, admiration written plainly across his face.

“Tell me,”  Martin says, amusement lacing his voice,  “how are you so good at hiding it for that long? I didn’t even notice a damn thing.”

James lets out a soft laugh.  “Actually, I think you’re the one who should be answering that.”

Martin immediately looks offended, though more out of disbelief than anything else.  He still can’t comprehend how James never figured it out.  As far as Martin is concerned, his feelings had been painfully obvious.  He spent a full year pining after James.  Surely there had been signs.

“No way,”  he says, already grinning.  “You have to be joking. Come on, I made it so obvious that I liked you. You’re telling me you never suspected anything?”

James smiles cheekily at that.  “Consider me blind, then, because I thought you only saw me as a friend.”  He pauses briefly.  “I mean, I thought about it once or twice, but I always pushed it away.”

This time, Martin’s smile softens into something genuine.

“Then I guess we both fooled ourselves.”

James chuckles again, and Martin studies him for a moment before curiosity gets the better of him.

“How long did it take for you to... you know?”

A grin spreads across James’ face, before completing the question for him,  “For me to start liking you?”

Martin nods.

James laughs quietly.  “About a month after we first met. Around the time I started getting comfortable with you.”  His gaze drifts across Martin’s face.  “It never felt like you were going to judge me for being... myself.”

“I’ll always love everything about you, hyung,”  Martin says fondly.  “Even all the weird parts.”

That earns another laugh from James.  After a moment, though, he raises an eyebrow.  “And what about you? How long did it take you?”  he asks.

Martin falls silent; the answer already coming to him instantly.  He’s known it for so long.  But even so, saying it aloud suddenly makes him feel weirdly vulnerable.

Eventually, he gives in.

“The moment we first met.”

Surprise etches itself across James’ face.  He doesn’t say anything, but the pleased curve of his lips says enough.  Then he reaches up, pulls Martin closer, and kisses him again.  Martin follows willingly as their lips meet.

He wants to believe this is finally it—that things are getting better.  That this is the normalcy he has been searching for, the relief he has spent so long hoping would eventually come.

However, the illusion lasts right up until a loud ringing noise echoes through the room, causing both of them to freeze.  When the sound rings again, Martin snaps out of the daze and jerks upright immediately, while James blinks up at him in confusion.

Martin quickly turns toward his nightstand.  “Shit,”  he breathes out, already knowing what the sound must be.  Of all possible moments, it has to be the communicuff.  Still, duty is duty, and New York never waits.  Disaster never waits.  And neither does Spider-Man.

With a groan, Martin scrambles across the bed, yanks open the drawer, and digs through it as quickly as he can.

Behind him, James pushes himself upright against the headboard.

“Mar?”  he asks, watching him with growing curiosity.  “What’s that sound? Is it your phone?”

The moment James leans forward, trying to peer over his shoulder, Martin instinctively shifts to block his view.  His fingers finally close around the communicuff—a highly advanced device resembling a watch that instantly notifies him whenever danger is unfolding somewhere in New York—and he snatches it up just in time to catch the flashing emergency alert glowing in red, bold angry letters across the blue screen.

MONSTER SIGHTING.

MULTIPLE CASUALTIES.

IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUIRED.

His stomach drops.  He barely has enough time to register that the creature is only a few streets away before he shoves the communicuff behind his back and turns around.

“Oh, yeah. My phone,” Martin says with a strained smile, stumbling over the lie almost immediately.  While he doesn’t have to hide how he feels about James anymore—and that secret is finally gone—unfortunately, he still has another one.  “I think I need to head out. This call’s kind of urgent.”

James’ brows pull together.  His confusion is obvious, but beneath it is something else too—something visibly closer to disappointment.

“Right now?”  he asks.  “Who was it?”

“It was—”  Martin starts, then immediately falters.  “It was Keonho. Yeah, Keonho.”  The excuse comes together as he speaks.  “He called me, and I just saw a message from him.  He needs me to pick him up somewhere.”

“I thought Keonho could drive already?” 

Fuck, of course James remembers that.  Martin resists the urge to bury his face in a pillow.

“Yeah, well,”  he says quickly, nodding far too much,  “his car broke down. I just need to go get him. It’ll be quick.”

James studies him for a moment, sitting upright.  Then, to Martin’s horror, he says,  “Let me come with you.”

“No!”  Martin’s response comes out much too fast, realizing he sounded rude yet not intentionally.  When James raises an eyebrow at that, Martin immediately backpedals.  “No, I mean—it’s fine, really. I’ll be quick.”

Before either of them can say anything else, the entire building suddenly lurches beneath them.  The floor trembles violently, throwing them both off balance.  A chorus of screams erupts from outside, followed almost immediately by the unmistakable sounds of destruction.  Glass shattering somewhere nearby, buildings groaning from collapsing concrete, and car horns blaring one after another in frantic succession.

Martin doesn’t waste time, immediately rushing toward the window and tearing the curtains aside.  The sight waiting outside causes his blood to run cold.

Several nearby buildings have already been damaged beyond recognition.  Parts of them are missing entirely, jagged gaps exposing their interiors while flames spill from blown-out windows and thick black smoke rises into the evening sky.  Far below, civilians flood the streets, running as fast as they can.  Then Martin spots the source of it all—a towering monster lumbering down the road, swinging massive fists into the structures surrounding it.

Sure, while Martin has fought giant monsters before—far too many to count—this thing, on the other hand, is enormous.

It continues stomping through the avenue like the city itself is made of cardboard, mercilessly swinging another arm into a building and tearing away entire chunks of it’s concrete.  Another section collapses beneath the impact, sending debris crashing toward the street.  The ground shakes again, and the creature turns.

And Martin realizes with horrifying clarity that it’s heading straight toward their block.

Straight toward them.

Beside him, James stares through the window, shock written plainly across his face.

Martin doesn’t hesitate.  He fastens the communicuff around his wrist, then immediately turns toward James and grabs him by the shoulders.

“Jamie, look at me.”

His voice is firm enough that James immediately tears his gaze away from the destruction and meets his eyes.

Martin swallows nervously; every instinct is screaming at him to stay, to explain, to tell him everything.  But instead, he squeezes James’ shoulders and forces himself to focus.

“I’m gonna need you to do something for me,”  Martin continues on, urgency creeping into every word.  “I need you to tell everyone in this building to evacuate right now. Make sure nobody stays behind. Can you do that for me?”

For a second, James looks dazed, but then he swallows and nods anyway.  “Yeah,”  he says.  “Yeah, I can do that.”

Even now, with the city seemingly falling apart around them, his voice remains naturally calm.

Martin feels a brief sense of relief.

“Good.”

Giving James one last kiss on the forehead, Martin rushes to his closet to find his suit.  Months ago, he hid the suit inside a locked storage box after one too many incidents involving Keonho’s complete inability to respect personal boundaries.  Somehow, between the chaos outside and James being distracted by the monster, Martin manages to retrieve it unnoticed.

However, the relief only lasts a second.

“I have to go now,”  Martin tells him.

James quickly climbs off the bed when he hears that.  The shock on his face gives way to something else entirely, his brows drawing together with visible concern.

“No—” James starts, taking a step forward, closer to Martin.  The word dies halfway out of his mouth because he takes a moment to simply stare at Martin; and Martin can practically see the realization washing over him piece by piece.  The situation finally seems to catch up to him all at once.  His expression tightens, concern bleeding into frustration as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Mar, you have to come with me.”  His voice comes out sharper this time, more desperate than angry.  “Where would you even go? You know it’s dangerous out there! Don’t you see that literal Godzilla is about four blocks ahead of us?”

Martin sticks stubbornly to the excuse he had thrown together earlier, flimsy as it is.  He refuses to let himself hesitate now.  If he does, James will keep talking, and if James keeps talking, Martin might actually listen.

So instead, he turns away.

James reaches for him, but Martin slips out of reach and heads straight for the door.  The moment he pulls it open, chaos spills in from the hallway.  Students are pouring out of their dorm rooms, voices overlapping in confusion and fear as people rush past in both directions.

Thankfully, it makes the lie easier.

Martin glances back over his shoulder.  “Hyung, I have to get Keonho,”  he insists.  “He’s out there by himself, and who knows what could happen if he stays out there any longer?”

“But, Mar—”

Before James can finish whatever argument he is trying to make, Martin is already rushing into the hallway and smashing open the fire alarm case with his bare hand, causing the glass to shatter dramatically beneath his hand.  A second later, he slams the red alarm button.  Instantly, the building erupts with the shrill wails of the emergency alarm, the sound echoing through the dormitory, loud enough to make several nearby students jump.  Then more doors fly open; more voices join the growing commotion.

When Martin looks back, James is standing frozen in the doorway, and whatever he was about to say has completely vanished.  The latter simply stares; the look on his face crossing somewhere between exasperation and worry, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to yell at Martin or drag him back inside.

Martin offers him a quick grin anyway.  “I’ll be back before you know it, Jamie,”  he tells him easily.  “Tell everyone to leave, okay?”

James opens his mouth again to protest, but Martin doesn’t stay long enough to hear what comes out.  He turns and takes off down the hallway, weaving through the growing crowd.  By the time he reaches a stretch of corridor empty of witnesses, his mask is already in his hands.

A few seconds later, Martin disappears around the corner and Spider-Man emerges.

–

The next few minutes—after almost an hour of trying to defeat the thing—pass in a blur of pain, adrenaline, and pure stubbornness.

Martin isn’t entirely sure how he manages it.

He feels every muscle in his body screaming at him to just stop and rest.  His whole ribs feel like it’s been cracked open.  His vision keeps threatening to blur at the edges.  More than once, he’s convinced that the next hit will finally be the one that puts him down for good.

And yet somehow, he’s still standing.  (Or swinging.  Or getting thrown through half of Manhattan—but that’s not the point right now.)

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity of dodging claws and taking hits that’ll definitely put him down until tomorrow—assuming there is a tomorrow—he finally gains the upper hand.  Thick strands of webbing pin the monster down from every direction, wrapping around its limbs and torso until it can barely move.  The thing thrashes violently, roaring loud enough to rattle nearby windows, but every attempt to break free only sinks it deeper into the webbing.

Martin had thrown everything he had at it.  He’d hurled chunks of debris at it that were launched with his webs.  He’d go for direct strikes whenever he managed to get close enough.  He’d even went as far to aim at every weak spot he could identify through pure instinct, and maybe alongside pure exhaustion—just wanting to get it over with already.

And yet, the monster is still angry and alive, but thankfully losing.  Slowly.

Martin allows himself the dangerous luxury of believing that maybe, finally, this nightmare is almost over.  All that’s left is figuring out how to get rid of it permanently.

The streets below have gone strangely quiet compared to the chaos from earlier.  Sirens still echo in the distance, and smoke still hangs over the damaged parts of the city, but the destruction has slowed.  The monster’s furious roars are now the loudest thing in the area as it struggles against its restraints.

When Martin swings over to a random building, it doesn’t take long for him to collapse against the surface of the rooftop. 

And for several seconds, all he can do—or try to—is breathe.  And yet, even as he does so, every inhale he takes feels like dragging broken glass into his lungs.  He can feel his heart pound so violently that he’s half-convinced it’s trying to lunge out from his chest altogether.  The pain is everywhere now, impossible to ignore.  Every shift of his weight sends another wave of agony through his body, forcing a sharp wince from behind his mask.

Oh, right!  He’s also bleeding.  And quite frankly—a lot of blood.  From multiple cuts, scratches, bruises—some shallow enough, some definitely not.  His suit has suffered almost as much damage as he has.  The red torn fabric hangs from multiple places, exposing patches of skin underneath.  And the worst of it is around his mask, where several tears leave portions of his hair and face dangerously visible.  So he keeps himself tucked out of sight as best he can.

Or at least as hidden as Spider-Man can be while sitting on a rooftop in the middle of a city-wide disaster.

Meanwhile, there were still civilians gathering below, even despite the danger currently looming ahead of them.  He can hear excited voices carrying through the streets; and he wishes for just a minute of some alone time for himself—wishes for these people to think sensibly for once in their life about avoiding a literal monster that is a few inches away from them.

“Look! It’s Spider-Man!”

“Spider-Man’s up there!”

Children point toward the rooftops while adults scramble to pull them back.  Above him, news helicopters circle around the scene like vultures, camera lights sweeping across the destruction.  Some focus on the monster, and some nearly focus on him.

Martin quickly ducks farther behind a rooftop structure.  The last thing he needs right now is for New York’s evening news to accidentally reveal his face.

Not that it matters much anymore, because thankfully, the police—wherever they were during this entire ordeal—arrive all at once.  Several attack helicopters hover overhead with weapons trained directly at the trapped creature.  Martin watches them through exhausted eyes and figures they’ll probably handle the rest themselves.

But even through the exhaustion threatening to render him unconscious, Martin still finds himself watching carefully, forcing himself to stay conscious.

Part of it to him is practicality.  The monster is still alive, still straining against the layers of webbing pinning it in place, and Martin would rather not leave only for it to somehow break free and start round two.  But another part of it is simpler than that.  He wants to see this through.  He wants to watch the thing finally go down, wants to know that New York will get at least one quiet night after everything it’s been put through.

And, last but not least, he wants to make sure everyone is safe.

Including James.

His gaze drifts toward their college building almost subconsciously.  Even from several rooftops away, he spots James standing on one of the fire escapes, ushering people down toward the stairs one group at a time.  Students hurry past him, some panicked, some confused, yet all of them listening.  When all finally get down to safety, James—for some reason—doesn’t immediately follow them down.

Instead, James halts his movements and stays near the railing, looking out over the city.  Or at the monster, probably.

Martin feels some of the tension leave him at the sight, relieved that James and the others were okay at least.  But he feels relieved about James more significantly.

However, the relief lasts for all of three seconds, when suddenly the monster gives a violent roar and thrashes hard enough that several strands of the webbing snap.  Not enough to free it entirely, but enough for one massive arm to wrench itself loose.  Martin watches, suddenly very alert, as the beast reaches down into the wreckage below and grabs a chunk of debris from the street before hurling it upward into the sky.

At first Martin assumes it’s aiming for the helicopters circling overhead—however, the projectile misses, and it keeps on going, straight toward the college building—

And straight toward James.

Martin’s spider-senses emerge so violently that it nearly drowns out everything else; his body already moving before his brain can catch up.

He launches himself from the rooftop, ignoring the painful protest that immediately flares through every bruised and battered part of him.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, his body is informing him that this is a terrible idea and that perhaps nearly dying should earn him at least five minutes of rest.  But Martin chooses to ignore it.

A web instantly shoots out from his wrist and anchors itself to the building.  Just as the debris is already seconds away from impact—Martin reaches for James first, then catches him with one arm and yanks him clear just as the debris finally crashes into the fire escape.

The impact of the debris is almost deafening.  Martin hears as the metal shrieks and the concrete cracks open apart.  Part of the structure buckles inward, and Martin catches a glimpse of it beginning to collapse before the momentum of the swing carries them both out over open air.

He can feel James cling onto him so tightly that Martin is vaguely concerned some of the fabric of his suit might come off with him.  Regardless, Martin still tightens his hold around James in return, promising to never let go—not now, not ever—even as every muscle in his body begs him to stop. 

By the time they swing high above the city skyline, Martin finally hears the distant crack of gunfire splitting through the wind.  The helicopters’ weapons fire relentlessly, bright flashes illuminating the dark sky as bullets tear into the monster’s hide.  Somewhere below them, the beast lets out a furious roar, louder than anything should reasonably be, and Martin doesn’t dare look back for long.  

Instead, he keeps on going—one web after another, wrist flicking automatically despite how badly everything hurts, despite the way his shoulder keeps threatening to give out entirely.  His body feels like it’s being held together by fraying thread, but James is still in his arms, safe and alright, and that is the only reassuring thing that keeps him going.  Rooftop after rooftop blurs together until finally, mercifully, there’s somewhere solid enough to land.

Martin, however, barely manages to stick the landing.  The moment his feet touch solid ground, he lowers James carefully onto the rooftop surface.  Then whatever strength he has left finally abandons him.  His knees buckle, and he crashes roughly onto the concrete several feet away, unable to stop himself.

For a few seconds, all he can do is lie there on his side, listening to his own ragged breathing.  Every attempt to move sends another dose of fresh pain shooting through his body, and the low groans escaping his throat sound embarrassingly weak even to his own ears.

Somewhere nearby, James shifts upright.  Martin hears the scrape of his shoes against gravel, hears the sharp inhale that sounds suspiciously close to panic.

“Spider-Man!”

Martin squeezes his eyes shut.

No.  No, no, no.

He tries to get up immediately, knowing that this is the one thing he absolutely cannot let happen.

James can’t see him like this.

He plants a trembling hand against the surface and tries to push himself upright.  If he can just stand up, just swing away, then maybe—

Unfortunately, his body refuses to cooperate, all that effort amounting to absolutely nothing.  Instead of forcing himself upright, Martin remains sprawled on the ground, painfully aware of how pathetic he must look as he precariously keeps his face turned away from James.

“Spider-Man, thank you for saving my life out there. I—I don’t even know how I could ever repay you.”  James’ words tumble out quickly, tripping over each other in their haste.   “Are you okay? You were incredible. Seriously, that thing was huge.”

When Martin doesn’t muster out an answer, the silence stretches just long enough for James to draw the wrong conclusion.

“Here,”  James says softly.  “Let me help you up.”

James crouches beside him, hands hesitant for exactly half a second before concern wins out entirely.  Martin feels him reaching, trying to carefully turn him over.  Again—for one last time—Martin digs deep for whatever strength he has left; desperate to get up, desperate to shoot one last web and disappear before this whole thing becomes irreversible.

Before James sees something he can never take back.

But Martin’s body has already decided for him.

And unfortunately for both of them, James manages to flip him over.

Cold night air slips through the shredded sections of Martin’s mask, brushing against the skin that has already been exposed beneath the torn fabric.  The damage is worse than he’d realized.  Entire portions of the mask have been ripped away, leaving most of his face uncovered.

For one awful moment, neither of them says anything.  James is just staring at him.

And suddenly, absurdly, Martin thinks:  this is it. 

This is probably the last normal moment they ever get.

At first, concern is all Martin sees on James’ face—the concern he has for Spider-Man, and only Spider-Man alone.  Then something changes.  A faint crease appears between James’ brows as confusion intrudes him, replacing certainty with hesitation.

The visible recognition arrives slowly after, unfolding piece by piece across James’ face in a way that makes Martin wish he didn’t have to witness it happening in real time.  It’s as though someone is physically rearranging the world in front of him, forcing the pieces into a shape neither of them can avoid anymore.

Through blurred vision, Martin watches it all happen.  How James blinks once, then twice.

And then his expression falls apart completely.

Because the person laying in front of James is no longer a stranger.

He is bruised and bloodied beneath a torn red mask, breathing far too hard for someone trying so desperately to act like everything is fine.  Sweat dampens his ash-blonde hair.  His lip is split.  Most of his face is visible now, familiar in all the ways it absolutely should not be.

James goes completely still.

Then his eyes widen.

“...Martin?”  he blurts.  His voice catches halfway through the name, disbelief tangled so tightly with shock Martin almost can’t bear to hear it.  “You’re Spider-Man this whole time?”

There it is—the question he’d spent months avoiding.  The secret he’d spent years protecting, asked in exactly the way he’d always feared it would be.  James sounds as though he genuinely can’t make sense of the sight before him; as though the Martin he knows and the Spider-Man laying before him refuse to fit together inside his head.

Just like that, the illusion Martin has been carrying for so long finally breaks apart—the stupid belief that he can keep both halves of his life separate forever.  That he can be Martin and Spider-Man without those worlds ever colliding.

Apparently, the universe had other plans.

And with a single question, the fragile version of normalcy he spent months desperately trying to preserve shatters beyond repair.

Martin opens his mouth, scrambling for something to say.  Anything.  Like an apology, maybe.  A plea for James not to hate him; not to look at him differently; not to let everything change now, of all times, when things were finally starting to go right between them.

He never figures out what to say.

The exhaustion that has been waiting for him all evening finally catches up.  The edges of his vision begin dissolving into static, the darkness slowly creeping inward.

James’ expression immediately changes again, shock giving way to panic so quickly that Martin barely has time to register it.

“Mar?”  His voice pitches higher with panic as he grabs Martin’s shoulders gently, then less gently when Martin doesn’t respond fast enough.  “Hey—hey, are you okay?”

Martin tries to answer, but nothing comes out.  He blinks repeatedly, forcing himself to stay conscious, but every attempt only makes the darkness spread further across his vision.

“Martin!”  James yells, and for the first time all night he sounds genuinely frightened.  “Stay with me, okay? Don’t do this—seriously, don’t—”

The last thing Martin is aware of before everything finally goes dark is James still calling his name, as though saying it enough times might somehow bring him back.