Chapter Text
This can’t be happening.
Oh, fuck.
Shane mentally traces the rows and columns of his class schedule in his head, like he usually does when he’s late. Except it’s 20 minutes past his second class of the day, and he can only count how many accumulating demerits he could avail for that week. He doesn’t even remember what the words are on Tuesday, 13:00-15:00 anymore, so what’s the point?
He trudges past the hallways, legs sporting the new bruise so lovingly given to him by the giant tarantula that had been growing under the sewers of the city for the past few weeks. Fortunately, it had only been discovered when he was nearby, so there were no casualties.
How do these things even happen? He swears he’s been a goody-two-shoes from the moment he came out of his mother’s womb. It’s almost like the webs served as some sort of cosmic karma meant to be a form of entertainment for all the gods up there.
Sometimes, Shane is sick of having to think about everything all the fucking time.
A missed long quiz for his Calculus elective. A seminar hosting gig he’s had to decline due to his busy schedule. Lunch with Rose–shit, he missed that, too. His Chemistry lab exercise–god, he’s honestly so sick of seeing chemicals everywhere now.
Oh.
That’s right. Lab. Oh god, he’s only been late for his Chem lab class once. Once! That’s another streak broken, he sighs, turning towards the direction of the building he’s supposed to have been in.
Head bowed, Shane pushes the door to his class open, sheepishly making (well, he attempts to, at least) eye contact with his professor.
“Good afternoon, Sir. I’m sorry, I got caught up–”
“Get to work, Hollander.”
Okay then.
Shane’s line of sight turns towards his lab partner, who is all fussy with the beaker in his hands, trying to pour a thick solution of something Shane can’t identify, while writing down the measurements of another liquid in a test tube. He looks like the average nerd you’d see in TV and in comic books, his curls pressed against his forehead from the goggles pushing them back tightly. His brows are furrowed, clearly giving all his attention to the task in front of him.
He doesn’t even notice Shane until he’s right in front of him, a clear picture of guilt on his face.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I tried to get here quicker, I swear,” Shane mumbles. “Um. Do you need any help, or…”
Ilya Rozanov raises his head upwards so fast that if Shane was any closer, his sides wouldn’t be the only parts of him with purpling bruises. Ilya’s eye twitches in the goggles, making him look more like a minion with a wig than a playboy extraordinaire. Shane found it so endearing.
“You.” Ilya points the finger holding his pen at Shane’s direction, and Shane’s momentarily terrified he’s going to be stabbed. Again. “Hold this.” He shoves test tubes and a pile of litmus papers in Shane’s loose grip.
“Wait! I still don’t have my–”
Ilya throws two spare latex gloves at Shane’s head, and they land right on his face, hanging on his glasses. “You do procedure two,” he taps the paper at the leftmost side of the table. “I’ll finish all these measurements. We do this at the same time, da?”
Shane’s stunned for a second, then immediately locks into the task. He’s already practiced the procedure in his head during his advanced studying sessions he has in his free time. He tries to do well in the lab especially. For no reason at all.
Besides, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have been the star pairing of the class for the past few months. It’s a surprise they were put together in the first place. An even bigger surprise is Shane’s miraculous ability to be punctual to this one subject out of all the others.
Okay, he lied. He tries too hard for this subject. Maybe not for nothing. He’s got people to impress! His professor, for one. He has to keep his reputation stable, despite it regressing more and more lately, what with his sporadic absences (which are not his fault, by the way).
His classmates.
His lab partner. A little bit.
Okay, he really wants to impress Ilya. Shane’s just some guy, some guy who’s sometimes really good at studying, but lately though, it’s been difficult. His grades are doing good, but they could be doing better. It’s not Shane Hollander’s best work, for one.
And Ilya is everything, really. From his golden curls that just fall on his face so perfectly–at the right time, at the right moment, as if he’s aiming to catch people swooning over him. His eyes, a light blue whenever they accidentally land on him during class, but an emerald green whenever Shane catches a glimpse of his bright smiles out in the sun. His insane build that he maintains even with his stupid fast food intake that Shane cannot even fathom thinking about. It seems so effortless, so easy for this perfect boy.
Anyway, Shane finishes the procedure with no qualms, a few minutes after Ilya’s finished with his part. They answer the guide questions together, as if their brains are fused. That’s just the magic of Hollander and Rozanov. No one can really explain their chemistry (ha!) in the classroom, since they are never seen together outside of it.
Shane is man enough to admit that he’d like to change that. Very much so. He’s almost a hundred percent sure that Ilya wants the same, what with his constant teasing and flirting and banter and his calling Shane pretty or his freckles little stars that form its own constellation. Like, who fucking says that?
Shane can’t, though. It’s too risky. Only his parents know his secret, along with his best friend. He’s so thankful for that because if for some reason he wasn’t able to rant out all the insane happenings in the city to anyone in the world, he’d simply drop out and quit both school and his secret job. He isn’t even getting paid for it!
An elbow to his side startles him out of his thoughts. Ilya’s goggles are now off, hanging off his neck like an oversized necklace as he smiles softly at Shane.
“Hi, Shane,” Ilya says, tilting his head, finally raking his eyes on Shane’s frame, up and down, as if trying to absorb him like he’s going to disappear any second. Shane secretly files it under his mental folder of all the times Ilya’s smiled at him like that. Secretly calls it his puppy smile, since he almost always looks exactly like an eager puppy trying to suppress its excitement.
“Rozanov,” Shane replies smoothly, his nonchalant tone immediately debunked by the heat he can feel on his cheeks.
“Hmm. What’s this?” Ilya pinches his cheekbones with his first two fingers and thumb, jointly working together to ruin Shane’s life. “Feeling shy, Hollander?”
“Fuck you,” Shane laughs, pushing him away, trying to disentangle Ilya’s hand from his own, but Ilya doesn’t budge. His hand lingers on Shane’s, pulling tightly on Shane’s calloused fingers and eyeing the healed scratches and wounds curiously.
Ilya breaks eye contact with Shane’s hand to form another with Shane’s eyes, gaze sharp and full of purpose. You okay? they seem to ask, but he ultimately drops it, probably thinking it’s another one of Shane’s weird quirks.
Most of the class had cleared out by now, and the remaining students paid no mind to whatever was happening in the back of the room.
Ilya doesn’t let go of his hand.
“Come with me tonight?” Ilya asks. So sweet. His voice is not like it sounds when he talks raucously with his hockey friends. Not like the stiff politeness that exudes facade when he talks to people older than him. This one was real, one just made for Shane. Well, Shane would like to think so. As a little treat from the horrors, as Rose says.
“What’s tonight?” Shane replies, voice sounding just as smitten as Ilya’s. He thinks this whole thing is stupid. The whole world would probably agree.
Shane’s aware of what’s happening–whatever it is between them. Ilya clearly is, too. They just. They don’t ever actually acknowledge whatever it is they’re doing. It’s fucked up. He knows he can’t do it, whatever tonight is. He’s got a job. One that could cost lives if he isn’t careful.
(Why does it have to be all on you, Shane? Loosen up a little. You only live once, come on!
You know I can’t. What if the Goblin comes back? Or if something happens with that hidden cave near the sewers or if–
You can’t control any of that, Shaney. You’re just one guy. Cut youself some slack.
Rose, that’s exactly why I can’t slack off! I’m the only guy that can do anything about the state of this city. There’s no one else.)
He’s all they’ve got, really. The oh-so-beloved Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. What are they going to say once they figure out he’s not so friendly after all? How sometimes, he loathes putting others over himself. He’s only 19, for fuck’s sake. He wants to stay at home and read his dusty graphic novels and play hockey with his friends. He wants to hang out with Rose until the day turns into the next, like they used to.
He wants to go on strolls in the park with his lab-partner-crush-not-quite-yet-boyfriend and tell him about all the secrets this city hides when no one really looks deeper. He wants to go on picnics in secluded areas of the campus, somewhere where dogs are nearby so he can look over at the little creatures and look back at the company he’s in only to realize they’re one and the same.
The day he got bitten was a day long forgotten. He remembers flashes of light, bright hospital walls, and incessant screaming. He’s not sure if what he was hearing was his voice. He never had the courage to ask.
But the after was magical. He loved being able to reach into what seemed like a whole nother dimension. Something between space and time and the universe, and suddenly he was leaping over roofs and swinging cats from trees, and that’s not even part of it. He was a teenager with problems any teenager would have and now, none of that matters.
What’s a little crush against the possible end of the world? For all he knows, he really is the only one like him. There’s no one else in any part of the world where this magic was used for good.
Sometimes, he wonders if what he’s doing really is morally right. If it’s a little spider against hundreds of bigger bugs, what’s the point?
He can’t take a risk like this. A distracted Spider-Man is no longer a hero to be admired. He’s just another boy, another weak human being caught in the complex web of teen romance.
Except this doesn’t even feel like the way it seems in the rom-coms he’d watch to pass the time. This feels so much more than that. This feels more than just a kiss after a happily-ever-after, more than a confession in the rain. This feels like his body’s turning in on itself, like his powers are flickering on and off every single time he meets the eyes of this stupid, idiotic, annoying, beautiful Russian boy. This fucking clever specimen of a person who’s more like a little puppy than a man, really, who looks at Shane like he hung the moon, and Shane knows, he knows he looks even worse. He knows he looks at Ilya like he invented his most favorite roof swinging techniques. He feels the high from the first day exploring what speed really felt like every time he enters the same room as Ilya.
So what could he have done? Could he really have said no to that request that sounded like pure honey to his ears, like the bees have only just left the flowers that had their juice stolen away and gave it to Shane in the form of Ilya’s voice saying please, please, Shane, we’ll have so much fun.
What a trick.
“I don’t do parties, Ilya, you know this,” Shane says, scrunching his nose. “I have things to do tonight. Lots of missed work.”
Ilya’s disappointed frown transforms into something else, his features changing as the lightbulb clicks in his brain.
“Just the two of us then. No parties. We don’t have to go, Shane,” Ilya says, pleading a little. “You never want to hang out with me, and I never get to see you. Can we just this once?”
Shane is a weak, weak man. Shane felt it the moment he entered the room, and he feels the exact same way now, staring at the sad look Ilya makes, like he got denied his favorite ice cream flavor after standing and waiting in a really long line.
Fine.
“Fine. Okay. What are we doing?” Shane sighs, exasperated. He mentally notes that he has to keep a sort of radio with him the whole time. Just in case.
Ilya’s head snaps up.
“Wait. Seriously? Actually?” His mouth is agape. “But you never say yes. Um. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, okay?” Okey, Shane notes, feeling deranged. Fuck.
“No. I want to. C’mon, Ilya, of course I’d want to hang out with you,” Shane teased, grabbing Ilya’s index and thumb tightly and wrapping it in his whole hand.
Ilya looks down and looks like his brain short-circuited for a second before sobering up.
“Oh. Okay. Let’s go then.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya’s eyes still look a little clouded, and his cheeks are a little pink as he looks at Shane questioningly.
“You didn’t even say what we’re doing!”
“Oh. Didn’t think that far, solnyshko,” Ilya smiles cheerfully. He brings his palm up to Shane’s crown and flattens the hair on the top of his head, Shane’s bangs now covering his eyes. Ilya messes it all up and makes a satisfied noise.
“Ilya, stop it,” Shane whines, attempting to bring his hand up to straighten up the mess, but Ilya’s quicker. He grabs his wrist and drags him out of the room. “Hey!”
“So cute when you blush, Shane.”
“‘M not!”
“Liar.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
Ilya suddenly stops in the middle of the hall, and Shane almost topples over, tripping over his own shoes.
“Mm. Again?” Ilya says, eyes pointed at Shane, a stern demeanor taking over him.
Ugh. Shane rolls his eyes.
“Ilya. Fuck. Off.”
“That’s better,” Ilya grins, ruffling Shane’s hair yet again. “We’re going on an adventure.”
In retrospect, that really was Shane’s first mistake.