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“Oh archons, you’re okay. I saw the news and I was worried sick.”
Kinich Malipo—nerd, genius, arrogant medium male who’s been your best friend since the third grade. He fixed cars instead of owning them, stuck his hand in the toilet when it needed him, and always, without fail, did your Physics homework perfectly.
Of course, that isn’t to say you’re particularly stupid at school. As editor-in-chief of Daily Teyvat (a.k.a. most renowned school paper in the entirety of the region you might say), you just prefer to stick your head in the business you’re good at. Numbers have really only mattered to you when they’re a statistic headline, even though you actually ace General Physics.
So, when Kinich comes over from the house next door every few nights and plops onto your bed to push his glasses up and explain things to you like you’re five, you go full-on dumbass mode.
How could you not when the most fundamentally accurate nerd is right within your reach to do your work for you?
Most importantly, how could you not when pretending is the easiest ticket to spending time with the guy you’ve had a crush on for nine years?
“Oh, I’m fine…listen, I’m writing an exposé on that weird goblin guy. Maybe I could write one to get that Yale full-ride I’ve been dreaming of.”
His lips purse, secretly paying the taxi driver as you both get out.
“That is a look of disapproval,” you pout, “what’s got you against my genius this time?”
The chill of the air sends you through an unusual sensation that isn’t a shiver, partly because it’s accompanied by Kinich’s pale expression.
“Don’t you think that’s dangerous? I mean, Spider-Man’s always there at the scene of the crime anyway.”
Oh, Spider-Man.
The guy just saved you before Kinich went to find you in the aftermath of the Times Square crisis where you nearly lost your head. A lot of “the chicks” dig him, per Mualani. It’s gotten to a point that sometimes, all your fellow journalists seem to write about is him.
You wouldn’t call him a problem in particular—it’s clear the guy’s got good physique for someone rumored to be in middle school. However, despite Spider-Man saving the city every time, he clearly also loves the attention.
You don’t like to admit that it pisses you off.
“He’ll exposé whatever crap that weirdo is hiding from the cops,” he quips with a wink.
“Very funny. Your personal, close friend, Spider-Man, whose house you go to whenever his mom cooks branzino?
“Ah, European sea bass. Nine out of ten if and only if the knife I use to cut it isn’t dull.”
“I’d probably think you were Spider-Man, but he probably knows how to use a table knife.”
“Punch me, I bleed.”
A short series of laughs follow in step of the ads on building screens and the cop car alarms.
New York is beautiful, you think. Yet somehow, all that entropy only calls for the person that’s right beside you.
So, though done for centuries as part-time jokes, the air unexpectedly becomes more charged as Kinich flings his arm around your shoulder. Could be the weather, you think.
Nevertheless, a segment of your delusional shadow feels he’s been catching up to your small hints recently—much to your appreciation. With The New York Times starting summer internships soon, you’ve been nothing short of absolutely wrecked.
And secretly, as you’ve always been doing since you were twelve, you gladly noticed him back.
“More time at the gym for a Malipo, I take it?”
A small leap of faith off the cowering skyscraper. You hope the fluster in your voice isn’t as painfully obvious as the pinkish hue of your ears.
“…You could say that,” he starts, “but I’m still your nerd doing your Physics everyday.”
Mine?
“Nerds can have physique, ‘ya know. Doesn’t make you any less uglier.”
Kinich steps back, rolls his eyes, and punches your side all in a matter of seconds at your quote-on-quote absurd statement.
“This is why we’re both single, man.”
Nonsense. You’d both be taken if you took each other.
The rest of the walk back home was silent. If it weren’t for the cold air puking on your face like it was December, you could have sworn Kinich’s face was getting closer to your shoulder. It clouded your mind ‘til you felt a downpour soaking every crevice of your skull with everything that happened today.
“Hey, spacegirl, we’re here.”
Your eyes finally turn to the rusty roof of your own humble abode. Mom hasn’t taken the trash out, you think—as always. At 9:21 PM, you’re usually in bed, drafting another column or rejecting one your block-mate did.
With the snow crunching beneath your feet, a thought runs briefly through your head like him.
Spider-Man.
“Earth to Daily Teyvat Editor-In-Chief,” someone snaps with a snort.
Coming to a standstill, your eyes fixate on Kinich.
The boy you’ve loved since he gave you his pencil during third grade Math class—considerate, kind, and getting into shape. He’s changing.
You’re all changing, and it’s going at too fast a speed you’re not ready to admit you hate.
That’s when your mouth opens. It says many stupid things, but this may be its most questionable one.
“How do you feel about Spider-Man, Kinich?”
He looks surprised—pleasantly or not, you couldn’t tell. That in which, is quite intriguing to you, considering it would have been reasonable to bring up.
“Why? What do you think of him?”
Of course he throws the question back.
Your old Converse feel like the most interesting thing in the world right now. They’re old and worn out—your style, but in need of repair slash anewpair.
Snow carves its underside, and for a little bit, you forgot what the question was.
Nevertheless, the answer left you bemused.
“What NYC always thinks. He’s…”
Kinich’s eyes are glassy. Yours searches his for answers before you step on freshly bought eggs.
“What do you think?”
Your shoulder droops. Your backpack is getting heavier; it’s amazing how well it’s held up over the years.
Maybe that’s the word.
“Amazing.”
The boy in front of you is inundated. He feels foggy, like a punchline you can’t quite remember the origin of, but one you can understand.
You feel you stepped on those eggshells, yet, they coiled over again once you raised your foot.
Finally, he nods—stifling a wide smile.
“He’d be grateful.”
“Seriously, no sarcasm in that. I’m being genuine, Kinich.”
“He’d be…so grateful.”
The moment stops and freezes itself in time. Two minds, a little further apart, one relieved and the other finalizing their all-black puzzle.
Was it..?
“Well, I should get going,” he breaks the silence, “and you should get started on that exposé.”
Spider-Man. Neon green and black fading into the city lights with nothing but webs and a mind threaded by its genius. Nothing can entangle it into chaos.
It’s been four months since he was masked.
And since then, Kinich has never looked better since that fateful day in September.
But right now, he’s also already starting to sprint across the pavement. You’re taken aback, however, what you say next takes you a million years into the past.
“B-bye, Kinich. I love you.”
Oh Lord.
You’re hoping he didn’t catch that, but he stops dead in his tracks.
“…What?”
No way home now.
“I love you.”
Earlier, you were only 67% sure about that Spider-Man accusation. Now, after a fast hard tug forward makes you nearly lose balance, it’s up to 95%.
There’s web on your back and hip. 98%, could have just been there since earlier. Upon research, Spider-Man’s webs dissolve after two hours.
You’re in Kinich’s grasp now, and his palms warm your waist. He has strange contraptions on his wrists. 99%.
He kisses you. Wait, what?
Yeah, whatever, to hell with the percentages.
At one point a second later, you realize you aren’t returning the affection. Tilt your head, damn it!!!
You do. Immediately, the man you’ve wanted for so long melts with you and your eyes close without meaning.
It’s a sign you could die happy—really good thing Spider-Man saved you before it happened.
What happens deepens. Your percentage rises by the farthest decimal yet you don’t care enough to pull away.
Finally, he pulls away, and you touch his face. It freezes over your fingertips.
“You saved my life, Spider-Man.”
“I’d sacrifice mine for yours.”
100%.