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Andrew is deciding between a Snickers bar and a Twix when a man with a gun walks through the door. The ding that sounds whenever a customer arrives is drowned out by his demands of “Open the register,” (to the cashier) and “Put your hands up” (to Andrew). Reluctantly, Andrew does- not because he is staring death in the face, but because he has yet to choose which candy bar he should indulge himself with this evening.
“Take it,” the cashier whimpers, clearly scared shitless. The man keeps his gun leveled at Andrew, who he correctly deemed the larger threat. As far as Andrew is aware, he and the cashier are the only two in the store. It is currently 7:36 pm, according to the surreptitious glance he sends his watch- and because it’s been about fifteen minutes since he sent his text to Neil (his “going to store, what do you want” had been left on read for three minutes before he got the much anticipated response of “idc”).
Once, Andrew would have treated a hostage situation with more violence and a less nonchalant, I-do-this-every-week kind of deal. Once, he wouldn’t have been so intent on the candy display even with a gun locked and loaded in his immediate vicinity.
As it so happens to be, Andrew has a very annoying, very insistent shadow, who actually should be arriving right about-
“Hey, asshole,” says Spiderman- yes, that guy- firing off two webs and knocking the gun from the guy’s grip. Andrew kicks it out of the way behind him, not even bothering to watch the predictable exchange of New York’s favorite hero apprehending some lame-ass convenience store robber. Instead, he returns his attention to the candy bar. This whole ordeal has been a mild headache; he deserves to treat himself. He grabs two Snickers and a Twix and walks out of the store without paying. The shell-shocked cashier is too comatose to care. Spiderman actually steps out of the way for Andrew, which is slightly hilarious considering he is technically shoplifting, and he begins the walk home to his apartment, enjoying his hard-earned snacks.
The building he lives in is not, arguably, the best building to be living in. The heating is inconsistent, there is a legion of unfriendly birds who patrol the roof, and the mold in the lobby is shaped like the Virgin Mary. Still, Andrew has grown grudgingly fond of it over the last six months he’s lived there, and it is a welcome sight after two blocks of walking in the chilly November evening.
He takes the stairs up to the apartment because the elevator is an untrustworthy piece of shit, kicking off his shoes with an audible sigh once he’s behind the privacy of closed doors. The kitchen smells like cinnamon, which means Neil was trying out a new baking recipe. He’s a horrible baker, Neil, believing himself to be capable of eyeballing the ingredients instead of following the simple instructions (Andrew is not nearly as shocked by Neil’s utter uselessness in baking as his roommate; when has Neil ever been able to follow simple instructions without telling them to go fuck themselves?).
He doesn’t bother calling out to Neil, because Neil isn’t in the apartment. In a few minutes, he’ll burst in, tell Andrew he had to check on the rooftop garden, or some other laughably false bullshit, and they’ll both shovel down his latest baking disaster then watch Jeopardy then go to bed. Routine and predictable.
Sure enough, after Andrew has carefully made his way around the crust of what could pass as an apple cinnamon muffin, the door opens then clicks shut.
“Andrew?” Neil calls, audibly kicking his shoes off into the wall.
“In here,” Andrew replies, words muffled with pastry. It’s not half bad, this time.
Neil’s eyes crinkle when he sees Andrew eating his muffins. “Do you like them,” he asks, and if he were anyone else Andrew would say no and mean it. But he’s Neil, and he doesn’t even like sweets, and he made these for Andrew, so-
“No,” Andrew says, because at the end of the day he is still a contrary asshole. But he shoves a huge bite in his mouth not a second later to soothe any sting. Neil just grins at him, the way he always does when Andrew is being a dick just for the sake of being one.
“Trip to the store go alright?” asks Neil, overly casual. Ding, goes Andrew’s bullshit meter, an echo of the convenience store bell.
Andrew rolls his eyes, hard. “It went fine.”
“It says there was a hostage situation on the news.”
“Since when do you watch the news?”
“Andrew.”
Andrew looks up at Neil. As fun as it can be to mess with Neil, he understands the need to confirm someone’s safety. He’s understood it more than ever, this past half-year of befriending Neil.
“Some asshole with a gun came in,” Andrew relents. “But don’t worry, your favorite freak in spandex showed up to save the day.” As you already know, he doesn’t add.
Neil’s face does something complicated. “I’m glad you’re okay. I wish you’d tell me this shit.”
If Andrew were the type of person to laugh out loud, he would laugh at that. Neil is not the one who should be complaining about his roommate not telling him shit. Andrew is the king of having his roommate not tell him shit. He gives a noncommittal shrug- something he adopted from Neil, mind you- just to piss him off.
Neil sighs through his nose. “I taped the new episode of Jeopardy,” he tells Andrew, then leaves the kitchen to go collapse on the living room couch. It’s an invitation, and as much as Andrew pretends he is loath to pass up an opportunity to not-cuddle with Neil. He follows him shortly after, dropping down and melting into Neil’s shoulder with a familiarity he never thought would be possible.
Here’s the thing, if you haven’t figured it out already: Andrew’s roommate is Spiderman, the aforementioned freak in tights. And here’s the even worse thing: Andrew’s completely gone on him.
-
It’s actually not that interesting of a story.
Andrew and his best friend Kevin are roommates for a year until his best friend Kevin moves in with his longtime boyfriend Jean. Best friend Kevin knows a guy who needs a roommate, and Andrew needs a roommate, so Neil and Andrew become roommates. Neil is incredibly gorgeous, Andrew is incredibly gay, they’re both assholes: match made in Heaven (except not really, because Andrew’s been hinting heavily at the match part and Neil is incapable of taking a hint).
Andrew honestly hadn’t expected much from his new roommate. Compatibility is not something he worries about: he is rarely compatible with anyone, ever. Meeting this supposed childhood friend of Kevin’s had been a bit like whiplash. Neil had been so interesting, so secretive, so- captivating, and Andrew had been immediately fucked.
The most interesting thing about Neil, perhaps, is not that he is Spiderman- which Andrew figured out within literally two months of knowing him- but that for someone whose life- both past and current- relies on his ability to lie, he really is a horrible liar.
(Or maybe Andrew just knows him. Maybe he just pays attention to him, maybe he just grew close to him in a way no one else had before, no one else had ever tried to be, and maybe Neil had seen him for who he was and against all odds liked him for it. Maybe that’s why Andrew can see through every lie, every deflection- I know you, Neil Josten, he wants to say, Stop hiding from me, but he doesn’t, the words slipping like water through his hands when he opens his mouth. I know your scars, I know the sound of your voice when you sing in the shower, I know the tangle of your hair when you need my help brushing it in the morning. Of course, he doesn’t say this, and he does his best to ignore the swoop in his stomach when he is reminded of how well he knows Neil, and how there’s so much more of him to learn).
The second most interesting- and Andrew’s least favorite- thing about Neil is his apparently nonexistent self-preservation instinct, prominent in the nights he comes home bleeding, blaming going too hard at boxing with Matt, or being clumsy, or pissing off the wrong person (irritatingly, this one is the most plausible). Once upon a time, in the early stages of- friendship might be the wrong word- knowing each other, Neil had come home nearly unconscious and refusing to let Andrew do anything for him. Since then, of course, Andrew has refused to let Neil’s injuries go unwrapped, Neil’s unending protests falling on deaf ears (the only person more stubborn than Neil is Andrew).
Neil being Spiderman was probably the fourth or fifth most interesting thing about him. Before meeting Neil, Andrew had absolutely no interest in a man whose gimmick was based on something he could kill with a newspaper roll. After meeting Neil, however, any and all Spiderman related news is on Google Alert, both to keep tabs on him and to try and understand this weird train wreck of a person who spent his free time saving people.
Having Spiderman as a roommate is just as much of a headache as one might expect. Neil comes in every few nights bleeding, hurt, and he gives Andrew chest palpitations every fucking time. He’s late to everything, due to the unpredictability of a superhero’s schedule, and he lies about why he’s late or where he goes constantly. It’s exhausting for Andrew, who is irritated with the charade, but if it means having Neil in his life then he can’t complain too much. It is insulting that Neil thinks his paltry lies will convince Andrew, though.
All this to say, Neil is worth the insult and the persisting migraines. He’s worth all of it. (And Andrew will probably get around to seducing him. Maybe).
(No he won’t).
-
The blood crusted on Neil’s lip gives his mouth the impression of being painted, a divot made too dark by an unintentionally harsh brush stroke. His cornflower blue eyes, in the soft yellow light emitting from their one terrible lightbulb, have become a muted grey. The gentle slope of his nose is overshadowed by the ugly bruising centered around his right eye. He is so heartbreakingly solid, so real, against the press of Andrew’s fingertips.
Neil hisses when Andrew prods at the scrape on his stomach. He sits shirtless in their bathroom, a towel underneath him to shield him from the cold of the tile. His excuse this time had been practicing with Matt, which was his excuse two times ago. Andrew is tired.
“Here,” he says, using his arm as a brace for Neil to lean against as they hobble together to his room.
“Thanks,” Neil whispers, though it seems loud in the hushed atmosphere that usually settles over them on nights like these.
Andrew hates him. Hates him for the lies, and the coming home bloody, making Andrew worry for him in a way he’s never worried over anyone. He hates him so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” is what he says. They reach Neil’s bed in one piece, and Andrew lays him back against his boring navy sheets much more gently than he needed to.
He turns his back to return to his room- it’s 3 am, and he has class in the morning- when Neil grabs the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Stay,” Neil asks. “Yes or no?”
Andrew takes one slow breath. “Yes,” he says, as if it were ever a decision, then scoots Neil over until they’re both facing each other, breathing each other's stale air. Slowly, Andrew reaches up and curls a finger through a loose wave of Neil’s hair. Neil is silent next to him, looking at Andrew with an open expression of- what, adoration? Andrew hates him.
This would be the perfect time to tell Neil his secret identity is not- has never been, really- secret; the stubborn part of Andrew wants Neil to tell him himself, the practical part realizing that them being on the same page is probably safer in the long run.
In the end, he’s silent, studying the shadows Neil’s eyelashes cast on his cheeks when he slept.
This is fine.
-
The amusement that came from his roommate being Spiderman was short lived. Andrew had initially, upon his discovery, liked to fuck with Neil because he knew that in the end, Neil would tell him (he found that he particularly enjoyed spraying Neil with bug spray at random times).
Months later, this plan seems to have backfired. He is finding less and less of the whole secret identity thing even remotely funny, and it’s hard to keep up appearances when all he can think is you’re lying to me.
It is kind of entertaining to know that no matter the disaster, Andrew will come out alive- fucking ironic, given he didn't think he'd live past the age of nineteen. This might be putting too much faith in Neil’s abilities, but so far any time Andrew has come upon trouble- which is quite a lot, actually- it has been resolved for him and the troublemaker taken down so quickly it barely even registers as an inconvenience anymore. Andrew is slightly convinced Neil put a tracker in him, which is annoying because Andrew has threatened to do the same to him on countless occasions (and can you blame him? Spiderman or not, Neil is undeniably a murder magnet).
But still, Andrew has survived being hit by a car, faulty foundation collapsing the building he was interning in, and numerous muggings (perhaps there is hypocrisy in calling Neil the murder magnet). And in all of these instances, a certain red and black man in tights is there to save the day, and, more specifically, Andrew. It’s happened more times than he can count.
For example, now: Andrew is looking down at his phone, trying to translate the indecipherable drunk texts Kevin sent him. He’s absentmindedly eating the double chocolate chip cookie Neil pushed into his hands before he left, and the crosswalk had been clear when he last checked so he's walking. He hears the screech of tires and belatedly realizes he’s flying through the air, away from the almost-collision and away from anywhere he can regain his footing.
Andrew’s stomach drops when he sees the increasing distance between him and the street. Spiderman- because literally who else would it be- is holding him in an undignified bridal carry, which kind of makes him want to fall to his death regardless of his fear of heights.
He’s gently let on the ground a few seconds later, in a discreet alley near the convenience store he had so generously been held hostage at.
“Sorry,” says Spiderman. “I kno- I, um, you don’t look like you like heights.”
Andrew struggles to unclench his fists, knuckles white and fingernails digging unforgiving crescents into his palms. “You couldn’t have dropped me off at school?” he says, though his unaffected tone can’t hide the shaking of his hands. Goddamn you, Neil.
Spiderman fidgets. “Oh, sorry. I’d offer to take you, but- you know. Heights.”
“Right.” Andrew says. “Heights.”
There’s an awkward beat of silence where Andrew wants to blurt, “Thanks, Neil, for saving my life for the thousandth time.” He doesn’t, obviously. But he kind of wants to.
“You should be more careful,” Spiderman says, and though the accent isn’t Neil's, the worry in his voice is. "Look both ways and all that."
Andrew shrugs. “I was waiting on a text from my roommate,” he lies, just to see the split second of stillness that settles over the man in front of him.
“Seriously,” Spiderman says. “Be careful.” And then he’s off, flying through the streets of New York City, higher than Andrew can ever hope of going. Always just out of reach.
-
Andrew is up on the roof with Neil. This is not unusual- they often sit on top of their horrible wonderful building together, Andrew smoking and Neil watching Andrew smoke. It was on the roof Andrew learned his favorite truths about Neil, the ones he guards close to his chest like a dragon hoarding treasure.
The sun is setting, casting Neil’s profile in a wonderful, bad-for-Andrew’s-blood-pressure kind of light. Andrew indulges himself in looking, and Neil looks back, and it’s perfect, for a little bit. He can almost forget that Neil is keeping a huge, life-changing secret from him. If he tries, lets himself drown in those blue blue blue eyes, he can.
Andrew indulges himself some more. And some more, and some more, until at some point everything fades away and all he knows is the planes of Neil’s face, the apology written in the corner of his frown.
-
“We've talked about this," Andrew starts. "If you get blood on the sofa-,”
"You'll kill me," finishes Neil with a flicker of a grin. "Yeah, I know."
Andrew is not as amused. In his arms is a bloody, near-unconscious Neil Josten, who is mumbling these horrible little half-sighs in Andrew’s neck that make him squeeze Neil closer to his chest.
Neil keeps going, apparently uninterested in saving his breath to focus on not dying in Andrew's arms. “Too bad you don't like messes.”
"Shut up," Andrew hisses, hating him more viscerally in that moment than he has in a while.
He lays Neil back on the couch, because as much as he gripes he actually doesn’t give a fuck if there are stains if it means his boy stays breathing. He disinfects the wound, sloppily stitches it up the best he can (he watched YouTube tutorials, and had Neil’s dubious guidance the first few times). The gauze wrap is done cautiously, as to not disturb the careful drape of Neil’s body on the cushions. Throughout all of it, Neil’s eyes remain on him, an emotion there Andrew can’t- won’t- look into. Not until Neil tells him.
“Andrew,” Neil whispers. Andrew doesn’t even look up.
“Andrew,” Neil says again, when a few beats have passed without acknowledgement. Andrew tilts his head in the direction of Neil’s face, still focusing hard on the bandage.
Neil is silent.
“What, Neil?”
The skin of Neil’s torso had been shocking to see, even more shocking to touch. Now, Andrew is familiar with every dip and wind of the scars strewn about Neil’s stomach and chest. He’s felt them, has traced their paths with reverent fingertips. Another scar to add to the collection, he thinks, staring down at the ruined landscape of Neil's body.
“...Nevermind. Just thanks, I guess.”
Nothing is said after that.
-
They’re washing dishes together in comfortable silence when Andrew can’t take it anymore.
“Neil,” he says, and there must be a note of something serious in his voice because Neil looks up warily, setting the cat-printed bowl down in the sink.
(The bowl was from Neil. There aren’t pets allowed in the building but Andrew had still confided in him his particular fondness for cats; he had been so infuriatingly charmed by the gift that he'd given Neil the silent treatment for two days).
Neil gives him his full attention, as he always does. Nothing squeezes Andrew’s heart tighter than that signature Neil Josten intensity.
“I want to kiss you,” Andrew says evenly, despite the hurried rhythm of his heartbeat. “Yes or no.”
He studies Neil’s face, looking for signs of discomfort, fear, even though he knows- he knows- he won’t find any. Neil wants this. Neil has been lying about not wanting this, he’s been lying about being Spiderman, and he’s a liar, but he wants this.
Something precious is born and swiftly killed in the hopeful tremble of Neil’s lower lip; desperation spills down the front of his stupid apron he insists on wearing and lands messily onto his shaking, clenched fists.
“Yes,” he says. “Andrew, yes, kiss me.”
Andrew does, obviously, and it’s- it’s the same terrified rush he feels whenever he looks down and realizes he could die if he stumbles, if he falls. It’s intoxicating, and he needs more of it, doesn’t know how he went twenty one years without tasting the heat of Neil’s mouth and knows he can’t go another day without it.
They break apart, suddenly, sooner than Andrew would have liked. His complaints die in his throat at the sight of Neil. Neil looks- petrified. He looks like a man on his way to the gallows.
“Andrew,” he says roughly. His lips glisten, red and shiny with Andrew’s saliva. “I need to tell you something.”
“I know,” Andrew tells him, because he does.
Neil doesn’t look any less shaken. “I know you know. You’re not an idiot. I can’t- if I’m, if I’m him, I can’t- be this with you. I could die any day now and I’d be leaving you behind. It’s not fair.”
Andrew knows this. He’s always known this, as Neil said.
“That’s not for you to decide. I don’t care if it’s unfair. Things usually are.” Andrew keeps his eyes on Neil’s face. “I want you.” And ultimately, that’s something Neil can’t take away from him, no matter how much his martyr complex may beat him for it.
That seems to be the thing that undoes Neil. He returns Andrew’s gaze, finally, and his shoulders relax- the invisible strings that kept his spine so rigid snipped- in some cocktail of defeat, resignation, and relief. “You have me,” he says.
And at last, Andrew knows he does.
-
“Yes, Aaron, I’m coming. Fucking Christ, you’re annoying. I said I’d be there,” Andrew says, neatly stepping over a frozen bird in the middle of the pavement. He’s fumbling to right his scarf with numb fingers, cursing as he does. The dial tone in his ear tells him that he accidentally hung up on his brother, not that anyone would believe it. Andrew supposes he does hang up on people too many times to cry wolf.
The day is cold, the sludge on the streets making him a little more miserable than normal. His apartment is a few steps behind him, warm and familiar and so tempting, but he keeps trudging onward. He promised Aaron he’d come meet his girlfriend, who chose a first meeting dinner at a restaurant not far enough to taxi but just far enough to be an uncomfortable walk, and now that he’s out of bed he’s finding it difficult to muster up the motivation. He’s halfway down the block- it’s 5 pm, and the usual foot traffic is nowhere to be found- when he hears more than feels a whoosh of air. When he turns to his left, he’s looking at an upside-down Neil, suspended from a strand of spider web tied to the streetlight above them.
“You forgot your muffin,” Neil says. His voice is accented when he’s Spiderman, but if Andrew strains he can hear his Neil underneath.
Andrew tries not to let his eyes soften too noticeably. He takes the muffin from Neil- blueberry- and glances around. The block appears deserted, so he feels no guilt as he pulls the mask down to free Neil’s mouth and gives him a chaste kiss. It’s upside-down, so it’s a little awkward, but worth it. Always worth it.
“See you,” he says.
“See you,” Neil echoes, and the blinding grin on his face keeps Andrew warm for the next block and then some.