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The sirens have become a distant wail, something that on a normal day would blend into the sounds of the city. Now though, with the chopping of helicopter blades, and smoke rising from buildings, they sound like someone screaming. There’s crushed glass on the concrete, crunchy under Mike’s shoes as he rushes toward home. They’ve blocked all the subway entrances, police with metal barriers. Civilians are being ushered away with the waving of flashlights and batons, the sun setting over a smoldering midtown.
Mike rounds a corner, steering around a crushed taxi when a blur of red and blue catches his eye, swinging from the corner of a building. He has to do a double-take, and in the time it takes to look twice, the blur is gone, leaving only a sling of web that retracts itself into a narrow alleyway. There, crouched beside a dumpster, one palm pressed to the brick building, Spider-Man stands hunched over. The sight is jarring, the hero breathing heavy, his other hand pressed to the side of his ribcage. Mike’s only ever seen him arching over buildings in the distance, or else in photos or shaky camera footage people tape and send in to local news stations—instead of taking cover like a normal person when a supervillain is attacking the street. It’s odd to see him close up, so still, and there’s something about his outline, the way he makes himself smaller, that feels familiar.
Mike steps closer, ducking into the dim alley to get a better look. He can hear him now, the hitch in Spider-Man’s breathing, a forced inhale, a hold for four seconds before release, just like he taught Mike to do for his own anxiety. The slope of those shoulders, the curve of his spine. It’s—
“Will?!” Mike says, unable to stop himself.
Spider-Man’s head snaps up.
Mike stares, and though the mask covers his expression, he can tell Spider-Man is staring back.
“What did you say?” Spider-Man asks, trying to straighten. He sucks in a breath as his torso twists, his hand clutching at his side.
“Are you hurt?” Mike asks, eyeing him up and down again. It’s Will. There’s no way that it isn’t. He can tell when it’s Will walking up behind him just by the sound of his footsteps, and he knows when he’s waking up based on the way his bedframe creaks through the wall. He always knows it’s Will calling home even before looking down at the caller ID, knows it’s him before he even says hello. Mike would know his best friend anywhere.
“You should get home,” Spider-Man—Will—says. “Sir,” he adds, clearing his throat to deepen his voice. It’s an attempt to throw Mike off the scent, steer him away from revealing his identity, but the cat’s out of the bag, so he may as well have a bit of fun with it, right?
“You’re clearly injured.” Mike bites back a smile. “I can take a look. I’m pre-med,” he lies, enjoying the way Will’s mask bunches up with his twisted expression.
“You are?” he asks, skeptical because he knows for a fact that Mike is a creative writing TA. Will is itching to correct him.
Mike keeps the bit going. “Yeah, and that, to me, looks like a bruised rib,” he says, gesturing to where Will’s fingers press into his side, protecting sore bone and muscle. He takes a step closer.
Will steps back. “It’s fine, really,” he says. “Some rubble fell on me. Happens all the time. Nothing for a civilian like you to worry about.” He laughs a bit, trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out forced, like when he’s putting on a brave face and trying not to cry while watching Old Yeller.
Mike can’t help frowning. “Will,” he says, voice softening. “Is it really bad?”
“You—” Will flinches again. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Mike sighs, stepping closer.
Will steps back again, pressing against the brick wall. His breathing picks up, and he winces when his chest rises, ribs smarting. “I’m— I’m Spider-Man,” he manages, voice cracking. “I—”
“It’s okay,” Mike reassures him. “It’s gonna be fine.” He leads him through a deep breath, the pair of them holding it for four beats before exhaling in unison.
It doesn’t escape Mike’s notice that he hasn’t denied being Will, only affirmed that he’s Spider-Man, but he can let him be Spider-Man right now if it makes him more comfortable. What they really need to worry about is inspecting his wounds.
“We need to get you somewhere we can look at that,” Mike says. “I assume you’re a no hospitals sort of guy, huh?”
Will nods, sheepish. “Yeah, Dr Owens doesn’t like it when we—” he cuts himself off, and Mike can picture the way his cheeks are reddening under the mask. “Forget I said that, I—”
“Owens?” Mike questions. “The guy you’re interning for?”
“Mike,” Will groans. “Come on.”
“Sorry! I’m sorry, I—” Mike pauses. “Wait, did you just call me Mike?”
“No,” Will denies, surely bright red under there.
“Whatever you say, Spidey,” Mike teases, just to get his complexion to match the cherry red of his mask. “But seriously, I don’t think loitering here is doing you any favors. Where can I take you? The apartment, or—”
“The Owens building,” he mutters, resigning himself to the reality of the situation. “You go home. I’ll manage. It’s just a few blocks away.”
“Yeah, like ten,” Mike scoffs. “There’s no way you’re making it that far alone. Look at you, you can barely stand, let alone walk.”
That makes Will straighten, no longer using the building for support. He stumbles a bit, and Mike surges forward, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. The suit feels textured under his fingertips, buzzing with energy. He allows himself to trace Will’s hipbone, too conscious of every little place they’re touching. Will turns to look at him, settling his arm over Mike’s shoulder. Those big winged eyes are piercing, and soon it’s like they’re breathing in unison again.
Mike clears his throat. “Should I hail a cab?” he offers, shooting a glance at the one crushed on the sidewalk. He’s only sort of joking.
“Don’t freak out,” Will says, adjusting Mike’s hold on him.
“What’s— um,” Mike tries, a bit flustered by the sudden closeness. Without the mask, he’s sure he could feel the warmth of Will’s breath.
“Just hold on tight, and it’ll be over so fast, I promise.”
“Will,” Mike warns. “You’re making me nerv— AHHH!” he screams, feet lifted from the ground as Spider-Man’s webbing yanks them upward.
“Hold on!” he yells.
“WILL!” Mike squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re injured! Oh my—” His stomach swoops, a sudden drop before Will lifts them again. “This is insane!”
“Don’t be a baby,” Will manages, heaving with effort.
Mike doesn’t even have the chance to contemplate Will calling him baby—well, a baby, but semantics—before they’re swooping again. It’s like the drop on a rollercoaster, a terrifying plunge that makes him want to tighten his hold around Will. He doesn’t, too worried he’ll crush his ribs. They rise and dip a few more times, and he has to bite his tongue to hold back any more screaming. How does Will do this all the time?
Before Mike knows it, they’re touching down on pavement again. Will nudges him to open his eyes, and he releases his iron grip on his injured middle.
“You’re crazy,” Mike breathes, wobbling on solid ground. “Crazy.”
Will knocks their shoulders together, playful. “No, you’re crazy.”
“Guess that means we’re crazy together, right?” he asks, one final test.
“Yeah,” Will agrees. “Crazy together.”
There’s a moment where they’re just standing, too close, but not touching, and Mike wonders what they look like to passersby. He doesn’t have time to ponder it for long before Will makes a move for the doors of the Owens building. Mike immediately follows.
“You can’t come in,” Will says.
“What?”
“You’re not— No one’s supposed to know.” He’s breathing heavy again, his efforts in getting them here likely a poor choice.
“You just revealed your identity!” Mike argues.
“No, I didn’t, I—” Will stammers.
“Yes, you did!”
“But—”
“Will.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You didn’t have to!” Mike snaps. “I know you, okay? I know you. I’d—”
“Mike.”
“I’d know you anywhere.”
If it weren’t for the sirens in the distance, one could hear the roll of DnD dice hitting a table with how quiet they go. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the city, the entire street a bubble of held breath.
The door to the Owens building swings open, a woman with a clipboard. “Come inside,” she urges, sending them a warning glance. “Just him,” she adds when Mike goes to follow.
“Go home,” Will says, stepping inside. “I’ll be good as new.”
Mike wants to kick something. He goes straight for the curb and stomps his foot into a pile of trash and rubble, sending a soda can flying into the street. It rolls under a passing car before getting crushed by its back wheels.
He stops at a bodega on the way home for a can of Coke, because watching one get run over made him crave it, and because he needs something to keep him busy. He grabs a package of Reese’s Pieces too, dumping half the bag into his mouth as he walks up the three flights to his and Will’s shared apartment.
Mike feeds the cat its disgusting wet food, watching the canned tuna plop into a bowl. He makes himself a box of Kraft easy mac, burning his mouth when he eats it straight out of the pot. There’s a burn mark on the kitchen counter from the first time they set something down without a potholder, so he sets the pot there and sits next to it, legs swinging into the lower cabinets. The bodega Coke is room temperature now, so it does nothing to soothe his burnt tongue. He leaves the dishes in the sink to soak, too jittery to scrub them now.
He paces the apartment, socks sliding across the narrow-planked wooden floor. It’s been a while, and there’s no sign of Will. Even if he hadn’t run into Spider-Man, Mike would be worried waiting for him this long. On a regular night, he’d call the pub near his internship, sweet-talk whichever employee picked up into locating Will who usually loses track of time in a booth in the back. Though now that he thinks about it, Will seems to lose track of time in most places. He wonders now, if all those times, he was actually out there propelling himself off the sides of buildings.
Mike flicks on the television. Most of their main channels have been interrupted by videos and pictures of Spider-Man. Will launches himself off of skyscrapers, ducks and rolls under cars, wraps his webbing around lampposts to keep them from falling on screaming citizens. It’s difficult to watch, so he channel surfs until he finds a rerun of Dallas. This sort of trash television eases the buzzing in his mind, and it’s not long before he’s sinking into the sofa cushions, eyes growing heavy.
A beeping from the kitchen startles him awake. Mike shifts on the couch, rubbing sandman goo out of his eyes as he glances around the back cushion. Something unravels in his stomach, tension releasing at the sight before him. Will is here, socked feet on his tippy toes to retrieve his mug of tea from the spinny plate in the microwave. His hair is shaggy, and the neck of his T-shirt is slightly damp from a shower. The big light is off, the kitchen illuminated by the yellow bulb above the stove. The sink is empty, Mike’s mac and cheese pot dripping on the drying rack.
“You did the dishes,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
Will spins to face him, nearly spilling his tea. “Jesus, Mike,” he says, palm pressed to the center of his chest. “You scared me.”
“Yeah, well.” Mike shifts, trying to roll out the crick that’s formed in his neck. “You scared me first.”
“Okay, so we’re talking about it,” Will sighs. He settles onto the opposite end of the couch, criss-cross applesauce, tea warming his hands.
“That depends,” Mike says. “Are you gonna say it?”
A crease forms between Will’s brows, and his cheeks look flushed, though that could be the tea. “I dunno what you want me to say.” He rests a hand on his ribs, that same spot from the alleyway.
“Yes, you do.”
“I—” Will starts, unsure of himself. “This is stupid. You already know.”
“I only know what you tell me,” he counters, watching Will fiddle with the hem of his T-shirt. Mike is trying very hard not to reach out and lift it, desperate to check on his bruised ribs. They could be purple by now.
Will huffs out a laugh, his shaggy hair lifting off his forehead for a moment before falling back into place. “I’ve never told anyone before.” His voice is shaky. “Sorry, I— I’m just—”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Mike says. “Take your time.” He places a comforting hand on Will’s bent knee, thumb rubbing along the seam in his sweatpants. “Or, maybe it’s better to just rip off the bandaid.”
“Bandaid?”
“Just blurt it out,” he explains. “Works for me. Whenever I need to get something off my chest, I just start blabbering and hope I’ve said the right thing.”
“That,” Will laughs, his eyes crinkling with it. “Makes so much sense.”
The credits of Dallas are rolling on the TV, another episode set to air after the ad break. A Coke commercial plays, slow motion shots of average looking people drinking from glass bottles and bright red cans in backyards or in front of sunsets. The little jingle that goes with it is familiar, an earworm that gets stuck in Mike’s head each time it plays. When it’s real, when it’s right, it’s a celebration of life.
“Well, now I want a Coke,” Will says, one corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk.
Can’t beat the real thing.
Mike watches Will, that easy smile on his lips, and he’s hit with the sudden relief that he’s alright. He’s here, he made it home. Sure, he’s got a few bruised ribs, but in the scheme of today, that’s nothing Mike can’t handle. He’ll get him ice—or a heat pack, whichever is better for bruising— and he’ll be good as new, just like he said. Will looks good. His lips are a bit chapped, his undereyes a bit sunken, but he seems happy. Before he can get too glassy-eyed about it, Mike shoots up from the couch to retrieve a can of Coke from the fridge. He dangles it in front of Will’s face, but pulls it out of reach when he goes to grab it.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he says, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “Your reward.”
“Fine,” Will groans. He sets his mug of tea onto the coffee table. “Ready?”
Mike nods.
“I’m Spider-Man,” he mumbles, cheeks going pink again.
“Hell yeah, you are!” Mike celebrates. He’s not too proud to start jumping up and down, absolutely ecstatic. It’s one thing to sleuth it out, but another to have Will admit it all so plainly. “You’re Spider-Man!” he shouts, leaping onto the couch.
“I’m Spider-Man!” Will echoes, shaking with laughter as he leans away from Mike’s jumping, hugging the arm of the sofa.
“This is insane,” he says, fingers finding the tab on the can.
“Wait, Mike—”
“I mean, my best friend, Spider-Man?” He pops the tab on the soda. “Who would’ve—”
Coca-Cola bursts out of the can, spraying Mike, Will, and the couch cushions.
This only makes them laugh harder, and soon Mike is collapsing on top of him, the pair of them snorting with laughter, sticky with soda. He can barely catch his breath, and Will has to help him set the Coke down without spilling anymore onto the floor. Mike lies back, head settling on Will’s chest, still shaking with laughter.
“Pre-med?” Will manages, staring down at where Mike is sprawled on top of him.
“You called me sir,” he argues. “It was only fair.” He stares up at the popcorn ceiling, eyes flitting closed when he feels a hand in his hair, softly scratching and twisting his curls.
“You scream like a girl, you know.”
“Yeah, well, forgive a guy for reacting to a near death experience,” he mutters. “I dunno how you do that all the time.”
“You can ask me anything,” Will whispers. “I know you have questions.”
“I do,” he yawns. “But most of them can wait.” He doesn’t want to bombard him too soon, but there is something he’s been dying to ask. “Just—”
“What?”
“Think I could try on the mask?”
Will groans. “You’re going to be such a nerd about this, aren’t you?”
“Hey!” Mike says, mock offended. “You like that I’m nerdy.”
“Yeah, I do.” He doesn’t laugh, but Mike can hear the smile in his voice.
Even with his eyes closed, he knows Will inside and out.