Work Text:
The fog machine was actually a really bad idea for two reasons.
One. Spyder had lost sight of little Conspiracy boys as soon as they arrived, which might prove troublesome in the future as far as his money was concerned. He was pretty sure he spotted dear Flux's raven-black mop of hair at the entrance, but his vision was immediately obscured by a muscled forearm reaching for his cup of jungle juice.
Two. When he turned, Schpood was already downing the syrupy drink, a droplet escaping the corner of his lips and slowly falling all the way to his exposed collarbone. Spyder stared numbly as pink lights pulsed against tanned, sweaty skin and a glistening golden chain around a very pretty, wide neck. The kick drum made the floorboards shake under Spyder's feet - otherwise he might've been as well rooted to the spot. The bobbing of his own throat made his sweaty hair touch the collar of a pretty much wet, tacky Spider-Man costume.
Both of them are going to catch a nasty cold after this.
“Hey, all-seeing eye.” Schpood mocked with a straight face, tossing the cup somewhere on the floor. “Stop weaving for a second and catch a game.”
Spyder had learned to move past the name puns a long time ago, especially since Schpood tended to be infuriatingly creative with them. And yeah, he knew that getting him to leave Saps and Flux to their vices was Schpood's way of ensuring he's gonna win the bet. Did knowledge ever make any difference for Spyder? Not really. He just liked to have it. And maybe to be feared because of it, but only a little.
Predictably, Schpood headed outside where he would definitely catch a cold wearing only pants. Still, Owo somehow managed to get the guys to finally recreate that fucked-up golf scene from 365 days, and being already tipsy enough as he was, he found it pretty funny. After every pseudo goal and every exaggerated moan and comment, Schpood's robust laughter cut through the other salves, and Spyder found himself grabbing the pointer from Skipolo and saying, “My turn.”
He felt Schpood's eyes skim over him, that curious look of his. Thank fuck he could excuse the shivers with the cold of an October night.
Micro finally bee-lined to their group when he scored right into Owo's open mouth. Schpood made Micro search for a lighter inside the pockets of his blatantly obvious Breaking Bad costume, and Spyder went over to them, knowing that Schpood was already waiting with two blunts.
The lighter made shadows on Schpood's perfectly cut face deepen. Smoke mixed with the humid, pink fog oozing from the inside. Spyder's eyes managed to never leave Schpood's face as they shotgunned. He always looked so focused when they did it.
Spyder's problem was that he would answer whatever unspoken desire that Schpood expressed, and then fool himself into thinking observation made him the one in control.
“Don't you wanna score?” Schpood's voice was muffled by the thick, sharp smoke coming from his mouth. Spyder barely registered that Micro was dipping as soon as he arrived, but he sure as hell did not miss the nervous look on an otherwise straight face. Oh, Micro definitely wanted to score tonight. Just not here.
“I'll join you later, man. Still have a couple rounds to do.” A lie. Micro was definitely looking for someone in the crowd. Someone who was definitely not a client. At times, Spyder was baffled at how obvious Micro was outside of dealing. But Schpood was too intoxicated to care, so he waved him off.
Spyder felt the weed starting to kick in, so he leaned on Schpood's naked shoulder. This was fine. Every frat bro in this godforsaken college knew about them already anyway. One shared morning class absence after a party just like this one, and before he knew it, Schpood was being held down in the cafeteria from almost punching Sitzkrieg straight in the face. Apparently he overheard a throwaway slutshaming joke about Spyder.
“I was defending both of us,” Schpood had said. “So what if we hooked up? What’s wrong with a little fun?”
It was announced Westhelm's Emperor was bi, everyone shrugged and went back to their business. Spyder had gone strategically silent about his own homosexuality - not like anybody was interested, anyway. He just watched as even more curious individuals swarmed around Schpood ever since, background-checked every single one without fail, and then watched as they all got disappointed when Schpood couldn't be made to settle.
Being Westhelm's secretary in more than one sense was not half bad. He was given an ideal position to observe, catalogue, and move things around. Sitzkrieg hated his guts at the Coalition meetings because when it came to ensuring that the budget or schedules would favor Westhelm, Spyder was undefeated - ruthless in presentation and diligent in fact-checking. Definitely not his fault Sitzkrieg's ego was so easy to manipulate, and he always had a favor up his sleeve to appease the Commonwealth before a war broke out.
So they were okay. Schpood wasn't leaning away, circling his arm around Spyder's shoulders instead when Skipolo drunkenly stumbled through a scuffed golf course made of empty cups and bent paper plates.
“Score! Score!” he shouted, and Spyder found himself chanting with him. In the corner of his eye, a flash of white passed, dragging a dark figure behind it. But to his own surprise, Spyder just snuggled closer to Schpood’s chest and took another hit from his blunt. He decided he was too content to care.
Another problem with Spyder was that he knew he was chasing these moments, no matter how many times he told himself it's a bad idea. Catching himself staring at Schpood's free hand on the couch. Jumping to help with his hairdo. Wondering what it's like to be kissed in a casual setting.
He knew those were fantasies. Schpood couldn't keep a relationship even if he tried. He watched enough of them burn to the ground ever since freshman year to have no doubt. But, as always, knowledge didn't make any difference.
“You're blowing smoke into my nose, man,” Schpood complained, but quiet enough not to be heard over the pounding music. He also didn't release his hold. Spyder was sober enough to squash the overwhelming need to peck him on a cheek.
“Okay, it's getting fucking cold out here,” Owo announced, getting up from the ground. “Let's hit the dance floor again!”
“Jesus, what are you, thirty?” Skipolo snorted. “Who says that?”
Spyder was the one who took a step forward. Schpood turned on his heel, leading the way. And that was that. Another moment to be labeled as “nice” and catalogued away.
He busied himself with pouring drinks for everyone, suddenly uninterested in getting more drunk. It was utterly moronic, but he wanted to remember it all tomorrow. The way his heartbeat mixed with the music's rhythm. How his stupidly attractive frat leader looked in the pink lights. One more drunken permission to be close.
He dived in between the dancing bodies, sloshing the drinks a bit against his chest. Each of his friends thanked him enthusiastically and pushed him further to have his own fun. Spyder appreciated it, but he immediately gravitated towards the wall, last drink in hand, reserved for the moron in the middle. What Schpood was doing could barely be classified as dancing, but he immediately got a bunch of girls swaying all over him, so it didn't look half as bad. Spyder took a sip from the cup and observed. So much fog and he still could see these damned cheekbones so clearly.
One girl started to get in front of Schpood. Chest to chest. A reluctant answer, and then she was spun around, effectively grinding against him. Spyder didn't recognize her, so he took a mental note to catalogue her face as well. But then she turned around and threw her arms around his neck to surge for a kiss. And he graciously slid away. Okay, no matter then. Spyder could take another sip while Schpood moved to another–
The girl went after Schpood and moved to steal him away for another try. She succeeded, and he danced with her again, until she pulled him closer once more. This time- a full-body push. “Piss off,” Spyder read from Schpood's lips, and the girl proceeded to throw a tantrum. He was just about to intervene when Schpood's eyes locked with his, and before he could move, Schpood was out of the steamy bubbling pool of bodies and leaning against the wall next to him. Spyder passed him the cup, and the question must've been visible on his face. Schpood rolled his eyes while downing the drink.
“Can't take a motherfucking hint,” he slurred, loud and clear for Spyder to hear. “Do I have to be in the mood every god damn party?”
“Well, you're rather famous for it,” Spyder teased. Schpood flipped him, which only made Spyder smile crookedly. There was a joke going around in Westhelm that jungle juice was a love potion to Schpood, since every time a different person would disappear behind his bedroom door. More than once, that person happened to be Spyder.
And Spyder didn't make a big deal out of it. He gradually learned the tell-tale signs of when Schpood would choose him again, and eagerly responded to the attention. What's a little mutually consensual fun between friends, right? Spyder could understand the need for a familiar taste.
Although the first night was a whole different story. He wanted it etched into his brain. To get the party started, Schpood had made them play “two truths one lie”, and whoever got sniffed out had to take a shot. Spyder had ended up completely sober, and Schpood immediately turned to nag him about which ones were lies. Spyder just had to laugh at his obvious game - the Emperor had made sure the topic circled around sex all the time. What he had not realized was that Schpood was singling him out more and more until they magically moved in front of Schpood's apartment door. Hook, line, and sinker, except the moment Spyder took in his surroundings, Schpood had said, “Your call.” Never before and never after had Spyder heard Schpood ask for permission.
And it was awkward as hell. He had hit his head against the bedframe when Schpood tossed him on the sheets, but the pain gradually went away as he had been kissed silly. They had a serious argument over whether taking clothes off with one's teeth is sexy (Schpood was in favor). They had been unmatched, and out of sync, and it was an absolutely perfect memory. If Spyder kept it any closer to his heart, he might've pierced it.
“You wanna,” Spyder looked around, “hang out with the band? I'm pretty sure Areas isn't out to get you, even with all the glazing.”
Schpood looked at him weirdly, as if he was expecting something else from Spyder. Spyder shrugged and nodded his head towards a set of occupied chairs in the corner. Someone even brought a ukulele.
“Yeah,” Schpood said after a beat. “Thanks.”
Not sure what he was being thanked for, he followed the frat leader, and they both received a warm welcome. Spyder wondered idly if this was what his college experience would boil down to: just making sure Schpood was happy in-between assignments and board meetings. Training himself to expect nothing in return.
Until Schpood finally clapped a hand on his shoulder and whispered to his ear.
“Tired. Let's get out.”
***
“Where the fuck is my–”, Schpood frantically searched for his keycard, comically checking the skin on his torso. Spyder sighed and reached out to the back pocket of his trousers, where Schpood always inexplicably kept it, even when it could bend. He realized his mistake only after he felt Schpood’s hot breath tickling his ear.
Spyder froze. There were faint sounds of a 3 AM conversation happening downstairs. Schpood’s nose touched his hairline, and he heard the sharp inhale.
“I knew you were stealing my shampoo,” Schpood murmured hoarsely, slowly crowding Spyder against the door.
“Am not.” Spyder’s hands slowly slid up Schpood’s chest, and he told himself it was to push him away if they got caught. Schpood sloppily bit his ear, and he bit back a hiccup of pleasure. “It’s just a very similar smell. I told you.”
He was, actually, stealing. He bought the off-brand as a cover-up. But there were things that Spyder wanted to keep to himself for just a little longer.
“It smells fucking good on you,” Schpood’s voice rumbled through his skin as jungle-juice-red lips descended on Spyder’s jaw.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck. “Hey, get off so we can go inside?” he said out loud.
“What the hell,” Schpood whined, stopping his assault for a moment to stare at him with blurry eyes. “How are you so sober still, Spidey?”
He wasn’t. If anything, he was getting more drunk by the minute. Especially with that fuckass nickname. But he felt how Schpood leaned his full body against him, elbows on the door for balance, and saw his exhaustion clear as day. What they both wanted didn’t matter.
Reluctantly, Schpood had finally leaned away, and Spyder opened the door for him, then had to guide them both to sit on the bed, still wrapped in that ridiculous sweatsack of a costume. He took off his shoes and got on his knees to remove Schpood’s.
“Hey, uh.” Spyder’s head snapped back to where Schpood’s upper half was sprawled on the sheets. “I don’t think we can do anything tonight.”
“I know,” Spyder said easily before his Emperor could embarrass himself further. “You said you're not in the mood. It's fine.”
With some difficulty, Schpood pulled himself up on his elbows to frown at Spyder. “But I thought you…”
“Hush. Legs on the bed. Rest up.”
Spyder had to get out of this hellish costume. He opened a large wardrobe and chose a red tee and sweatpants. “I will return these tomorrow,” he dangled the clothes in front of Schpood, who had a constipated look to him. “You're gonna puke?”
“No,” Schpood looked away. “It's just.”
Spyder blinked. “What? You want me to change in my own room?”
“No.” Schpood flopped back on the sheets. He hid his face in his hands. “No. Don't go to your room.”
A beat. Spyder had to force himself to shut his open mouth.
“Oh. Okay. The boys might notice, though.”
“When have I ever cared?” Schpood grumbled.
And it's most unusual. They never slept in each other's rooms afterwards, not since the first time. If Spyder wasn't careful…
Oh my God, screw careful. You'll never get more than this.
So Spyder undressed right then and there, revealing nothing but flushed skin and a pair of boxers underneath, fished an extra blanket from the top shelf, and crawled into Schpood's ridiculously soft bed.
“For God's sake, move up,” he complained as the blanket covered half of Schpood's face. “I'm not dragging you.”
After a beat - and Spyder would love to be less drunk to see the confusion on this pretty face better - Schpood pulled himself up, and Spyder kicked the blanket into obedience. Only then, as he curled up on himself, the luxurious size of the bed allowing him a comfortable position, he sighed contentedly.
“G'night,” he murmured, closing his eyes. It was more for Schpood than for him. But instead of a slowing breath, he heard the light rustle of sheets, and opened his eyes to Schpood reaching out to brush strands of hair away from his face. Despite being caught, Schpood just looked at him briefly, then continued the gesture. For the first time in what felt like forever, after seven hookups and three long years of friendship, Spyder couldn't read him.
So he decided not to care further. And shuffled closer to snuggle his face against Schpood's chest.
Then he went out like a light.
***
He woke up really late into the day, judging by how harshly the sunlight fought through the blinds. His cheek was smushed against a solid mass of warmth, and as he gradually came to, it turned out a better half of his body lay sprawled on top of Schpood. Their ankles were hooked, one of Schpood's arms was still wrapped around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and when Spyder looked up, he could see a small scar on top of the arch of Schpood's nose, a memory of when the glasses he once wore were punched hard into his skull by a high-school bully.
For what seemed like hours, Spyder just stayed there and watched, perfectly warm and content. From time to time, Schpood would snore softly, lifting Spyder’s body with every inhale, the beating of his heart almost lulling Spyder back to sleep. Maybe they wouldn't catch any germs, sharing body heat and all that. Maybe they could do that more often when Spyder was on the verge of running a fever.
Schpood blinked, breathed in, and mumbled something before turning his head towards Spyder. And it was like his eyes lit up with the sun. Before Spyder could protest, Schpood was already rolling on his side to cup Spyder's cheek and kiss him.
Spyder's bones turned into jelly. They were practically cocooned together, and Schpood was kissing him so deeply, and it was sticky and smelled horrible, and it was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done to him. Spyder kissed back, a quiet moan escaping his lips, and his heart burst open, wanting a hundred, no, a million other mornings like this, where he could drown in the look Schpood gave him. Like he was actually in love.
He allowed himself to live in the hangover, sleep-blurred fantasy for exactly ten seconds, feeling his chest constricting with each one passing. Then he cupped Schpood's face and delicately broke the kiss.
“Hey. Morning breath.”
For a blissful second, Schpood's eyes looked foggy, like he hadn't restored the ability to compute words yet. Spyder smiled faintly and allowed his thumb to trace the shape of his friend's cheekbone. Holy fuck, he was so unimaginably screwed.
Then Schpood’s eyes refocused, and the moment was gone.
“Right,” he said. And he moved away.
They got out of bed in heavy silence, Spyder dressing in the clothes he chose for himself earlier, Schpood going to the bathroom to refresh. Spyder schooled his expression, stubbornly swallowing tears that threatened to spill. There was nothing to cry about. He had to back out before either of them would make a mistake. Schpood was giving him all that he could. Spyder should be happy with that.
When he finally looked up, Schpood was awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, dressed but barefoot. Spyder waited for him to say something, because he did not trust his own voice at that moment. But Schpood just sat back on the corner of the bed, half-turned away. The silence was so loud Spyder wanted to scream, only to be interrupted by Schpood’s tired sigh.
“My dad is very homophobic,” he said out of the blue. Spyder looked at him dumbly. “And of course he only sees me as an heir to the company. From time to time, I need to make sure no word about my coming out has reached him.”
Spyder pulled a string out of the worn sweatpants and started wrapping it around his finger. “I can ask around.”
“No. Only I know how to be subtle around him.” Another heavy sigh. “Listen. I’m not good about this stuff, and fuck, my head is killing me right now.”
I know, Spyder wanted to say. That’s why I’m always giving you a way out. Why aren’t you taking it?
“But lately, I…” Spyder stared at the side of his face. Don’t go to your room, Schpood had said, covering his eyes, sounding like he needed Spyder to stay. “I guess I've been wondering what it's like to. You know.”
Spyder was pretty sure his heart was bleeding.
“Be exclusive,” Schpood finished, staring at the ceiling, clearly bracing for something he thought he would receive from Spyder. Westhelm’s secretary smiled softly at the mere idea that he would react badly to this. “We have a good thing going, yeah?” He was suddenly staring at Spyder, looking like a deer in the headlights. “Or have I been reading it wrong?”
Spyder's eyes watered. When he spoke, he couldn't stop it from overflowing. “Fuck. Was I that obvious?”
“Not at all,” Schpood quickly shuffled impossibly closer and took Spyder's hand in his. He played with his fingers for a moment before continuing, his tanned skin stark against Spyder’s. “I thought you'd laugh at me.”
Spyder sniffed and tried to dry his eyes. “Jesus,” Schpood said, and promptly pulled him into a hug. “Come here. Yes, I like you, you slimy bastard, why do you think I come back to you so often?”
“Shut up,” Spyder whined into his fresh shirt, staining it with tears. “You owe me a date.”
And Spyder knew they couldn't be exactly public with it. Not yet. Not until he threatened every frat bro in existence to honor the code and never use this relationship as a trump card against Schpood. Probably not even until they both graduate. But the knowledge that he could, in fact, show up in Schpood's clothes in the common area, tell everyone that it wasn't a hookup, and stop keeping tabs on every other girl and guy in their year because Schpood will be exclusive with him filled him with so much joy that he tackled Schpood to the bed and burst into wet laughter.
Schpood's hold tightened around him in response.
***
Harbourbloom was bustling with students drawn to winter editions of their coffee orders and warm lights. Hopefully, with so many conversations floating through the air, people would mind their own business. At least that's why Spyder had chosen the rush hour.
Upon entering, he immediately spotted Schpood by the high windows, hair combed into obedience, hands slotted together as if he was having a deep philosophical debate with himself, and a godforsaken red polo shirt. Talk about being inconspicuous and low on radar.
They were not exactly “out”. Schpood had just organized a frat meeting to officially tell all of Westhelm, and that was probably enough to make the word reach all of campus before tomorrow, but for now, it was still circulating. They both decided to control the spread of information for as long as possible. It unfortunately required a lot of grovelling before Sitzkrieg, which Schpood handled with gritted teeth, even with Spyder asking to let him go instead. After all that, and the stress of upcoming exams, there was nothing left for them to do but indulge.
Spyder pulled at his dark turtleneck to smooth out wrinkles and strolled through the bar, trying not to sprint. He sat down across from Schpood without a word, back ramrod straight, mirroring Schpood's nerves despite himself. For God's sake, it's just a date. Get over yourself.
“Seriously?” Schpood hissed at him, and Spyder sent him a dumbfounded look.
“What?” Was he supposed to pretend they met by accident? Spyder spent too stupidly long getting prepared and worrying about overdressing to pretend like he didn't care now.
Schpood shuffled in his seat, deep flush creeping on his cheeks, and he untangled his fingers to make a gesture towards an empty space on his right, only to abort a second later. He took a breath and swallowed it, resulting in just staring at Spyder with pleading eyes.
And Spyder hated how quickly he took the hint.
He got up, deliberately slow, and switched to sit on the same bench as Schpood. The seat was so small that their hips were touching.
Schpood looked at him with so much relief that Spyder thought he would melt on the spot. But it turned out his boyfriend was full of surprises. Because when he reached for the menu, Schpood caught his hand and pulled it under the table to slot their fingers together.
Spyder flushed hotly and stared at an equally red Schpood, who leaned his chin on his free hand and looked at the window, too shy to meet Spyder's eyes yet.
“You have no idea how long I've waited to do that,” Schpood mumbled into his hand, voice high-pitched and teary, and oh, Spyder was so incredibly, royally screwed.
Because he knew this might end up in a disaster. But the knowledge, as always, didn't make any difference.