#spideyosc

It’s him. It’s really him. And he’s right- you do hate him. But still, that’s your fucking dad. And you’re going to save him.

It’s a hefty price, as you expected, but you don’t care. You have means.

The only thing you don’t need is a spider in your way.

You pack a couple essentials into a rucksack, before bursting through your bedroom door.

Oscar is sitting lamely on the couch, huddled to himself.

It’s slightly ridiculous, because he’s so big, but you’re focused on his reddened eyes.

Something softer in you wilts, and you have to stop yourself from running at him.

“I’m going to stay at Gwen’s for a bit.” you lie, daring him to reply. 

But to him, it’s not a dare.

“What? First off, who’s Gwen? And secondly, don’t be absurd. Look, if it's really me, I can stay at Lando’s. Just, just don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”

You hesitate, hand around the doorknob. 

“We work together. You’d like her, I think she studies Physics too. And I’m coming back, okay? I just need to cool off. I don’t want to do something stupid now, because I’m angry.”

As you open the door, your name falls from his lips like some sort of mangled prayer.

But it’s too late, because his desperate ‘Please don’t leave’ has morphed into your father’s even more desperate ‘Please leave me here.’

As the door closes, and he descends into a stunned silence, something erupts in his chest.

He’d felt grief before- he knew the pain of losing someone well. 

But they had never filled him with a guilt; a sinking sort of feeling. He almost felt a little like he was drowning in your departure, in the careless slam of the door.

It wasn’t his fault, when his uncle died. It wasn’t his fault, when he couldn’t save him. He did everything.

But this? Losing you?

That was his fault. And he could rectify it, by showing you who he was.

You throw your bag on the tiled floor, infuriated. Nervous.

To call this a lair makes you seem rather malicious, but you’re not sure how else to describe it. 

It had been your fathers. He never mentioned it in his will, but it was unspoken, passed down to you.

You clicked the laptop awake, watching the screens flash on.

His systems flickered to life, lists upon lists of the nearest things to aim to take. Their security, how to get in and out.

Where to hide, where to disappear.

You didn’t need it, as such. You knew every escape, every shadow in the city. But, there was a different pressure now.

You knew Spiderman wouldn’t be merciful forever, especially when he stopped seeing your signature pseudonym in the donations page in the paper.

Soon, you’d go from something fascinating, to something he should be wary of.  Something he had to catch.

No matter how confident you came across, you didn’t think it would be easy.

Your target this evening is another piece of jewellery. It is gorgeous; a huge sapphire pendant.

With a quick scan of the floorplan, you have concepts of a plan, and that is all you need.

Cats could think on their feet.

The streets of the city seem lighter than usual. Great.

Still, you don’t mind.

Your feet hit the tarmac of the roofs with a newfound determination, the skyline blurring in your peripheral. With a calculated leap, you’re out from the more abandoned district to the richer one, the houses stretching for miles with old-fashioned architecture and overly elaborate front lawns.

You hate them all. You hate how they can live like this, while kids a couple metres away starve.

You hate the police, for protecting them first. Spiderman too.

And, as if summoned, you see him.

He gives you a meek wave. You keep running.

“Don’t want to talk today? ‘Cause y’know, I’d like to have a chat.” he shouts earnestly, and you hiss.

The drawer he promised to keep locked rattles aggressively, daring to burst open. Daring to accuse you.

He tells himself it’s because you’re the only thing on his mind right now.

“Spiderman, shut up. Don’t wake these people up.”

‘Shut up.’ God, that wounds Oscar.

“You haven’t been around in a while. I’ve been checking.”

You grimace.

“I’m flattered. Truly. Now, are you going to fuck off, or can I finally slit your throat?”

Spiderman steps back, faltering. There’s no joking tone there, no casual tease.

It’s a tone he doesn’t recognise.

You never spoke to him like that, at home. So either, you hate him. Truly, undoubtedly, you hate Spiderman. And then, he can’t tell you. 

Because that means losing you again.

But if he doesn’t tell you, you stay lost.

He’s damned either way.

Or, it’s not you. The girl in front of him, teeth bared, isn’t you.

‘God, Oscar. I know you.’ You’d said it so readily. Even though you didn’t know where he was, and it was eating you up, you still knew him. And maybe, he could convince himself he knew you too. And this wasn’t you. Isn’t.

Still, he decides to let two things exist at once- this isn’t you, but he can pretend it is, so he misses you less. So he feels like this is all one, huge elaborate joke. And you’re teasing him as usual, just with a mask between you, and some scarily long claws.

He hates that he has to do this.

Please, why couldn’t he just get what he wanted?

Everytime, he’d get close, it went wrong.

He couldn’t let it go wrong now. He almost had you.

“Spiderman? What’s going on?” you ask, giving him a confused glare.

“Nothing.” he mutters, and then he fires a clumsy web at your boot, distracted.

With barely a side-step, you shift out of the way.

“That was poor.” you criticise, and he nods.

“Out of it, today.” he admits, and you shrug.

With that, you leap down the side of the building, claws hanging to the irregularities in the brick.

You land by the side-gate of the house, all the lights off.

The necklace lives in a drawer in the spare dressing room, on the west wing. There’s a window in the bathroom beside it, and that’s your target.

With a calculated aim, you latch to the window and shimmy up, unlocking it with a determined twist of a tool.

The click is louder than you’d like, but it works.

The bathroom is too clean, too posh, and you almost choke on the overwhelming smell of air freshener.

By the time you’re in the dressing room, you want to rip apart every shred of overpriced fabric, but that’s not the goal.

You fumble around for a while, rummaging through cabinets and draws, until you see it. 

Gleaming at you, a taunt.

You stuff it into your pocket, and retreat back through the window.

You barely make it back onto the neighbouring roof before he aims, and this time, he doesn’t miss.

“Taking family heirlooms, now?” Spiderman asks, tilting his head inquisitively, and you shrug.

“Taking what pays.”

“It’s barely been a month, and you’ve already switched up on me. Thought we could pair up, y’know?” he jokes, but it’s closer to sad than funny.

“I work best alone.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“And I doubt you give a shit. You’re stalling, ‘cause you don’t want to fight.” you accuse, flashing him something more sinister than a smile, and he laughs.

“You underestimate me.”

“Maybe.” With a determined swipe, you sever the web keeping you stuck on the ground, and leap at him.

It’s not particularly graceful. If anything, it’s a little barbaric.

“Easy.” he spits, as a claw scrapes a rip into his suit by his forearm.

“Keep up.” you counter, giving a satisfying tug as you feel more fabric under your nails.

He grins, but he doesn’t swing.

It’s infuriating, his aimless dodging.

“Why aren’t you fighting back?” you snarl, your voice wavering with frustration.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”  he grumbles, and you cackle.

“You’re pathetic.” 

He notices something snake from your glove, and he goes to grab your wrist.

But with a crackle, it shocks him, and he drops your hand instantly.

“What was that?” he yells, nursing his fizzling arm, and you shrug.

“Family heirloom.”

With that, you swing away, gripping the grappling hook, leaving a butt-hurt Spiderman outlined by the rising moon.

When you click your key into the lock, two days later, you’re unsurprised when you see Oscar hovering by the couch.

He moves, as if to hug you, but you give him a cold stare.

“Don’t.”

His face pales, and it hurts.

“Not yet.” you amend, and his expression softens a little.

“Okay. That’s okay.”

You want to nod, but it isn’t. It’s not really okay.

It’s different with him. It’s deeper. 

You’d dated other people, but it had felt superficial. Like something to fill time, someone new to argue with.

Sometimes you’d find a new song you’d liked, or a new food to try.

It had never hurt like this, and you weren’t even with him. It was insane.

And yet, you came back. And you told him it’s okay, when it’s not.

And you know, you’re going to let it be okay.

He notices it, as soon as you walk in. Hair pulled back, half-done makeup. Eyes, too pale for crying, too red to be fine.

Something is gnawing at you, something exhausting. Something painful.

“You don’t look-”

You fold your arms, daring him to continue.

“I’ll shut up.” he shifts, giving you a gentle smile, but you can’t return it.

“Good idea.”

It’s like that for a while. Broken grins, awkward whispers by torchlight.

His room is tidier. You don’t know, because you don’t cross that threshold.

You return a sweater to him with a tight-lipped expression, and he has to stop himself from insisting you keep it, because he knows that’s stupid.

Days break into nights. You’re both out each evening, air beneath your feet.

Claws, never retracted. Webs, now better aimed.

Somewhere, it gets easier to hate Spiderman as you can’t keep hating Oscar.

Oscar drowns in something that isn’t quite guilt, but it’s worse.

He’s disgusted in himself, for even imagining that Black Cat might be you.

That he’s so desperate to make you something you’re not, someone he has a chance with, that he can’t even think straight.

That’s how you decide to take on the title of a villain. Of an enemy.

Nights become battle fields, and you both come home with scratches that you wouldn’t be able to explain.

But there’s no one washing your cheek now, asking if you need a plaster.

It’s just a hum of wanting, of needing, that lives in the walls.

And it builds, and deafens you, until you can both scream into the night’s air, before going at each other's throats.

It’s over a month before you have even nearly enough for the exchange.

Your father would never be worth this much. 

Curse your sentimentality.

Still, it’s just not quite enough.

And you’re battered, and frayed, and you can’t even tell anyone.

It’s an isolation no one else will understand.

Except maybe the boy in the mask, but all you can do is despise him with your very being, to keep pushing.

If you hate your father, you’ll give up.

You can’t hate Oscar, not anymore. Even when you come home, and he’s still not back, no matter how that hurts more than the graze on your arm.

And you sure as hell aren’t about to start hating yourself.

You’re surprised to see the light on, when you make it home. Oscar’s rarely back before you.

His bedroom door is closed, as usual, and you consider starting a row about electricity consumption, but you’re too tired.

Your arm is throbbing, and you massage it carefully, but that does shit.

Then, you hear it. A shallow, barely audible whisper of your name.

You turn to your left, and Oscar is slumped against the wall, almost wheezing.

“Oscar?”

You hurry over to him, dropping to your knees in front of him.

“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

His eyes are wide, breaths shallow, and he grips your hand with some fervency.

“Can you talk to me? Talk to me.” you correct, rubbing the back of his hand.

“I’m, I’m okay.” he mutters, forcing the sound out of his throat, and you shake your head.

You press your free hand over his heart, and you can feel it beating ridiculously fast.

“Are you having a heart attack? That’s not normal.” you frown.

His other hand keeps yours in place, a look of desperation flitting over his face, and you inhale.

“Breathe with me, okay? I think you’re panicking.”

You take his hand and place it over your own heart, breathing in as deeply as you can, and you wait for him to copy you.

Several minutes later, his chest rises and falls in time with yours, and he’s loosened his grip on your hand, his knuckles turning pink again.

He leans forward, pressing his head against yours, and you don’t move away. Not yet.

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, eyes closed.

“For what?” you whisper back. 

“Everything.”

You pull away from him now, but his hand stays firm on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart.

“You really can’t tell me, can you?”

He nods. 

“It’s killing me.”

“I can tell.”

There’s a careful silence in the air now. He waits.

“It’s okay.” you mutter finally, but this time, you mean it. 

You can see it. You can see that this might be the one thing he really can never tell anyone, but it’s not that he doesn’t want you. And you can see that letting whatever it is be what breaks you both, might actually ruin him.

Maybe the ache in your stomach is a worthy sacrifice. Maybe you’re not such a villain after all.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, and he doesn’t even register the familiarity of it.

“I can be honest about everything else. I will be.” he promises, clutching at you like you’re about to disappear again.

“Oscar-” you begin, but you’re not totally sure why you’re speaking.

“-it’s okay?” he finishes for you, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

You slump down beside him, resting your head on his shoulder, hands still intertwined.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

The air is cold, whipping your face with little mercy. The goggles offer no comfort, but at least your trench coat is keeping your arms from freezing.

“We know who you are, cat.” spits the smaller of the two men, his accent barely understandable.

“Safer to be out at night with claws.” you reply casually, and the other one straightens.

“You have enough?”

You shrug.

“Sure. I know you know how much I’ve got.”

The taller one laughs.

“Yeah, we know you have enough. Can you hold it somewhere for the next two months?”

“Two fucking months? Are you joking?” you snarl, holding yourself back from leaping at them.

“Spiderman’s my nemesis, I’m on every headline, and you’re expecting me to hide millions up my ass?” you continue, your throating aching with the strength of your scream, but they shrug.

“The earliest we can exchange is in two months. We’re pulling some strings for some other deals, so it’s slow.” “I don’t give a shit! Make it fucking faster, you idiots.” you hiss, but you know they don’t care.

“Careful, or we’ll raise the price. It’s an expensive business, holding prisoners for ransom.” “You’re twats.”

“You’re a thief. You’re no better than us.” “You’re cowards. We’re not even on the same level.” you spit.

“Wait for details. And naturally, if you get caught? Deals off.”

You want to scream at them, that you’re barely an adult, and you need your dad.

But you know they’ll never care enough to see you as anything more than a possible source of income.

You can’t expect them to. The man you’re trying to save barely saw you as more than that growing up.

Still, you have to stop yourself from heaving as you walk home, placing one painful step in front of the other, willing your knees not to buckle.

Willing yourself to hold on to some scrap of strength, even though you feel weaker each time you slip the suit on, slip into being someone else.

You don’t expect to hear from them before the allotted time, but about a month later, there’s a slip of paper on the windowsill.

‘Your spider friend is poking around at all our recent activity. Sort him out, or we’re going to push it back.’

You let out an exasperated scream into your pillow, but it barely relieves you. 

You know you can’t beat him. The blossoming bruises down your legs, the flaking skin by your ankles proved it.

The exhaustion in each exhale was killing you. The sleepless nights made thinking fuzzy.

You shake your head, rubbing your eyes, before walking out into the kitchen.

Oscar, his back facing you, turns.

He scans your face, and his eyebrows knot in something that resembles worry.

“Oscar-” you start, but your voice wobbles.

He’s there before the tears fall, holding you into him so tightly you almost can’t inhale.

You let yourself breathe, ignoring how his shirt is beginning to dampen.

He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, and you wipe your eyes as you turn to look up at him.

“What’s up?”

You want to tell him, but you know that’s not an option.

‘Yeah, I steal shit and sell it on the black market so I can afford the ransom for my criminal dad who’s not actually dead, haha.’

You know how that’ll go. You also know he deserves to be told.

But you can’t.

“Nothing. Just tired. Stressed. Y’know.”

He frowns again.

“You can tell me. I mean, I might be hopeless, but I can try.”

You swallow.

“I want to, but I can't.”

The phrase slams into him, practically knocking the air from his lungs.

He can’t argue with it, can’t dispute it.

But he realises now, how much it sucks. Why you were so mad.

Because when you want nothing more than to know every inch of a person, the inner workings of their mind, being told you can’t find out something is enough to make you question your sanity.

And it hurts more, because he can tell you do want to.

It’s those secrets, the ones that you wish you could share, that really weigh on you.

With a slightly more contented sigh, you bring a hand to his cheek, and those doubts melt a little.

That evening, he falls asleep to the sound of your heavy breaths and slow heart, and he finds it the most calming thing.

He doesn’t worry about the Cat stalking the rooftops, or the Thing you can’t tell him, or Spiderman.

He doesn’t worry at all. But he does realise he has something he needs to tell you when he wakes up.

You can’t say the same.

It’s still dark outside when you wake up, and you’re cold.

The only real warmth is the half-kicked off duvet, and Oscar’s arms around you.

You don’t wake him, but you know you have no chance of falling back asleep.

‘Your spider friend is poking around at all our recent activity. Sort him out, or we’re going to push it back.’

The words swirl in your head endlessly, and you think of your father’s lifeless body on the floor.

Obviously, this isn’t the first time you’ve imagined it. But you can see it now; those two men standing over you, your money in hand, getting ready to run.

Spiderman, watching you cling to his corpse, your hands painted red.

And so you’re in jail, your father is even more dead than before, and those men are free, like they always are.

Maybe the rich aren’t the only evil.

‘Sort him out.’

You can’t win. But you have enough. Maybe you can just keep him distracted.

At the end of the day, he’s just a guy under there.

It’s a horrible idea. It’s the only one you have. You have a month to get Spidey off your back.

If that means more flirting and less fighting, you could do it. The only person it isn’t fair on is Oscar.

By the time his eyes open, your nails are chewed and bloody, and you look just as bad as you did when he’d dragged you to sleep, his arms never leaving you.

“Mornin’” he says quietly, hair matted, and you give it an affectionate ruffle.

It makes what you need to do so much harder.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

He says it so calmly, so surely, that you have no idea how to reply.

“Are you being serious?”

He smiles, and he looks so much younger. Like a boy again.

“Unfortunately so. Deadly.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but your stony stare definitely wasn't up there.

“Take it back, Oscar. Please.” you beg, the words mangled, and he shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

“You keep telling me you can’t. You have to. Please.”

He can hear the sadness in your tone. He can feel your heart shattering, but he doesn’t understand why.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. I promised I'd tell you everything else.” “Well, then it’s my turn to say I can’t. I can’t do this. There's something else that I need to focus on, and I just can’t.”

He sits up.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He kisses his teeth, his jaw slacking.

“Right. Yesterday.”

“You understand it. You have to understand it.”

He mutters your name under his breath, and it sounds like a curse.

“No, I don’t. So yeah, I missed a couple nights, but fucking hell, I am trying! And you just leave me out to dry, every time. You just can’t see how badly I want you, how much I care about you, do you?”

“Oscar. Don’t bullshit me. If whatever you’ve got going on becomes so, like, huge, that you have no option, I know you’d pick it over me. And I don’t blame you. At first, I did. But I get it now. Whatever it is. You don’t have to tell me, but I need you to promise me that you understand. It’s not about you.”

“It never was.”

You inhale, and it's sharp.

“Hey, hey, that’s not fair. This is bigger than me, bigger than us. It’s something I have to do. There’s no choice. There never was.”

He pauses, his anger subsiding into something closer to grief.

“Tell me you don’t love me. Or that you think you never will. Tell me something, anything, so I don’t wait for you. Because I will, until you can tell me what’s going on. Or until it’s over.”

“What if it never is?”

“Then I keep waiting. I’m not going to give up on you-”

“-Oscar, that’s insane.” “Tell me not to. Tell me you don’t think you can love me.”

“Do you want me to lie to you?”

“Fuck.”

When his lips crash into yours, it’s so desperate that you almost push away.

He’s asking you to stay, and saying goodbye, all at once.

You tell him you might just love him too as your hands snake around his neck, and he’s telling you that’s far too cruel as he caresses the side of your face.

With a shaky exhale, you apologise.

It will never be enough. 

“Hi, Spidey.” you call, giving him a sly salute, and he scowls.

“That zapper thing hurt. And that hook. And your gloves, holy shit.”

“All’s fair in love and war?” you suggest, extending your palm.

“How do I know you’re not going to claw my hand?”

You shrug. “You don’t.”

He takes it. Of course he takes it.

“What am I going to fail to stop you from taking this time?”

“Nothing. I’m done. Got bored of petty theft.”

Spiderman laughs.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not asking you to. Doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.”

After giving his hand a firm shake, you shift beside him, until you’re both leaning against the ledge of a cool, brick bridge.

“So, you’re just out for a stroll?” he questions, visibly suspicious.

“Yeah, pretty much. Twas a bit lonely, then I saw you. Thought I’d start over, as my new, theft-free self. What about you?”

“Patrol. Some gang I thought was gone seems to be back. I saw a goon I recognised talking to a friend of mine, and it clicked. You know, I thought you might be related to them for a bit, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“Like I said, I work alone.”

“So why are you here?”

“‘Cause I don’t work anymore.”

He chuckles.

“Careful, Kitty. Sounds like you want my company.”

“What if I did? What’s that thing, about hating someone ‘cause you’re into them? It’s not a new concept.”

Spiderman tilts his head inquisitively.

“You got a girlfriend? Or boyfriend, whatever.”

He clenches his jaw.

“No.”

“So why do you look so nervous?”

“I’m not.” he replies adamantly, and you shrug.

“Alright, Webs. See you tomorrow?” you ask, turning, enjoying the crunch of your heel on the gravel.

As you begin to walk away, you hear him call out.

“Kitty, you fucking with me? What are you doing?”

“I don’t really know.”

You and Oscar co-exist again. It’s polite. It’s sad.

Still, he disappears back into someone you can almost forget is on the other side of the wall, if you focus enough.

And that’s what you need. You need focus, and discipline, and you need to stay hidden.

Soon, days blur to weeks, and weeks to a month.

“Hello?” you mumble into your phone, holding it precariously by your ear.

“Tommorow night. Good job on keeping the Wonderboy out of it. You guys seem rather cozy, don’t you think?”

“He shouldn’t be an issue. Where and when?”

“By the river, the warehouse. One-fifteen. Don’t be fucking late.”

You hang up after that, trying to ignore the steady shake of your hands.

Still, you stay nervous through dinner. You can barely chew, and when you do, you bite the edge of your lip, or your cheek.

You don’t notice your mouth is actually bleeding until you dab a napkin to your lips, and it comes back red.

It doesn’t even phase you. You don’t even feel the pain, the sting of each scrape against the fork.

The next day, you’re just as mindless.

Each heartbeat, each breath takes you closer to nightfall, to your father, to everything else.

When it comes, you pull your gloves on and crawl out of the window, duffel bag secured on your back.

You know where they mean. After the flood a couple decades ago, all the industrial buildings by the river had been abandoned.

Most people heard rumours of gangs working there. Apparently, the river runs red up there, from the murders that no one bothered to investigate.

It was like a ghost-town, and no one living came back.

You’d be the first, and you’d bring back some to life too. 

There's a gaggle of people when you arrive, and it’s easy to tell the prisoners from the jailers.

Your father stands amongst the former, hands tied behind his back.

He looks sallow, and exhausted, but it’s still him. 

Living, breathing, a shred of pride in there somewhere.

You really do have his eyes.

You notice other people too, crouched between chimneys and behind pillars.

The same stare on their face, the fear and anticipation and exhaustion from some great sacrifice.

And each of them have their eyes trained on someone else with constraints and a pale tinge, but it doesn’t even matter.

One of the men grips the shoulder of a woman, throwing her forward. There’s no words, just the sound of her knees hitting the tarmac, and then someone darts forward.

He’s a weasel-like fellow, with a strange nose. They look somewhat similar, and you figure he’s a relative. A brother, maybe.

He throws a backpack at them, dragging her to her feet, as they scan the contents.

With a definitive nod, they disappear into a side-alley, and you almost admire the efficiency of it all.

For a second, you have a spark of hope that this might go right.

One by one, as the clock ticks, you watch people be re-united. If you were softer, you’d probably cry.

It’s actually 01:17, when your father shuffles forward. You can tell that he’s hoping you’re not coming.

When you step into the light, his face crumples, but you ignore it.

You throw the duffel bag at them, moving to your father’s side, but before you can reach, there’s a loud bang from the right of the warehouse.

The men look up, nose scrunching at the smell of smoke.

They look between the flames licking the side of the building, you and your father, and the bag between you.

You reach for it simultaneously, and you sink your teeth into the hand grabbing it.

The other man is now dragging your father away. With a curdled scream, you turn towards the burning building.

There’s two people fighting beside it, but you only recognise one from the flash of red.

“You said you sorted it out.” murmurs the burlier man, his fist narrowly missing your jaw in an attempt to snatch the money back.

“Oh, this isn’t my fault that one of your idiots brought their catfight out here.” you protest, scraping the side of his arm with undiluted force.

He yelps, drawing away from you, as his blood splatters to the floor.

“He’s not with us. And I know the Spider is.”

“You’re not getting this if I don’t get my dad.” you hiss, through gritted teeth, as his boot kicks your straight in the shin.

“Fine. But his price has just gone up.”

With that, he runs.

You begin to pelt after him, heart hammering in your ears, but you hear a shout.

Smoke is beginning to settle in your lungs, but you stop and turn anyway.

Spiderman is lying on the ground, his assailant standing squarely on his arm.

He’s yelling in pain, and you can hear it echoing. His head shifts on the ground, and his eyes meet yours.

He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t alert the guy on top of him that you’re still here.

Instead, the hand closest to you twitches, his two fingers making a running motion.

So, you run, like he says.

But not into the dark. You run at him, right as the shrouded figure raises something that looks a bit like a mallet.

With a shove, you knock him off balance, and the mallet lands on the side of Spiderman’s arm.

He screams, rolling onto it, but you didn’t hear a crack, so you know you helped.

“Tombstone, leave her alone.” he splutters, trying to shift himself upwards, but ‘Tombstone’ ignores him.

His fist connects with your jaw, and you recoil slightly, before drilling the heel of your boot straight into the side of his leg, and he hisses.

It’s a blur of limbs and kicks, and you’re swaying slightly with each hit, but you don’t care.

“Didn’t realise you had any friends, Spidey.” he murmurs, but he doesn't tear his eyes away from you, preempting your next jab.

Spiderman stands now, clutching his right forearm. The smog is suffocating now, and you’re all trying to hold back coughs.

Still, it’s relentless, and there’s no respite from his hammering fists, until he’s covered in web.

“Are you just going to leave him here?” you cough, voice weak, and Spiderman shakes his head.

“I’ll figure it out. Go, before you choke.”

You shake your head.

“If he gets out, he’ll kill you. Your arm is screwed, mate. Come on.” “I’ll kill him if I don’t move him.” he protests, but you wheeze in response, grabbing his good hand.

Your grip is firm, as you drag him along, until the air has cleared.

As you let him go, you feel your claw snag on his palm, and he winces.

“You don’t get to decide if they die!” he shouts, as soon as he can breathe normally, and you scowl.

“I risked my neck to save you, have some gratitude.”

His head drops into his hands, and you hear him wince at the rotation of his shoulder.

“Sorry. Thank you.”

It’s sombre, for a while.

“What were you doing there? I thought you said you were done. What’s in the bag?”

“It’s a long story, and I’m going home.” you reply dismissively, and he hasn’t got the strength to argue back.

It’s a struggle to even make it up the stairs to your apartment. You can feel the bruises sprouting under your long sleeves, and the scab growing by the corner of your mouth.

The bag feels heavier than it did when you left, like it’s weighed down by bitter disappointment. 

You collapse onto your bed, throwing the bag under your bed, and you try not to feel.

It’s hard, but you’re quickly distracted by quiet cursing coming from the kitchen.

It’s Oscar, you presume. But something sounds off.

Like he’s in serious pain.

A groan accompanies each shuffle and clatter of cabinet doors, and you slowly get up and open the door.

He jumps, when you materialise in the doorway, and even that hurts.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, leaning against the frame to try and mask your exhaustion.

“Nothing.” he lies, with a determined head shake, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Let me see.”

He obliges as you get closer, peeling his shirt off with a pained expression, and you have to stop yourself from gasping.

His right arm is painted a deep purple, and you can almost feel it throbbing.

“Holy shit.”

He gives you a non-committal shrug.

“It’ll heal. It always does.”

“What does that mean? How often does this happen?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing, ignore me.” he mumbles, and your eyes drift to his other arm.

It looks fine, except for his hand, which is curled into a fist.

You reach for it, unfurling it, and you see the scratch.

It all clicks into place with a momentous shatter, and the world collapses.

The evenings away. The way he caught that glass. When he heard MJ, before she’d made it to the door. The panicking, the pressure, the way he knew something had happened outside the pharmacy.

Oscar Piastri and Spiderman must be one and the same.

You almost shout, but you bite your tongue. Instead, you just give him a worried glance, and fetch some ice from the freezer, sealing it in a bag and pressing it on his arm.

If he can see something deeper brewing in your expression, he stays silent. He just takes it gratefully, his hand brushing yours, and disappears into his room.

“I have time for a story, now.” shouts Spiderman, catching you by the half-burnt warehouse.

“He got out.” you spit, and he nods.

“I know. I’ll find him.”

Now that you know, you wonder how you couldn’t see it before. He’s actually the same, just a little too cocky for your liking, with an overly practiced accent.

“I don’t need to tell you anything, by the way.” you mutter, and he hesitates.

You expect an argument, but instead, he says your name.

It’s meant to be a question, but it sounds more like an oath.

“Who’s that, your girlfriend?” you ask, thinking back to when he’d said just that.

He stares at you, like he’s testing if you’re serious. If you’re really not her, not you.

You wonder if he hopes you are, or if he hopes you aren’t. You can’t dare to ask.

“A little more than that, but a whole lot less.” he replies, and it’s bitter.

“That makes no sense.”

“Tell me about it.” he complains, and you tilt your head to the side.

“How’s the arm?”

“I’ll live.” The conversation is brittle. You’re waiting for a sign of life, and you catch one, below.

The same guy who you’d bitten yesterday. You could almost still taste his blood on your tongue.

Without saying goodbye, your hook is latched forward, and you’re swinging away.

You grab him by the collar of his shirt as you go past, and he struggles beneath you.

You wonder if this is what cats feel like, when they have a bird in their mouth.

“Make it tomorrow. Same place, same time. Don’t be fucking late.” you hiss.

“Or what?”

“I drop you.”

You’re hanging him over the river, and it’s fast up here. Good for discarding corpses. Or for turning people into one.

“Alright.”

You’re less nervous this time. You’re angry. 

Your claws drum on the now half-ruined roof, waiting to see him again.

When they appear, you drop down.

“Hand him over first, this time.” you whisper. The bag is at your feet, and you position your foot to kick it over.

With a grunt, your father is thrown at you, struggling to stay sure-footed.

“You shouldn’t have come.” he urges, but you just shrug, kicking the money towards them.

“You shouldn’t have gotten caught.” you counter, but he shakes his head.

“They’re going to kill you.”

At that, you see the blinking lights hidden in grates, and behind blackened beams that have fallen on themselves.

They’re going to blow you up.

It makes sense. Your father had always been a problem. And they would’ve shot him, if you hadn’t started rearing your ugly head.

You slice through the rope tying his hands.

You hand him your grappling hook. His hook, that fits in both your palms.

“I’ll run. You go.” you order, shoving him forward.

Maybe, if he was a better father, he’d place it back in yours, and that would be it.

But he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t.

Whether he’s convinced you’ll make it or not, you don’t know. But what you do know, is you might be about to die, saving his life.

You’d die his daughter, and your mother would never know, and that would be it. And he’d slink away somewhere, and maybe he’d mourn you. Maybe he’d regret it. You hope he will.

You think it might be easier to climb, than to run. You don’t know how long you have.

So you scamper towards the river bank, and up the fire-escape stairs, to the more robust half of the warehouse.

You plant your feet, and wait for the world to shake. 

It doesn’t just shake, it erupts.

You’re knocked back, toppling to the edge, and you know this is it.

You wait for the water to contort your back, to clog your throat.

You wait for the splash, and the inevitable sink.

It never comes.

Oscar, Spiderman, is gripping on to your extended arm, his heels grounded on the loose tile.

“I’m not letting go.” he mutters, through gritted teeth, and you give him a wicked smile.

“Never said you were going to.”

But you can see it; the searing pain coming from his arm. You imagine the bruises, the way they spread across to his shoulder.

The ache comes in white flashes, and he’s convinced his arm is about to fall off, but he just can’t let go.

There’s many reasons as to why he’s biting through the pain. 

One: he does not want you to die. No matter what you’ve done, how you lied. No matter the blood on his hand that came from your claw.

Two: you may be his only friend. There’s something so painful in the loneliness of it all. And maybe the insults you spat at him, and the way you hated him, was better than how it had been before.

Three: some part of you will forever, no matter how irrational, remind him of the girl back home. 

So he endures. He suffers, and does not complain, he just pulls, and pulls. And you’re trying, you’re really trying, but you can’t heave yourself forward.

For a moment, the tension on his arm subsides, and he figures you have pushed yourself onto the tile, and it’ll be okay.

But instead, you’ve stumbled.

And just like that, he suffers no more.

Instead, you fall, and this time you know the water is coming to welcome you.

It will not cushion your blow.

You do not deserve a soft exit. You do not deserve anything at all, you conclude.

And so, the Black Cat does not land on her feet. She lands on her back instead, and she is dead. Not from curiosity, not from a clumsy tenth attempt at something greater.

From something much harder to name.

Maybe something honourable, if you’re feeling generous. 

Oscar returns home with something heavy in his chest.

He almost expects you not to be there. He almost expects to hear the news of your body floating into the main port a few days later, and he’ll hope his arm rots.

“Oscar.” you whisper, squeezing your hair into a towel.

“You’re, you’re here!” he exclaims, and his laugh makes you a little dizzy.

“I live here, so. Yeah.”

With a few excited strides, he tugs you towards him, and the pain doesn’t even register.

“I thought-” he begins, trailing off.

“-dangerous thing to do, that.” you finish, giving him a lazy grin, and he laughs again.

He’s so elated, it makes your heart jump.

Then he suddenly looks almost feverish, from the way he’s fiddling with his hands and the smile that’s beginning to crack.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Floor’s yours, Piastri.”

“The thing. I still can’t tell you, but I’m going to anyway. And I know you’ve got your own shit going on, but I want this to be like, I don’t know. A vow, or something.”

His ears turn pink when he realises what he’s just said.

“Do I get a ring, too? Where’s the officiant?” you respond, and he realises it’s you. You’re back. 

“I’m Spiderman. Like, the swinging, blundering idiot. Me.”

He sounds proud and embarrassed simultaneously. 

“I had a suspicion.” you begin, giving him a knowing nod, and he startles.

“You’re serious?”

You giggle.

“No, I had no idea. None, really. Thought you were too much of a dork for that. Consider me impressed, Piastri.”

It’s not enough, for such big news, but you’re not sure how else to react. And he’s grateful, because it’s so you, and so perfect.

He looks hopeful, like it might be enough. Like it might be enough to get you back.

He doesn’t ask you if you can tell him what was keeping you away. It doesn’t even cross his mind.

You realise you wouldn’t tell him anyway, and that settles in your gut.

“I’m not expecting this to change your mind about us, or to put me first, or whatever. I just need you to understand that I’ll give you all of me, always. Even the parts I keep hidden from everyone else.”

“Even Lando?”

He groans, rolling his eyes.

“Even Lando.”

You break out into a stupid, lovesick, grin.

“You like me more than Lando. Hah! I’d love to see his reaction to that.”

Oscar frowns.

“You know you can’t tell anyone, right? I probably should’ve clarified that. Like, this is top secret information. And even if I fuck it up, which I will, eventually, can you please not tell-” he rambles, clearly panicking a little, and you huff.

“Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not usually up this early. D’you wanna join me for a run?” he asks carefully, his voice still low and heavy from sleep, and you scoff.

“No thanks. I’ve got my big girl job to get to. Not all of us are here on daddy’s money, Piastri.” you bark back, and he straightens, but doesn’t argue.

“I do have a job, too. You know that.” he mutters, turning his back to you while he fiddles with the toaster.

“Pfft, you mean when you go to the Daily Bugle twice a week to drop off some photos and to bat your eyelashes at that redhead?” you counter, and he turns to face you again.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I don’t just go there to flirt with her.” he protests, and you laugh.

“Only because you can’t. Too awkward for that, huh?”

“I assure you, I can-”

“Says who? Lando? Blind leading the blind.” you tease, narrowing your eyes, and he chuckles to himself before he can help it.

The sound fills the small kitchen, alongside your spoon scraping the sides of your bowl, and he hums to himself as he grabs a plate from the cupboard.

He can’t even give the misery of Monday morning the credit for the cool air.

You’ve been Oscar Piastri’s roommate for the last year, and that’s the only title he feels is appropriate to give you. Even friend is a stretch.

He’d like to know, if someone asked you to describe your relationship, what would you say?

‘Just the guy I live with,’ he presumes. You barely know each other.

For a pair of people who have secrets that consist of late-night escapades and masks, that arrangement is close to perfect.

But for a guy who might have a teensy, insignificant, soul-consuming, life-altering crush on his roommate, it’s pretty fucking far from that.

Your mask sits slightly too tight on your face, the black goggles tangled in your hair. You retract the claws of your gloves, and flick the hair behind your ear determinedly, scanning the window pane using the moonlight.

The night air is cold, and settles in your throat, but you’re too focused to notice. Instead, your eyes are trained on the small sculpture below you, its plinth glittering teasingly.

“So, you’re the art thief? I’ve been looking for you.” you hear a voice call, and you turn to your left.

“Spiderman. Nice to meet you.” you grin, the jewel on your teeth catching his eye, and he cocks his head to the side.

“What are you meant to be? I mean, I dig the outfit, but I can’t see the vision.”

You scoff, flashing your claws at him, and you can see him grin under the mask.

“A cat, huh. Cute.”

“Cats eat spiders.” you remind him, with a dismissive flick on your wrist, returning your view below you.

He laughs. 

“You know, that’s not gonna scare me off. I’m not going to let you steal anymore stuff.” he scolds, arms folded, and you give him a sly smile.

“It’s fine, I don’t need your permission. Also, this guy’s a dickhead. He stole this thing from a museum a couple years back.” you explain, before digging your nail into the lock of the window and prizing it open.

“Also,” you begin, giving Spiderman a look of contempt, “don’t be stupid if you follow me in. He’s got some pretty good security.”

With that, you jump into the room, landing effortlessly beside the piece, body pressed against the pedestal, careful to avoid the lasers you’d been studying for weeks.

As you grab the sculpture, you feel a warm breath on your turned cheek.

“I’m not hearing alarms.” is Spiderman’s cocky response, and you’re desperate to wipe that smug look off his concealed face.

“Oh no, you’ve got me. How am I ever going to escape you now?” you complain, gently attaching the artwork to your belt before lifting up both your arms innocently.

“Is that a joke, or are you actually surrendering?” he asks, his voice faltering, and you laugh.

“You struggle with sarcasm? Interesting.”

You place a hand to his chest, all too aware of how close his foot is to setting the whole system off.

“Um, what’s going on-” he mumbles awkwardly, as you shuffle slightly, so you’re directly under the open window and his back is facing the rest of the room. 

“I’ve always been such a big fan.” you gush, your other hand reaching for his mask, lifting it up slightly.

His hand catches your wrist warningly.

“Leave my mask alone.” he whistles, and you chuckle.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to unmask you. Men are way more interesting when they’re a little bit mysterious, don’t you think?” you ask quietly, and he blurts out some stupid disagreement. He quickly falls silent as you press an unexpected kiss to the corner of his mouth, before giving him a gentle push backwards.

Then, you aim a thin hook at the window-ledge above you, grinning as it latches on and you pull yourself up, giving the Wall-crawler a quick wave as the room descends into a symphony of alarms and shrill rings.

You’re rummaging through the fridge, the dim light of the oven clock telling you it’s nearly three in the morning, but you’re still on an adrenaline high. The small sculpture sits hidden under your bed, in a shoebox, alongside your tossed suit and goggles. The tingle of shame and success mix in your stomach, and you figure eating something might help, but you’re coming up short.

“Can’t sleep either?” comes a groggy voice, and you tense, but it’s just Oscar.

“Yeah. You?”

He nods. “Same.”

“Where were you tonight?” he asks hesitantly, and you inhale.

“I was working, Piastri.”

He frowns. “You were working this morning, though.”

You sigh, exasperated.

“I work two jobs, Oscar. Seriously, between paying for school and rent, I need as much money as I can get.” you mutter, your tone bitter, and his expression switches to one closer to concern.

“They pulled your scholarship?" he asks, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to not get angry.

“Yeah. It’s bullshit, but I can't be bothered to find a new place to finish my degree. So, here we are.”

You pause.

“Where were you last night?”

It’s a poor counter, but a counter nonetheless.

He swallows.

“I was out.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Thanks for that, dipshit. But where?” you push, resting your chin on your hand, and his eyes flicker away from yours.

“With Lando. He broke up with his girlfriend again, so-”

He’s lying. You can see that he’s lying, but you just shrug.

“I know we don’t know much about each other, but I’m not going to make fun of you if you were on a date, y’know?” you promise, flashing him an easy smile, and he can’t help but smile back, trying to ignore that stupid flutter in his stomach.

“No, no. I’m being serious. And after watching whatever Lando’s had going on for the last year or so, I’m pretty content by myself.” he admits, like it’s a much bigger confession that it seems.

You raise an eyebrow.

“So you’re genuinely not trying to make a move on that ginger girl, Mary-Jane?” you ask, and he slaps a hand dramatically to his forehead.

“What, you’ve been serious about that? No, no I’m not.”

You cackle, head thrown back, and he catches a glint of a jewel in your mouth that seems familiar, but he can’t place from what.

“Man, she’s so into you. She’s in my English class, and she will not shut up about you. If she ever finds out we’re roommates, she’s going to die.” you admit through laughs, and his eyes widen.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly. God, I’d be into you too if I didn’t know you, from the way she describes you.”

Ouch.

Oscar clutches at his chest dramatically, like he’s just been shot.

“That was harsh.” he complains, and you reply with muffled giggles, the exhaustion slowly seeping in.

“Sorry, Osc. But the glaze is like, mind-boggling. She sees you, what, once a week? And yet she’ll find a way to comment on something I’ve never noticed, even though we’ve lived together for over a year now. It’s crazy.”

The nickname hits him like a truck.

Oscar shuffles beside you, leaning against the counter, your shoulders brushing.

“I speak to her more when I stop by the Bugle than I think we ever have.” he replies, with a casual shrug, and you almost feel bad.

“Come on, you have like two friends and you’re only really here to sleep. How am I meant to know anything about you?” you protest, and he gives you a hurt glance.

“You’re so mean to me.” he grumbles, covering up the slightly painful twinge in his chest.

“And I have three friends, I’ll have you know.” he adds, and you explode into laughter again.

He doesn’t know what happened at work, but he’s never seen you like this. You don’t seem inherently… angry, at anything. You seem to like him, which is further than he’s ever made it before.

He turns to face you now, and he knows that if he wasn’t slightly delirious and drunk on the sound of your giggles, he’d be flushing at how close you are. 

But he’s emboldened now, and he frowns slightly.

“You’ve never cared to find out.” he accuses, and you pause, thinking it over.

“You might be right, y’know? Sorry. Kinda figured that was our arrangement. And it’s not like you’ve ever asked me anything about myself.” you apologise, and he nods regretfully.

With a disgruntled huff, he pushes himself up onto the kitchen island, his legs swinging pathetically above the floor, just skimming the tile.

He pats the space next to him, and you hoist yourself up too, mirroring the back and forth with your own feet.

He gives you a smile that makes you feel a little warmer.

“Let’s start now. I’m the oldest of four, and all my siblings are sisters. What about you?”

“Fancy seeing you here, kitty?” Spiderman calls, giving you an affectionate wave, and you scowl.

He swings towards you, confident as ever.

“Are you here to arrest me?” you ask carefully, and he places his hand to his chin, as if he’s thinking.

“Depends. You gonna kiss me again?” he jokes, leaning towards you, and you give him a sharp laugh.

“Still just a guy under there, how boring.” you groan, stretching out your arms, and he just taps his foot impatiently.

“So, do you think you’re modern day Robin Hood, or something? What are you actually trying to do?”

You laugh.

“I’m stealing stuff; can’t you tell? But only bad guys have anything worth taking. Come on, don’t tell me you believe people get to this kind of wealth without doing some proper corrupt bullshit. Other people could use it more, the money these things sell for.” you explain, your hands curled into fists, and he makes a sound between a sigh and one of curiosity.

“So you are. You’re almost a hero.”

“I’m not a hero. Born a thief, raised a thief. Will die a thief.” you hiss, and he steps back.

“Okay, okay. Fine. Antihero then, does that work?”

“Depends; how do you feel about being called a vigilante?”

Spiderman shakes his head, masking a chuckle.

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the anti-Spidey propaganda. I think vigilante makes me seem like a bellend.” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“If the shoe fits.”

He frowns.

“Well, a vigilante would let you go, but unfortunately-” he begins, but you cut him off by running across the rooftop, leaping onto the next one.

You don’t have time for this crap. You need to grab that stupid necklace while Mrs Wolff’s cameras are down, and you only have sixteen minutes and twenty-three seconds to do so.

“You know, it’s quite hard to run from me. Webs.” Spiderman yells, swinging casually beside you as you run, feeling the soles of your feet ache slightly on the uneven tiling.

“Spidey, either let me get my claws out, or leave me alone. We can flirt another time, okay?” you shout back, hoping your words aren’t swallowed by the wind.

“Do you bite too, or just scratch? I’d invest in some fangs.”

“Cats don't have fangs!” you yell, gritting your teeth. 

He looks forward, checking when he should throw his next web. But when he turns back, you're gone.

“Shit.” he mutters, scanning the skyline, but you’ve retreated to the shadows.

“We really ought to stop meeting like this.” Oscar bemuses, with a playful grin, and you frown.

“Move, Piastri.”

You shove him slightly with your hip, to get to the sink, empty glass in hand.

His leg burns at the jolt.

“So, do you just not sleep anymore? This is two nights in a row you’ve been up at this ungodly hour.”

You grimace.

“Just stress, I suppose. It’ll subside.” He presses his hands to your shoulders, as if to massage them, and you shrink away from him, your movements almost feline.

He raises them instantly, with a faux-innocence.

“Sorry, sorry.” You shoot him an angry look.

“It’s alright. G’night, Oscar.”

He frowns, palms dropping to his sides.

“Are you mad, or just tired?”

Your jaw slackens.

“Can’t I be both?”

“You can,” he concedes gracefully, “but I don’t know why you’re mad at me.” 

“I’m not!” you exclaim, taking a large sip of your water, and giving him a weary look.

He raises a careful brow, as if waiting for further proof.

“You’re just the only person here for me to be angry at, okay? So let me go to bed, before I do something I’ll regret. Even your face is irritating me at the moment.” you admit frankly, and he has to mask a determined laugh.

“Have it out at me, I don’t mind. As long as it’s not personal. Like, that you think I’m a friendless, good-for-nothing, rich nerd” he says firmly, and you stare at him, confused.

“Go on, it’s just me. I can handle some anger. Sisters, remember?”

His tone is patient, and overly kind, and you almost roll your eyes.

But it’s not too hard to imagine him in that stupid red suit, and it’s much more cathartic to scream at that vision than into a mascara-stained pillow. So your lips curl slightly with a slow nod.

“Fine. I’m just sick and tired of dickheads like you getting in my way. You just think, because someone decided you were special, that you can use that to decide whose business is worth stopping. You don’t actually care about anyone other than yourself, and your image, and coming off as looking like a hero.” you begin, your tone cruel and decisive, inching towards him. He’s not Oscar anymore, and you hope he can see that, as heat crawls up your neck in anger.

“That’s good. C’mon, I can take more.” he encourages, and you have to bite back a smile.

“Okay, okay. Well, your vain, and petty, and too fucking cocky for your own good. And you think you know everything, because you can’t imagine the lines between good and bad can blur, and you don’t care about solving any actual issues, but just ones that might get you up in the world.” you continue, voice rising now. He can feel your breath on his face as you shout, hands pushed in irritation against his chest.

“I just want you to leave me the fuck alone, or stop acting like you’re better than me and treat me like an equal. But this cat-and-mouse game is making me lose my mind.” you finish, voice lower again, as you look up at him.

“Feeling better?” he asks, and his face morphs back into his own, no longer under a badly drawn mask.

You nod, chewing on your lip, but you don’t step back.

“Y’know, I don’t think that about you.”

He inhales slowly, unable to tear his eyes from yours.

“I know-”

“-No,” you continue, a little lighter now, “a ‘friendless, good-for-nothing, rich nerd’, I don’t think that.” you confirm, and he smiles instinctively.

“No? So what do you think?” he asks, eyes narrowed, and you can feel his heart-rate quicken under the palms of your hand.

“Nevermind. You are a nerd. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” you revise, giving him a knowing look, and he laughs.

“I’ll take that.”

You give him a chance, eyes flicking slowly from his eyes to the moles around his mouth, and back to his eyes again, but he hesitates, breath stuck in his throat.

You give him a careful smile, and retract your hands, stepping back.

“See you tomorrow, Osc.” you whisper, grabbing the discarded glass as you turn away from him, and he curses under his breath.

How cruel.

Lando slings his arm over Oscar’s shoulder, which is slightly awkward, considering Oscar is pretty tall in comparison, but he doesn’t complain.

“Right, mate. It’s a Saturday night, I’m freshly single, and you’re an attractive chap. Let’s find a-” Lando begins, with a cheeky grin, and Oscar laughs, unlocking the door with his keys.

His Spiderman keyring jingles determinedly, as the lock rattles.

With a shove, the door opens, to reveal you curled up on the sofa, feet hidden under a blanket he didn’t realise you guys even had.

“Oscar.” you chirp, giving him a gentle wave, but then your face drops slightly at the sight of golden curls hidden behind him.

“And Lando. That’s great.” you add sarcastically, and Lando throws you a thumbs up.

“Sorry, it was impromptu, I would’ve warned you.” Oscar promises, but you just wave it off.

“It’s your house too, don’t worry. And also, MJ is coming around in a bit, to work on our english assignment together. Consider this your formal warning.” you announce, giving him a discreet smile, but Lando catches it.

He turns to Oscar wordlessly, mouthing a quick ‘whaddafuck’, but Oscar just drags him away into his room, giving you a gentle nod in the process.

“So, what’s happened? She seemed happy to see you!” Lando demands, his tone incredulous, and Oscar shushes him.

“Mate, she’s outside. Shut up. But yeah, we’re making progress. She made me a spare egg this morning.” he whispers proudly, and Lando almost doubles over in gentle laughter.

“After a year of hearing you pine wistfully, you’ve made it to breakfast status. I’m so proud.”

Oscar shakes his head, but he can’t wipe the stupid look of his face, and how warm his neck is.

He hears her before she makes it to the door, and raises an alarmed eyebrow.

“Mary-jane is here, I think.” Lando shrugs.

“And that’s a problem, because? You guys are friends, I thought.” “Yeah, yeah we are. But apparently she has a thing for me, and she doesn’t know we’re roommates.” he clarifies, and Lando claps. 

“Brilliant. Save her the embarrassment and greet her, yeah? Then she won’t gush about you and you’ll overhear it, so it’s not awkward.” Lando suggests, and it’s surprisingly wise.

Oscar opens his door and walks out towards the front door, fiddling with the handle.

“Mary-Jane’s outside.” he explains casually, glancing back at you, and he swings the door open before she can even knock.

You furrow your brows, confused at how he could’ve known that, but you quickly smile and smooth your crinkled top as you stand.

It’s one of his again, that must’ve snuck into your wardrobe in a laundry mix-up. And it’s got a stupid cartoon of Spiderman on it.

You’re killing him, and you don’t even know.

“Um, hey Oscar. I’m here to see-” MJ begins, her cheeks turning an embarrassing pink, and you quickly come to her aid.

“I’m here. I think Oscar and Lando were just on their way out, so we should be able to work undisturbed. Right, Oscar?” you ask, through gritted teeth, and he nods instantly.

“Of course! Yeah, yeah. We were going to go out, for, pizza. Yeah. Just had to stop off to get a coat.” he blurts, running a hand through his hair, and you give him a skeptical grin.

Lando waltzes in now, with an outstretched palm.

“Lando, don’t think we’ve officially met.” he announces, and Mary-Jane gives him a friendly smile.

“Mary-Jane, but you can call me MJ, if you’d like. And I’ve heard a lot about you.” she replies quickly, giving his hand a definite shake, and Lando beams.

“Yeah, same here.” he returns, nodding at Oscar, and he flushes somewhat awkwardly.

Even though you’re pretty sure he doesn’t like her back, something a little mean twists in your stomach.

It’s not quite jealousy, because you’re not fourteen years old. But still, it’s uncomfortable.

Like after a week of getting to know him, you have some claim over him you’d never considered before. 

You dismiss it quickly, practically shoving him out the door, and Lando follows quickly.

Just as you’re about to close it behind them, Oscar turns, looking at you.

“Do you guys, um, wanna come?” he asks, and he’s almost nervous.

You fold your arms, giving him a confused look, but you shake your head decisively.

“Sorry Osc, next time?” you reply, before MJ even thinks to reply, and the door closes behind you.

As the boys begin to walk away, he listens carefully.

“You didn’t tell me he was your roommate!” Mary hisses, clearly angry, and you cough.

“I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t tell me stuff anymore, I’m sorry. Also, it was funny to hear about him, like that, y’know? I’d never thought of him like that, so it was almost interesting.” you counter innocently, and she groans, and he figures that’s an acceptance.

“Okay, but you’re telling me you don’t see him like that? At all?” Mary pushes, and you exhale hesitantly.

He can hear your heart-rate quicken slightly.

“Um, haven’t really thought about it.” you reply quickly, too quickly.

It should dishearten him. 

It doesn’t. 

Instead, he smiles to himself a little and lets that look plaster his face for the rest of the evening, some fickle feeling of hope keeping him warm.

Since he’d forgotten a coat.

“Hi, Spiderboy. Not out? It’s Saturday evening.” you call, waving at the guy dangling underneath the ledge below you. He shifts, and then he’s beside you.

“No such thing as a day off, when I know there’s a thieving cat around.” he surmises, and your cold laugh fills the moonlit sky.

“Lame. But no rest for the wicked.” you agree, and he sits on the edge of the roof, feet dangling back and forth.

You almost think of Oscar on the kitchen island.

“So, whatcha stealing tonight?”

You give him a puzzled look.

“What do you want from me?”

His eyes widen.

“Nothing. Just being conversational.” he shrugs, and you exhale.

“Just wanted some air, I guess? I don’t know.”

He pauses.

“I saw the news. You donated a shit ton of money.” You scoff.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You sit beside him now, but you hug your knees to your chest.

“You’re not really wicked, are you? You’re helping people.”

The wind whistles as a response.

“You might help them more than I can. Does that make me less of a hero, or make you less of a villain?” You stare at him, seriously now.

“You decided I was a villain. I told you I’m a thief, and I’m no hero. You decided the rest.”

He sighs.

“Maybe I’m too quick to judge.” “It’s okay. You have to be. I get it.”

“Did you keep any of it? The money you got from selling that stuff?”

You inhale quickly.

“Yeah. I need it.” you admit quietly, waiting for the guilt to hit.

But it doesn’t, and you don’t know if you should be concerned. You think it’s your father talking within you.

“Okay.” he replies, like it was the answer he was expecting, but maybe not the one he wanted.

“You’re lonely.” you state, voice flat.

He doesn’t deny it.

“I just thought it would be nice to have someone on my side, y’know? The police hate me, some of the citizens hate me, people are trying to kill me everyday, it’s a lot.” he admits, his voice quiet, and you almost feel bad.

He didn’t ask for this, you figure. 

But you don’t always get what you ask for anyway, so what’s the point of asking at all? Taking is much more efficient.

“Okay, what about when you’re not Spidey?”

He gives you a weak look.

“Still lonely, I guess. But less alone. It’s so isolating.”

You stiffen a bit, and hate that you feel so conflicted about the boy in red to your left.

“I get what you mean.” you mutter, and then it falls to silence.

You sit like that for a little, fingers outstretched, brushing his.

It’s not quite intimacy; it’s understanding.

But it’s more than either of you have received in a long time, so it’s good enough.

The morning is almost gone when you wake up the next morning, but you don’t really care. It’s closer to lunch than breakfast, but you walk into the kitchen mindlessly anyway.

There, headphones over his tousled hair, dances Oscar Piastri.

Dances.

You’re so distracted by his awkward head-bobbing and completely erratic finger points that you almost don’t notice that he’s missing a t-shirt, and he has one croc on his left foot, with a fluffy sock on the other.

Then you're mainly distracted by that first part, trying to avoid looking square at his chest.

“Oi, Piastri. Put a shirt on, dork.” you call, cupping your hands to your face dramatically, and he startles.

“I didn’t realise you were awake.” he splutters lamely, his cheeks turning a ferocious shade of pink, and you have to stop yourself from laughing at his shocked expression.

“You’re terrible at dancing.” you add, rubbing salt into his embarrassing wound, and he almost pouts.

“You really were not meant to see me doing that.” he adds, with a groan, and you shrug.

“What, did you think you’d lose some street-cred that I never thought you had in the first place? Or I’d think you’re lamer than I’d originally estimated?” you tease, but it’s not overly effective because he’s all too aware of the way your eyes are darting to his bare shoulders.

He disappears into his shockingly disorganised bedroom, picking up the first crumpled mess on the floor, and shoving it over his head.

You’re convinced you can breathe easier afterwards.

“Y’know, now that we’re friends, you can stop bullying me so much.” he argues, trying (and failing) to look hurt.

“We’re officially friends? Can I get the left side of the heart necklace you’ve got for me, or?” you fire back, and his head droops.

“See! See, this is what I mean. I can’t say anything without you making fun of me.” he complains, and you shrug.

“Acting like you’re not into it.” you mumble, all in one strangely confidently breath, and he looks up instantly.

“What was that?”

You raise an eyebrow, before turning around and opening the fridge with a dismissive hum.

“Oh, come on.” he groans, a twinge of exasperation you hadn’t noticed before.

Like, if you push just hard enough, he might snap.

And the Oscar you’ve observed for the last year has never even raised his voice, so you’re wondering why he’s so wound up.

And what he’s like when he forgets how to be calm.

“Come on what?” you ask, an unreadable expression on your face.

He hesitates, like he doesn’t know what to say. Or if he’s brave enough to say it.

It’s clear he isn’t.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

And with that, his tone is smooth again, and you wish you could understand him better.

“Alright. Do you want something?” you ask, gesturing to the ingredients you’ve placed by the stove, but he just shakes his head.

“No, don’t worry. Talk to you later, okay?”

With that, he disappears into his room, the door closed, but it feels a bit different to all the other times you’d been left alone in the kitchen.

Your heart twists a little, in a way you’ve never associated with him before.

Against your better judgement, you knock, voice quiet.

“Are you okay, Osc? I didn’t mean to annoy you, or anything.” you mutter, and he opens the door to meet your awkward face.

“‘Course. Don’t worry about it. Guess I’m just reeling from you seeing that.” he jokes, but it feels a little empty.

“It was cute?” you try, nose wrinkling, and he laughs.

“Don’t go soft on me now.”

“So you do like it when I’m mean to you!” you accuse, satisfied, and he shrugs.

“I might just like you, y’know? And that’s how I’ve always known you.” he admits, and the confession sits unbelievably heavy, so heavy it almost chokes you both.

You’re not sure what he means. He’s not sure what he means either, and you both just stare at each other, daring the other to do something.

“Oscar-” you begin, not sure what to say, but he knows what's coming.

He can hear the rejection in your tone. He knows what he wants to do is bad, truly bad.

But he does it anyway.

His lips meet yours, to stop you from saying anything else.

It’s not messy; it's honest. He tells you about how long he’s waited, without saying anything at all.

You kiss him back with hesitation, and he can taste it, but it’s better than not kissing him back at all.

It should dishearten him, but yet again, it doesn’t.

When you pull away, he has to stop himself from reaching for you straight away.

You’re a little dazed, and horrifically confused. With a determined stare, you tell him not to do that again, and he nods.

“I’m making amatriciana, are you sure you don’t want any?” you ask again, and he declines, his face contorting into something you can’t read.

When his door closes again, you sink down against it.

You can’t feel him, but he’s mirrored on his side, heart leaping out of his chest with something darker than regret and more dangerous than optimism.

You’d heard of the new museum exhibit last week, and you’d been endlessly planning this heist since. It was perfect- as they were swapping artifacts, you’d grab the painting and run out.

This was the first mission that was really grating on your morals, but you figured you could pick who won it at auction.

It seemed you weren’t the only one with the idea though, as you spot some hooded figures loitering around the edge of the building, knee up on the old brick wall.

You’d encountered one of them before, you’re sure. Jagged scar down his right cheek, spade tattoo on his right knuckle.

“Leclerc.” you bemuse, jumping down beside him.

“Chatte Noire.” he replies instantly, and you give him a lazy grin, turning to the boy to his right.

“Leclerc Jr?” you ask, surprised at the stark similarity between them, and he nods.

“Brother. Wholesome family business.” he jokes, and you laugh alongside him.

“Tell me about it. Quite a fine legacy our parents left for us, hm?”

Charles and the younger one nod quickly.

You’d met Charles back when your fathers had been in business, and then when they’d hated each other's guts. You remember the first time the Leclerc family stole from you- you’d never seen your father so angry. 

Still, you’d never hated Charles for it, even now, when you know your father would’ve wished you’d scratch his eye out.

“Guess we’re here for the same thing, huh?” you propose, and they agree.

“May the best thief win.” 

“Or, whichever one Spiderman doesn’t catch first.” “Arthur-” Charles whispers, but he sees him too, crouched. Watching.

“Kitty, you got friends?” Spiderman accuses, voice hurt, and you hiss.

“Stop calling me that.”

Charles pulls his hood further down, and Arthur mirrors him.

“Leclercs, nice to see you again. Thought you got arrested last month?” he asks teasingly, and you hear them mutter profanities quietly.

“You with him, Kitty?”

You scowl. “Fuck no. He just gets in my way.” you spit, and he recoils.

“Calm down, I was just coming for a chat. And to stop you from taking that very painting there.” he exclaims gleefully, and the golden frame catches in your eyeline.

A man is gripping it with an unmatched determination, desperate to transport it safely for those odd fifty metres to the backdoor of the museum.

If he makes it there, you know you don’t have a chance.

You and the Leclerc brothers jump into action instantly, leaping towards it.

Spiderman makes a squeak of surprise, firing a badly aimed web at the ground, and you dodge it easily.

As the man sees you, he drops the painting instantly, sprinting off into the night, presumably to his open truck door.

Charles grabs it before you can, and you scowl.

“You could let me have this one?” he suggests, his voice ragged from desperate breaths, but you don’t let up.

“No way, Charlie. Watch out.” you call, as Spiderman swings between you both. He aims his wrist directly at Charles, but you grab his foot and drag him to the ground cleanly.

“Hey!” he yells, scrambling upright and chasing you again, a slight laugh in his throat.

Ignoring him, you lunge for Charles, ripping the painting from his arms with a calculated swipe of your claws on his palm, and he yelps.

Somewhere behind you, Arthur is now bundled up in webs, swinging slightly from a lamppost, and Charles curses quickly.

He turns, arms outstretched, and the victory is far too easy.

“Until next time, Spidey!” you bellow, letting the shadows swallow you whole as he gives you a sarcastic salute.

It’s not awkward with Oscar per se- but it’s different. 

Softer, careful, guarded. 

You haven’t really spoken for a few days, and it’s like how it was before he’d ever attempted to even pursue a friendship.

He considers it a win when he joins you on the sofa, and you don’t shuffle away from him.

Your curled sideways, head resting on the arm, knees bent and arms bundled by your neck.

Your feet up pushing against the side of his leg as he sits, but neither of you complain.

“I’m sorry, y’know?”

You sit up slightly, giving him a careful look.

“Don’t be. It’s alright, seriously.”

“How seriously?”

It’s such an Oscar-esque response that you can’t help but give him an affectionate laugh.

“Super seriously. We can act like it never happened.”  you promise, and he blinks.

“But it did happen. And I can’t just forget about it. You don’t understand-” he begins, and you switch the television off dramatically.

“-then explain.” He inhales, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“Fine. I’ve wanted to do that for so long. Like, an embarrassingly long time. But all you did was pretend I didn’t exist, or say something cruel. And I didn’t even care. But now I’ve realised I care too much, and I’m losing my shit.”

“Oscar, how was I supposed to know that?”

“I’m not saying you were. I shouldn’t have kissed you, but now I have, and it’s all I can think about.” he admits, and your breath hitches.

“Look, I get it, I don’t know you nearly as well as I should. But is it not obvious by now that I want to know everything I possibly can? And I feel like you’re not letting me, and then all I can do is horribly regret what happened, and know it can’t happen again, because you’re not even giving me a chance.” he finishes.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Am I supposed to give you a chance?”

He falters, but you smile.

“I’m kidding. Fine. I’ll start with my family, I guess. The truth about it all. Then you can decide if you’re glad you know everything.”

He swallows, his fingers tingling.

“My dad, he wasn’t a good guy. I mean, as a father? Solid. But as a person? Not so good. He, um, he stole stuff. Like, serious shit. When my mum found out, she left him, and didn’t take me with her. Maybe she didn’t want to, maybe she thought I was too far gone. Maybe she hated the fact I have his eyes. Anyway, he raised me like that. He showed me stuff I should never have seen, I met people no one should ever meet. And he convinced me that what he was doing, the people he was hurting, that it was okay. And I guess I believed him. And now, I’ve ended up like this. And yet I still miss him.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at you with pity, though. It’s something else, hidden there.

“Where is he now?”

“He was in prison. Some guys, they broke him out, if he promised to do some shit for them. But he refused, and they, um, they killed him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” you manage, a mangled word. You don’t cry. You can’t.

“I didn’t realise. Shit, man. I’m sorry.” You shrug.

“Maybe he had it coming. Funny, though, that it was Spiderman who got him. Cats eat spiders.”

Oscar stiffens, and then he turns cold.

“What did you just say?”

“Cats,” you repeat, frowning at him, “they eat spiders?”

He shivers.

Holy shit. There's no way.

Born a thief, raised a thief.

“Osc?” you ask, his reaction freaking you out.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay? You look spooked.” He nods, but it’s strained.

“No, yeah. I’m fine. Are you okay? You didn’t have to tell me that.”

“You said you wanted to know everything. That’s one of the few things I hesitate to tell people. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.” “A chance?” he counters, and you nod.

“Sure, a chance. Now, it’s your turn. Tell me a secret.”

Oscar does not have any secrets, apart from one. Apart from the secret that lives in his bathroom cabinet, which is red and blue and covered in webs.

Apart from the way he can hear your heartbeat, and he can sense the plantpot that just fell from your neighbours window-sill, and the fact he’s the focus of the news you’ve just switched off.

“I’m an open book.” he lies, casting you a look that makes your stomach ache.

“Alright, then.” you shrug casually, turning the channel back on, and facing away from him.

Now, though, your stupid Spiderman socks aren’t pressed against him, but stretched over his lap.

As you shift, you knock over his glass that was sitting precariously on the sofa ledge.

He catches it instinctively, not even remotely satisfied when not a single drop lands on the carpet.

You raise an eyebrow, but quickly forget it as a news anchor warbles about the city’s precious Spider.

Still, you flex your feet.

Like a test, to see if he’s bothered.

If anything, he’s struggling to focus. Not only because he can feel you, hear the steady thrum of your heart, but also because he’s convinced that his newest enemy might be the person he wants the most to be his lover.

And there’s no way you can be both, right?

Maybe you could just be one. He knows which one he’d choose, and so he tucks his suspicion into a drawer, and keeps it locked with something fiercer than a key- desperation.

It’s cold, the next evening. You’re cutting through an abandoned alley, a box of paracetamol in your hand. And then, you’re slammed against the wall, and your cheek stings. 

“Oscar!” you yelp instinctively, as if he can hear you. But you can see the flicker of light from his window, and you’re just so close to home, it’s almost ironic.

“Your daddy isn’t dead.” your assailant whispers into your ear, voice gruff and dangerous.

“What are you talking about?” you hiss back, teeth bared, and the man gives you a crooked grin.

“We have him with us. And we’ve been watching you, kitty-cat. Might be of some use to us, finally. We need money for him, naturally, and maybe your loyalty.” “You’re kidding. I’m meant to believe that?”

“We have proof.” he argues, his arm still keeping you wedged firmly in place.

Then, with a loud thwack!, a white string drags you away from the burly man, and into Spiderman’s arm.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, and you nod.

“You called fuckin’ Spiderman?” the man roars, and you curse.

“No, no. I didn’t. Just, send me what I need to see. And then I’ll evaluate.”

“You know this guy?” Spiderman asks incredulously, and you hesitate to answer.

“Yeah, she knows me. Friend of her dad’s.” Spiderman stiffens, looking between you both.

“Maybe don’t meet in scary alleys, then. Go home.” he orders, and the man walks off calmly, but his hands are curled into fists.

“I was fine.” you turn to the superhero, jaw clenched.

He shrugs. “I heard a shout. Who’s Oscar, your boyfriend?”

You look at the window, the light still on.

“Roommate.” 

He nods.

“Alright. Do you want any help getting home?” You wave him off.

“Nah, I’m all good. Thanks.”

When you make it through the door, Oscar barrels at you.

“Um, nice to see you too?” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I was worried about you.” he murmurs, and you shrug him off.

“I’m like, completely fine. You’re so weird. You know I just went to the pharmacy. You could’ve watched me, if you wanted to.” you reply, but it’s a halfhearted insult.

He looks down at you, and his eyes linger at the scratch on your cheek, where it had scraped against the wall.

“See, I knew something was off. Come on.”

He drags you to the sink, grabbing a paper towel and quickly wetting it, before dabbing it on your cheek.

“I’m incredibly capable of washing my face, Oscar.”

“I know. But so am I.” he argues firmly, his thumb brushing your face ever so gently.

The way he’s looking at you is making you feel a little sick. He looks dazed, pupils dilating a little, and you almost pity him. He’s looking at you like you’re not quite real; like you’re wholly too beautiful to even exist. You realise you could tell him, knock that look off his face. Watch it turn into something closer to disgust, finding out you really are your fathers daughter. Carrying his legacy with your two, clawed hands.

But you’re much too evil for that, much too selfish to spare him from the inevitable.

So instead, you’re mean.

With a shameless grab at his shirt, you pull his lips to yours.

This time, it is messy. It’s hopeless and stupid and ridiculous.

His hand stays gently pressed to your face, while the other snakes to your waist, gripping it.

Your teeth clash a little as he laughs, a genuine giggle of success, and it just makes your stomach flip.

“You haven’t said anything mean in a while, and now you’re doing this? What’s got into you?” he teases, foreheads pressed together, and you scowl.

“Shut up, Piastri.”

He grins so wide you wonder how his face isn’t aching.

“That’s more like it.” “Seriously, you’re so irritating sometimes.” you grumble,but you know your face is mirroring his, at the sight of your lip balm smudged around his mouth.

His mouth dives back towards yours and you laugh in surprise as he picks you up and places you firmly on the counter.

“This is insane.” he mumbles, leaning into you, and you roll your eyes.

“Oscar.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

There’s something unspoken in the air when you wake up the next morning, his arm draped over yours.

“Oscar, your room is a joke.” you mutter, sitting up.

He groans, and rolls over to face you, looking up.

“Hi.”

“Hi. So-”

“You’re in my room.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Sherlock Holmes. You are unbelievable.”

“You’re in my bed.” he specifies, with something between a grin and a frown, and you smile back, to your own irritation.

“Yeah, but I won’t be for long. This is a tip.” you complain, pointing at piles of discarded equations and clothes, and he just lifts his head onto your lap, ignoring your various insults and general disgust.

“Aw, shit. I have class with MJ later. What am I meant to tell her?”

You crane your neck downwards, meeting Oscar’s eyes, and a lame smile spreads across his face.

“Tell her I’m into someone else. That someone else being you, y’know.” he replies, like it’s the simplest thing ever, and you push his head off you, getting up.

“You’re so annoying. I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey, come back.” he grumbles, arm stretching towards you, but you just walk out of the room, throwing his discarded top at him.

The man doesn’t reach out again. There’s something more sinister when you think about going out as the Black Cat again, so you wait. Wait for some shred of evidence, some proof of life. Anything.

Weeks pass in a new beautiful domesticity, stealing kisses by the fridge, throwing his hoodies on when you’re cold.

It’s disgusting, but genuine.  

Still, it’s fragile. And something you notice, when your own evenings are quiet, is that his are not.

Every night, without fail, he disappears. When he comes back, he's always slightly out of breath, hair messed up, glassy stare.

Like he’s exhausted, but he misses you too much to retreat to bed.

And you have to coax his energy back to life by peppering his cheeks with gentle kisses and throwing new recipes at him, until he’s laughing and everything's alright again.

The morning of the day it goes wrong, there’s a scrawled post it note on the fridge.

‘Hi, just gone to grab some croissants! Love you. Brb :)’

It’s obvious, what he tried to scribble out. You don’t let it hurt, but it does, a little. But not in the pain of something unrequited, something deeper entirely.

You want to talk about it, and so you wait, but he never comes back.

Finally, after the sun has long given up on patience, the door swings open.

“Oscar.” you exhale, somewhere between angry and relieved.

He looks exhausted. You want to hug him, but you're running too hot in your veins to risk it.

“Where have you been?” you ask, arms folded, not getting up from the table.

He doesn’t sit beside you; he sits opposite, like he knows what’s coming.

“Lando-” he begins, and you shake your head.

“Not today. Every day. Every evening. And you come back looking like hell, and I just can’t understand you.”

He sighs, heavy and long, and weak. For the first time, Oscar looks weak.

“I’m not, like, cheating on you. You know that, right?” he asks tentatively, and you roll your eyes.

“God, Oscar. I know you. I know you wouldn’t do that. But we’re not together, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Oscar laughs now, almost incredulously.

“You’re making it sound like I’m the reason we’re not together. You know how I feel about you. I don’t want to rush you, so I haven’t said anything yet, but come on.”

“And I’d hope you know how I feel about you, too!” you respond, voice rising, and he winces.

“But we can’t be together if I don’t know where you’re going every night. Fucks sake, I was worried at first. And then I was hurt, but I liked you too much to say anything. And now, I’m just, I don’t know. I’m tired.”

“Liked?”

You scowl, throwing your arms up.

“Don’t focus on semantics right now. Oscar, where have you been? Where do you go, what are you hiding from me?”

Oscar pales, fingers twisting nervously. You get up, and walk towards him carefully.

He stands as you get closer, now towering over you a little, but you see it; the glint of a tear wedged in his eye.

It’s obstinate, refusing to trickle down his face, and you’re grateful for that, because you know your own resolve would instantly falter if it fell.

“Oscar, please. I’m sorry, I haven’t been kinder. If you don’t think you can tell me, that’s my fault. But I need you to know, no matter what it is, I’m not going anywhere. Please.” you beg, voice wavering, hand stroking his face.

He leans into your touch with a desperation you know is impossible to mask, but it’s not quite enough; his eyelids stay closed.

“I want to tell you, but I can’t.” he admits, his voice shattering, and it takes some strength to pull away from him.

He watches you wipe your hand on your jeans, as if you’re repulsed by him.

As soon as your back is turned, the tear falls, with a splash that only he can hear.