Chapter Text
The cold clings onto Miles like a parasite, its wintry snare twisting around him while he dons his hero persona. He chides himself for not asking May for some kind of winter suit before she left and prays halfheartedly that the weather doesn’t deteriorate even more than it already has if he hopes to make it through the season. Wind whips past his mask in gusts of air, the force enough for him to falter against it. Still, he whoops and hollers despite the frosty temperature, uncaring for the pressure on his limbs and instead focusing on the endorphins thrumming through his veins as he swings through his city. Miles pulls, leaping and reaching the New York skyline until he eventually falls, path carved in wind for the city streets. The skyscrapers follow, growing larger and larger over him as he descends, enough to hang over the lone hero like a guillotine.
He feels his spider sense quiver down his spine and Miles follows the thread of danger like he always does. The moon, already halfway through the night, will set soon, making way for a new day.
Shit, Miles thinks, he has a physics exam in the morning. Privately, he curses the teacher who thought it’d be a good idea to have the exam on a Monday. A nearly incoherent grumble leaves him at the reminder as he webs up a purse thief and shakes the frantic hand of a grateful woman. He offers her a smile, though he thinks it turns into more of a grimace, he hopes she doesn't see it through his mask.
He lets his shoulders fall once she's hurried out of sight and down the street. He stands, staring at the direction she left in as the thug next to him snores softly. A shuddering sigh leaves him, causing plumes of white to escape from his mask in condensed breaths of carbon, while he watches the streetlights flicker.
When the bellowing sirens appear and red and blue colours the darkened roads, Spiderman is already gone with nothing but a colourful post-it note in his wake.
Soon, he will retire the Spider mask and retreat to the confines of his room. His arm, or maybe his leg, will be held in a way to keep pressure off it as he stumbles in through his window. He will patch himself the best he can manage with ice and plasters, shed off his suit, and collapse into bed. When he stares up at his ceiling, Miles will let the tireless hours from the days and weeks before topple over him like domino. He will gasp from the weight of his responsibilities and he will wonder why he feels a burning pit of emptiness in his chest, and then will start the sisyphean task on how to make it stop. (He knows it won't, not until he gets to see them again. Contrarily, he knows he never will). And like every night, Miles will slip on his headphones and hope the music staves off his nightmares of longing for something he can’t have.
—
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
Miles blinks awake.
Tap tap.
He mind grapples onto awareness, slowly. He sees the walls of his room, posters hanging over him. It’s dark still. 3:00am. Quiet. No noise except-
Tap tap.
Except from that tapping.
Tap tap.
Wait. Tapping?
Tap tap.
Miles bolts up from his bed, barely cringing at the way the movement tugs uncomfortably at an injury. His head grows fuzzy. Dangerdangerdangerdanger-
Tap tap.
Miles' breath hitches and his heart rate fastens, though he doesn’t know why. He chances a look to the window.
Tap tap.
There's something there.
Tap tap.
Nope Miles thinks emphatically. He throws his covers back over his head. Ignore it, maybe it'll go away.
Tap tap.
Open the window- let it in- it’s like me- danger- stay safe- under the covers- stay hidden- quiet- don't breath too loud-
Tap tap.
Miles winces, his head still swimming with the fog of sleep when a tumultuous flurry of thoughts hit him.
Tap tap.
He lets out a harsh breath and pulls away his covers, his decision made, albeit with a little trepidation. Miles doesn’t think he’s made the right decision but he can’t back out now because he’s already out of the safe zone—his bed.
Tap tap.
The room is bathed in moonlight. Miles only makes it two steps before he sets his eyes on the curtain and stops. There’s someone outlined behind it; an unwelcome sight that chokes fear into Miles as he watches the figure, illuminated by a blue wash, tilt its head. As if it'd heard the thumping of his rapid heart.
"Miles?"
At his name, a choked whine gets lodged into his throat, his head aches. Dangerdangerdangerdanger- Shutupshutupshutup- Quiet. Why does it know his name?
"Miles? Open the window? Please?"
The voice is masculine sounding, normal even, though, despite this there’s an almost humorous lilt to its tone, as if it knows its voice is but a mockery of a real human. Miles stands, terrified and unwilling to comply with its request. Briefly, a flicker of hope ignites, Miles questions it it could be Gwen- Peter- anyone. The flame is snuffed straight before the thought can burn. Stop. Pay attention. The figure moves, placing a palm on the window, highlighting its boney fingers in black behind the curtain. Too wide, too spread, too thin, too inhuman. Miles holds his breath.
"...Miles? ..Are you awake?"
The facsimile of a human voice drops in volume. It whispers. Voice luring in a way a siren’s call is. Miles doesn't answer. It drags a finger down the window and stops halfway. Miles doesn't breathe in those few silent seconds. Stay still, stay quiet- there's an almost unnoticeable sag in the creature's shoulders when Miles doesn't answer. It drags the hand away, slow, before it's disappearing from view; its shadow spilling from its form.
"Sweet dreams"
Miles stares at the curtain until dawn.
—
He doesn't sleep. The sun rises and his alarm crackles to life at 6am, cutting ruthlessly through his quiet. Still, he lets it ring out until the battery dies. It's 7am when his mum walks into the room, oblivious to Miles' frozen stance; his gaze is still glued to the curtain when she hassles him out. She sends him back to school, bags packed and head still swimming in fog. Taptap- Miles finds he can't focus—he’s definitely flunked that test. When he finally gains some semblance of clarity, he questions if what he saw was even real. But it had to be right? He can still remember that unsettling view with eerie precision. A dark silhouette and spindly hands framed in the moonlight with a quiet voice calling Miles Miles Miles-
"-Miles!"
His head snaps up to the teacher, posture going rigid. A disappointed frown is on her face and he sweats. She's asked a question. What was it? Miles doesn't know, his head is too clouded with thoughts to figure it out. So he replies with what he can, that being a sheepish smile because he can’t even seem conjure up an excuse. She tuts, turning back and uncapping the board marker. No longer under her scrutinising gaze, Miles sits back with a grimace on his face and rubs his hand nervously, conscious of the glances thrown his way.
Suddenly, he feels his skin prick. Someone's watching, you know who, head straight—don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook—attention forward, you need this class.
—
His head hits the pillow like a brick but sleep doesn't find him quickly. No, that thing seems to though.
The room is still, the noise of the fan and Ganke's sleeping snores are the only things that fill the void of a room that makes him feel too small and too alone. The bunk bed makes noise with every subtle movement and shift he makes, offering ominous squeaks and creaks that sound stark against the quiet of the room. Miles makes it a point to stay still, the sounds don’t provide good material for his overactive imagination and he really really doesn’t need to scare himself. Especially after last night. He stares at the ceiling, his hand clenched tight around the covers, waiting. For? He doesn't know. (He does. He knows it followed).
Tap tap.
Miles squeezes his eyes shut.
Tap tap.
He’s closed them hard enough to leave a smattering of colours behind when he opens them again.
"..Miles?"
Goawaygoawaygoaway-
"...Let me in?"
Miles sits up and turns his head to the blind at the direct question. A familiar scene plays out. Its silhouette is there, outlined in the moonlight, crouched with its hand angled to-
Tap tap.
To tap. To grab his attention.
Tap tap.
Miles, with his heart beating in his throat, throws the covers over his head and presses his hands to his ears.