𑣲⋆ silas ᯓᡣ𐭩

The rest of the day seemed to have stretched out longer than expected. He'd gone out for lunch with Lance as the man had insisted—one of the few reasons he was surviving college. Having a rich friend certainly had its perks.

He parted ways with Lance in the elevator of the residence hall, as they lived two floors away from one another.

He finally made it back to his room as he jammed his keys in the lock, making quick work of unlocking it as he stepped inside and dropped his bag at the door.

No time to rest, unfortunately. He was starting to run behind schedule—phone already reading 7:49PM, nearly twenty minutes past the time he was supposed to get back.

Esteban practically tore off his shirt, tossing it onto his bed, his jeans coming next as he slipped into the suit, grabbing his mask off the hook as he put it on.

Gloves. Where are his gloves?

His brows raised as he looked around the room, checking his bag, where he thought he'd stuffed them as he normally stuffed them into the front pouch to avoid losing them.

Nothing.

Shit, they had to be in his room somewhere, right? They couldn't have—

His heart stuttered.

Lance had looked in his bag earlier, searching for a charger after Esteban had told him that he probably had one in there.

He didn't see...

Right?

He felt his shoulders tense slightly, his breath escaping just a little sharper.

Checking his phone. 7:54.

A strained groan tore from his throat as he stood in the middle of his dorm room. Why was his head so fucking full? 

Whatever. He had no time to worry.

He quickly shoved the window open and climbed through it, sticking to the walls before he shot and swung from the next building, disappearing into NYC once again.

He didn't register the fact that it wasn't quite late enough for the night to cover him. That not every student was hunched over their desk studying.

That someone could've been looking out their window.

Someone holding a pair of gloves like they held the answer to all the mysteries of the world.

Because right now? They very well could.

New York was bright tonight. Easter weekend coming up, he was sure that he'd be on the go near constantly until morning—which was unfortunate, because the amount of missing assignments piling up on his computer and his desk were probably higher than Logan was at that party a few weeks back.

Perching himself on top of a building, legs dangling over the ledge as he squeezed his hands into a fist, as if trying to see if the gloves had magically appeared somehow, because in his eyes? They very well could have. There wasn't a single thing in this secret second life he could explain.

A part of him liked it. The thrill of everybody knowing who he was, but nobody knowing his name. Being able to swing into action and disappear into a crowd, but a larger part of him?

A larger part of him had grown to hate it. He wanted normalcy, a feeling he hadn't had since he was fourteen years old.

A small tingle up the back of his neck brought him out of his thoughts as his head snapped up, slowly standing as he moved to look down from the side—the infamous alleyway that had been all so politely nicknamed "the dealer lane" by Oliver.

Nothing.

Esteban blinked.

Once, twice, as if blinking would suddenly make something appear.

But it was silent.

The feeling arose again. The prickle that had now started to spread to the back of his head, the one that always indicated something wrong. 

Something told him it was down there, below him, so why couldn't he see anything?

He went to climb down, not looking back.

But that tingle had turned into warning sirens, he whipped around at the smallest sound of footsteps just in time to duck, eyes flying wide open as a figure lunged.

Esteban moved fast—left, back, down. He didn't have a clue who this was, their face was concealed, but they reacted to all of his movements like a practiced fighter.

They grabbed the front of his suit, he grabbed them. 

Arm wrapped around as he spun and flipped them over his back, getting them immobilized with webs as he moved swiftly, eyes darting around because something still felt wrong—this person wasn't alone, he could feel it. He'd just been too stuck in his own head to notice his own senses screaming at him.

"What the hell, man?!" Esteban blurted, turning once he was sure they couldn't get up as he moved away from the edge, not wanting to be vulnerable as he tried to snap himself back to focus. 

He could hear his own breath. Short and heavy, far heavier than it should've been for a man who'd done this hundreds of times.

Another flicker of movement. 

This time he moved right, down, and forward as his elbow met their lower back when he got behind them, sweeping their legs from below them and securing them in place as well.

But just as he was going to let his body relax again—

A hard pull on his mask. 

It rode up slightly, exposing his mouth as he pulled it down and quickly spun to face whoever had such nerve as to try such a trick.

They backed away, grinning. 

Another person stepped into view, a phone camera pointed directly at him.

He felt his heart beat harder.

"Chill, dude. We were just fucking around." One of the men on the floor spoke as Esteban scoffed.

"Fucking around with Spider-Man? Didn't your parents teach you better?" He shot back with a grunt. "Don't touch the mask." 

The seemingly younger man holding the phone helped the two get up, as they brushed themselves off, "Didn't have to go so hard." One of them grunted.

"I kind of did."

"Did you? You sure Spidey's not just off his game?"

"I'm perfectly on it."

Three of the four boys giggled, Esteban frowned.

"Come on, it's time to retire. You've gotta be an old man by now, no?" The one who'd grabbed his mask said, smiling smugly.

He rolled his eyes.

They had no idea. No idea that Spider-Man was just a twenty year old college kid.

And one of them had just gotten his face on camera. The mask half-off, the mask that separated the city's hero, and Esteban Ocon.

"Whatever." The Frenchman grumbled. "Go, run along, and don't get into trouble. Oh, and delete that video."

They disappeared down the stairs again, laughing. 

They would certainly not be deleting that video. Not when they were the ones who'd gotten the first glimpse of the man under the mask.

That certainly wouldn't be the last encounter of the night. Which was unfortunate, because despite it being the first, it felt like it'd already drained him of at least 31 years of lifespan.

"Fucking hell." He finally said under his breath as he ran a hand down his masked face. "I still need to find my gloves. Great."

The night was off to a great fucking start.

But back in the residence hall?

Someone was where they shouldn't be.

And that someone was none other than Lance Stroll, 

Who used his spare key to more or less break into Esteban's dorm after he'd knocked to no avail, carrying the gloves in his pocket.

He originally didn't intend to pry. It could've been anything—a part of a halloween costume he forgot, just something he kept on him as he'd always been a fan of superheroes.

But it just felt like a puzzle piece.

How he always looked so tired, how he'd fall behind in his studies, how he suddenly became so much stronger, how he'd slipped up and used first person when they were talking about Spider-Man on the news.

The clock met 9:30PM, and Esteban was nowhere to be seen. He'd called, left messages that stayed unanswered. 

It wasn't like it was an uncommon occurrence, but right now it felt different.

Lance was sure he was losing his mind. Looking too far into it. There was no way his best friend would hide that big of a secret for so long, they always told each other everything–from something as small like going on a date, to something as big as mental health struggles.

But none of that compared to this.

He sat down on the bed and rubbed his thumbs over his knees, torn between giving up on this whole thing, or staying. Just to see if Esteban came back, just to settle his speculation.

"Okay. Fine." He mumbled to himself as he stood and walked to the door. He'd just talk to him tomorrow.

But then his phone dinged with a reply.

(8:12 PM)

Lance: You home?

Lance: Can I talk to you?

(8:34 PM)

Esteban: I'm home, what's up?

Lance: Nothing, it's okay. I'll talk to you later, man

Oh, he was "home"?

Lance scoffed, leaning against the door. Esteban was lying to him now.

Whatever, he thought, he probably has his reasons. Whatever those are.

He got to sleep maybe an hour later. Unable to stop tossing and turning, as stupid as it sounded to be thinking "oh, my best friend is secretly spider-man".

It just made too much sense.

Esteban got home around 3:39AM. Far later than he'd been out before, fucking Fridays.

He didn't even care to shower as he laid down on his bed without even the slightest bit of care. Too tired to actually manage that.

Esteban wanted nothing more than to sleep.

He'd spent hours on patrol. And NYC was an unforgiving place, never a quiet night in his time as spider-man.

Finally making the final swing to his building, sticking carefully with tired hands as he fumbled to push his window open with a grunt, letting his arms go lax as he more or less just tumbled into his dorm room.

He ripped off his mask, tossing it with an inhuman precision onto the hook. It always held its own special place beside his hats.

New York City lived on below—cars honking, people walking through the streets, talked loud enough for it to reach his uncomfortably sensitive ears, and the bright lights continued to sting his sore eyes.

He slowly stood, grabbing his sweater that had been draped over his chair since this morning, before pausing.

Right. The window. I'll have to close that so nobody gets a free show.

He shut the blinds quickly. Slamming the ever-reluctant window shut as he finally unzipped his suit that had been practically glued to his skin by sweat alone.

Gross. He'd have to shower before bed.<br />

The cold chill that had been let in from the previously open window met his bare shoulders first as they slumped slightly, dropping the sweater back on the chair as there was really no reason to put it on quite yet.

Trudging to the bathroom as he clicked the first song he could find on his phone, setting it on the counter, and dropping a towel overtop it before he turned the water on.

He hadn't even checked the time yet. Assuming somewhere between the broad 11PM to 1AM.

Slipping under the water, the warmth finally providing him a moment of relaxation, a heavy breath escaping his lips almost involuntarily as he ran a hand through his now-soaked hair.

The music played idly in the background as he reached for the cheap shampoo that he'd made Pierre buy him.

He didn't notice how long he'd spent in there. Probably far too long than the student next door would mind, considering he'd been humming the whole time—that realization making him grimace slightly as he stepped out, finally slipping into his hoodie and pulling on a pair of sweatpants now that the sweat and... various other mysterious New York substances that had soaked into his suit and skin, as he flopped down on his bed. The small twin that usually felt a bit too small for him suddenly couldn't have been more comfortable.

Quickly scrolling through his phone to turn on a few early alarms to get to his lectures, glancing at the time before he turned it off.

12:56AM. Christ.

He sat up, leaning over just enough to slide it onto his desk before falling back down into the warm mattress.

It only took him a matter of minutes to be completely out, face buried in the pillow, neck turned in a way that was sure to leave him sore in the morning, tall body stretched over the bed.

But sleep didn't quite bring peace like he'd expected.

It brought him to that first big fight again.

Fifteen year old Esteban, bit just a year prior and finding himself facing a threat much larger than him.

Standing in the middle of the street with shaking hands as he watched people run past him for cover.

His legs wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't they move? He's fought before, he knew how to save people—so why was he still standing there?

Eyes wide under his mask, air not quite filling his lungs.

Something came flying at him. A road sign, nothing impossible to handle but still, he ducked behind a car, gaze snapping to the direction of where it'd come from.

A flash of movement through smoke as Esteban scrambled to his unsteady feet.

This wasn't how it'd gone—he'd been fighting around this time in reality, he'd lived this before, years ago. It was his first encounter.

He tried to shoot a web towards a building to get up to higher ground.

Nothing.

His heart slammed against his chest. The beating loud in his ears as he tried again to no avail.

"Shit, shit— come on, please—"

His voice felt too small, the words feeling painful coming out of his mouth.

It was getting closer. Watching him like prey, and Esteban was a sitting duck, or a robot that was actively powering down.

And then it sped up. Sprinting, Esteban turned to run—cowardly, he knew, but what else could he have done?

He couldn't move fast enough, though. As he felt something dig into his skin as he was tackled down to the ground, a gasp escaping him as he wrestled for power, only catching a glimpse of it's face before it's clawed hand wrapped around his throat.

But just as it squeezed, just as he choked on a breath—

He woke, shooting up from the bed as he tried to pull air into his lungs.

"Jesus—" Esteban whispered, looking around his room, "Jesus fucking Christ."

This wasn't the first time he'd been back there. Wasn't the first times the events had been twisted, but it was the first time he'd truly felt like it was real.

First time he'd been grabbed, first time he could feel the claws digging into his neck.

Glancing out the window and taking note of the brighter sky. It must've been at least 6:30. His alarm would be going off in fifteen minutes anyway.

A few more breaths, trying to fill his lungs again to prove to himself that it wasn't real, as he finally slid out of bed.

His legs finally moved like normal. Not without some mild soreness, but that was probably as normal as he could get.

The sound of his phone's alarm filled the room, as expected. 6:45. At least he wasn't up at some ungodly hour. His mind had spared him some sleep, thankfully.

He turned off the alarm, but paused, noticing a message had popped up.

6 minutes ago.

"Lance." Esteban spoke aloud, clicking on it.

Lance: Esteban

Lance: Frenchman

Lance: Respectable man from France

Lance: I'm actively losing respect

Lance: Esteban Ocon will you wake up

Esteban: It is 6:45, Lance.

Lance: Breakfast?

Esteban: Is... the first meal of the day? What about it?

Lance: Do u wanna come get some with me?

He could definitely go for breakfast. Especially with his best friend who would insist on paying for it. But unfortunately, he didn't have long for breakfast.

Lance: The new place

Lance: We have two hours

Esteban: You have two hours*. I start at 8:00, mate.

Lance: Oh.

Lance: I'll bring some to you in class. I'll get you a coffee too, I have your order written down.

Esteban: You'll what? You what?

Lance: 👍

Esteban: Lance, no?

Esteban: Lance?

Esteban: Lanncceeeee?

Radio silence. Esteban was left sitting in pure silence now, slowly realizing that Lance, in fact, was dead serious about bringing him breakfast.

In class.

In the middle of a lecture.

Stubborn bastard.

He slowly put his phone down and stood again, walking to his closet as he pulled out the first warm things he could find. A t-shirt, a random racing jacket, and... another pair of sweatpants.

Esteban did not remember getting this pair.

Maybe Lance had left them last time he stayed over.

Whatever. If he did, he'd see them when he came to drop off food.

He got to Professor Briatore's room at 7:45, slipping into his seat beside Pierre, who was hunched over the desk, head on his arms, and very clearly asleep.

"Mate." He whispered, nudging the shorter man, "Pierre, mate."

Pierre opened one eye, looking at him like he was supposed to just let him sleep and get scolded.

"Quoi ? Qu'est-ce que tu veux ?" He questioned. (What? What do you want?)

Esteban scoffed.

"Flavio va te tuer." (Flavio is going to kill you.)

"Oh, allez. Un petit coup de vent et il est six pieds sous terre. Je vais bien." (Oh, come on. A little gust of wind and he's six feet under. I'm fine.)

Just then, the devil himself—Professor Briatore walked in, dressed like a general in the military. Everyone in the room visibly straightened up just a little bit more, Pierre sitting up straight. Even Alex and Luke stopped talking.

"You were saying?" Esteban whispered as Pierre smacked his leg, making him bite back a laugh.

Both suddenly went serious when Flavio looked directly at them, ducking their heads to look down at their pencil, blank papers, the desk itself—anything to avoid eye contact.

Disaster averted.

He began talking almost immediately, delving deep into detail about whatever-the-fuck. Esteban didn't hear two words of it, lost and caught up in his own head.

8:10AM...

8:20...

At 8:22, a knock was heard at the door, Flavio walking over to open it.

A moment of silence.

"Stroll." He spoke, surprised. "We're in the middle of a lecture."

Esteban's jaw dropped, just slightly at the realization.

"Crazy fuck." He breathed out.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, I'll only be a minute if I could come in." The Canadian responded.

A beat passed—reluctance from the professor before he finally stepped away from the door to let Lance in.

He kept his head down, not wanting to meet the gazes of the group of students, walking up to Esteban and dropping a container in front of him, giving an anxious smile before he turned and walked out.

"The hell?" Pierre questioned, "He's doing food delivery now?"

All eyes were on Esteban, who sunk back in his chair slightly.

"Okay. Enough about the kid having food delivered, eyes up front." 

A few snickers were heard around the class, Lando having a hand over his mouth as Oscar just shook his head at the Brit beside him.

The rest of the lecture passed faster than expected for forty-five minutes, occasionally shoving food into his mouth as he hadn't quite realized how hungry he actually was (as well as Pierre stealing a piece of toast claiming it helped him focus), and by the time it was over? Esteban had practically sprinted out.

He slipped into a side hallway and pulled out his phone, texting Lance.

Esteban: Mate.

Esteban: What was THAT.

Lance: Ur welcome

Esteban: Thank you, you're amazing, my saviour, but I think Flavio wanted me dead

Lance: Jealousy

Esteban: I don't think that's an emotion he's capable of.

Lance: I'm in class

Esteban: Get off your phone? What??

Esteban shook his head, leaning against the wall as he checked his schedule once again.

He'd likely meet Lance for lunch, and then they would be together for the last bit of their day, and then he'd have to be back in his dorm by 7:30PM, ready to go out by 8:00, and hopefully on patrol by 8:30.

God. He hated hiding it, Lance had asked the night prior if he wanted to hang out again, how did he explain why he couldn't?