Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Spider-Man Fusion, Spider-Man Identity Reveal, Shane Hollander as Spider-Man, Spidey Sense (Marvel), Spider-Man References, Various Spidey Powers Plucked from Different Comic and Movie Canons As I See Fit (and some made up ones too), Light Bondage, Spider Silk in Sexual Situations, Webs as Gags, Webs as Cuffs, Retired Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Retired Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Coach Ilya Rozanov, Light Angst, (more angst than I meant to include in what was once a web bondage pwp at least), Angst with a Happy Ending, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Arguably Sub Top Ilya Rozanov If You Squint, Avengers References (Also If You Squint), An accidentally introspective look at what it means to have great powers and not actually want the responsibility

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Spider Man Week 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-19 Words: 27,153 Chapters: 4/4

spun up in silk

Summary

It was the strangest drunken sensation he’d ever felt in his life — the whoosh that immediately followed and the sudden lightness of his limbs. Blinking in slow surprise, Ilya looked down and realized that he was, much to his chagrin, now stuck against his bedroom wall, his wrists seemingly glued on either side of him.

“Booby trap,” he whispered, giggling to himself as he tugged at his bindings.

There was a scuffling noise and Ilya looked up just in time to watch in awe as Shane Hollander literally dropped down from the ceiling.

Or, Ilya’s (hot) new roommate might be a spider. Ilya has a crush on him anyway.

Notes

Many thanks to the organizers of Hollanov Spider-Man Week for bringing this fic to life! As a former Marvel tumblr girlie and Stucky enthusiast (hi, Rachel oomf), this is an oddly full circle moment for me.

As usual, and as my twt followers know well, this was meant to be a PwP one shot with some sexy web stuff. And well, here we are again 20-30k later, huh. In terms of background, I have read many variations of Spidey comic and seen all the films, but I'm playing fast and loose with the lore here, alright? Comic purists, perhaps the hockey yaoi fusion is not for you. For my studious readers, more of my research notes can be found at the end as usual 🖤

Content warnings for this fic include: brief discussion of suicide attempt (Ilya, as a teenager), cancer (Shane, also as a teenager), and genre-typical superhero violence and injuries.

Chapter 1

Harlem, New York — 2019

There was a breeze floating through the apartment when Ilya arrived home that evening, cooler and with distinctly more movement than the living room’s pitiful window AC unit could provide.

He cocked his head, sighing as the sounds of the city below floated up to the 18th story, filling the apartment with their crooning 15th floor neighbor’s balcony guitar sesh, a dozen overlapping car horns, and the wail of a police siren, growing distant.

Shane had left the window open again.

Rolling his eyes, Ilya dropped his bag at the door, padding through the apartment and into the smaller second bedroom. A few months ago, it had felt like a violation — a creepy landlord snooping where he didn’t belong — but now, as the muggy summer melted into fall, Ilya had deemed the intrusion necessary, if only for the financial health of his ConEd bill. He’d asked first, of course; casual reminders to close the window before leaving all met with an agreeable nod from his well-mannered subletter. Yet sweet Canadian Shane Hollander, who was brilliant enough to be a first year graduate student at Columbia and who tended to follow their shared living space rules with a neurosis that Ilya found startling, still forgot about the window.

Often.

So often, in fact, that it felt bizarre in comparison to Shane’s otherwise intense commitment to Ilya’s [hand-drafted, legally unenforceable] sublease agreement.

Rule 1 (use only your assigned shelves in the fridge and designated storage space in the kitchen and bathroom) was adhered to religiously — in fact, every label always faced forward, Shane’s food containers and hygiene items arranged via a meticulous system of color and size and use-by date. Three weeks in, he’d started quietly reorganizing their shared supplies too, which might have felt like overkill if not for the time he’d confronted Ilya with a handful of jars in the spice cabinet that were old enough to vote.

Rule 2 (text one another to flag any multi-day guests in advance, including overnight ‘closed door’ visitors) also posed no problem between them. Or, well, in the sense that so far Shane had brought back only one guest of his own — a redheaded smoke-show he adamantly denied was his girlfriend upon Ilya’s gentle ribbing. Still, he certainly hadn’t complained about sharing the breakfast bar with any of the Rozanov Roster week to week, respectful and cutely awkward with beautiful women in a way that left them pink-cheeked and cooing. The number of hookups who had shamelessly asked for Shane’s number (or threesome involvement) after they left was, to Ilya’s dismay, greater than zero. Even Svetlana, in town often for her modeling gigs, made no secret of the way she favored Shane over Ilya at this point, darting out of bed to seek Shane out in the mornings for what had once been their post-hookup hockey talks.

(‘He played too, you know. Drafted first round, until he got sick.’ Ilya hadn’t known. Though with the way his roommate tended to avoid him, he hardly heard Shane’s footsteps around the apartment, much less his voice in prolonged conversation.)

But hell, shy and secretive nature aside, Ilya was half in love with the man too, given that Shane loaded the dishwasher before it was his turn on the rotating chore sheet, folded Ilya’s laundry neatly in his basket when Ilya — acceptably clean himself, though a lazier roommate by far — left a pile in the dryer too long, and routinely hauled their trash down the winding hallway for disposal with zero complaints. Last week, he’d brandished a steam mop with a bizarre array of attachments and cleaned their shower grout. Ilya, having shared his meager square footage with all manner of slobs, thieves, and other oddball personalities over the years, was grateful that Shane’s only notable flaw was a compulsive need for the ‘fresh’ Harlem air.

Tugging the window shut and flicking the locks, Ilya eyed the fire escape, wondering not for the first time what drew his roommate to the makeshift balcony so regularly. Shane wasn’t a smoker, with the way he wrinkled his nose at Ilya’s occasional cigarette (‘please, respect my European culture, Shane’). Plus, the metal grating surely made for an uncomfortable seat, and the dizzying height alone had been enough to dissuade all his previous tenants from even poking a head out. Ilya, never one for being high up (yes, New York was an ironic choice in hindsight), couldn’t look down without an immediate wave of nausea. Whatever tendencies made Shane want to perch like a bird out there were beyond him.

But anyway, so what if Shane was a little odd? As long as he kept paying his rent on time, Ilya was keen to have him stay for the entire length of his graduate program. Heck, he’d encourage Shane to pursue a PhD too if it meant more years splitting costs for the generously rent-stabilized apartment the Rozanovs had inherited from a distant Russian-American relative. Any New Yorker would tell you that a secure housing situation with a reliable, mostly normal roommate wasn’t something you gave up easily.

The sound of a key unlocking the front door startled Ilya back into action, his feet carrying him quickly out of Shane’s bedroom. He threw himself lengthwise across the L-shaped sectional in the living area, one arm propped under his head in the perfect picture of casual relaxation.

Shane wandered in just as Ilya’s body hit the cushions, raising an eyebrow at the way Ilya immediately blurted out a breathless ‘hey’ in greeting.

“Um, hey,” Shane echoed back slowly, and perhaps with a degree of suspicion.

Which, okay, fair.

They usually didn’t bother with any sort of ‘welcome home!’ bit for each other.

Ilya watched him place his keys in the little dish on the console table, his gym duffel bag hanging from one bare, broad shoulder. Learning that the academic was a former athlete made a lot more sense, with how impressively muscular Shane was under the baggy t-shirts and jeans he wore to class. And he certainly took care of his health even now, sometimes shyly inviting Ilya downstairs to their building gym where he’d proceed to squat Ilya’s one rep max without breaking a sweat. Ilya swallowed, eyes tracing the sculpted anatomy of Shane’s calves, up those massive thighs and further still, settling on the dangerously skimpy in-seam of his navy Lululemon shorts.

That was the other problem with his roommate — besides the whole constant threat of defenestration thing: Shane Hollander was hot.

Lightly tanned, with a swoop of dark hair and gorgeous deep brown eyes to match, Shane had described himself as ‘Asian Canadian’ in the About section of Ilya’s roommate application. His strong nose was freckled, the marks spilling onto his full cheeks where a near permanent flush seemed to reside. And his lips. Ugh. That mouth had killed Ilya dead from their first FaceTime call to check roommate compatibility, plush and pink and sharply notched by a deep Cupid’s bow. It was unfair, how obviously big and masculine and yet so, so pretty he was. Ilya wanted to—

Fuck. He was staring, wasn’t he?

Humming softly, Shane kicked off his white, dad-coded New Balance sneakers, arranging them neatly on the mat. He seemed unaware of Ilya’s inner turmoil, as he had since the day he’d moved in — not noticing, for example, the way Ilya had just spent a silent minute and a half pathetically ogling how the post-gym pump made his biceps twice as bite-able. Frowning, Shane took a few steps closer, head cocked as he asked, “Were you… in my room?”

Well, shit.

Ilya flinched, sure the guilt was evident on his face. Shane had surprised him several times like this — paying attention so closely to the space and its status quo, a keener sense of observation than his ghostly presence in the apartment might suggest. “Ah, yes,” Ilya admitted, “But only for a moment. You left the window open again.”

It was Shane’s turn to look discomfited, shifting his weight awkwardly between his two socked feet. “Oh. Sorry, I… I’ve been staying too late in the lab this last week. I get kind of forgetful when I’m tired.”

Ilya shrugged, politely refraining from pointing out that the window thing had been happening since late July, well before the start of the university’s fall term. “It’s okay. Just bad for energy cost, you know? We should avoid wasting.”

Shane’s brows furrowed, his body still swaying in anxious rhythm. “I’ll pay more of the bill this month,” he offered, “Fifty-fifty isn’t fair if my negligence is to blame.”

Negligence, Ilya thought with a twitch of his lips, mouthing at the shape of the foreign syllables, What a nerd.

Ignoring Shane’s wide-eyed look of apology, he waved a flippant hand in dismissal. “No need for that. You are the best roommate I have in years. And anyway, I am the employed one here, so you should enjoy being a student and not worry about money things. I keep the rent cheap for a reason.”

“The Admirals can’t be paying you that well,” Shane argued, more animation in his voice than Ilya had yet heard from him. Those freckled cheeks flamed bright red almost immediately, as the words seemed to leave Shane’s mouth before he’d entirely thought them through. “Oh god, Ilya, sorry. That was—”

He cut himself off, looking surprised by the way Ilya was nearly rolling off the couch with laughter at the unexpected chirp.

“So you are expert on assistant strength and conditioning coach salary now?” he teased.

Shane’s hackles seemed to lower as he realized that Ilya was genuinely not offended by the observation. Which, yeah. His middling pay was a pretty strong financial motivator not to live alone, after all. Shane drifted closer to the couch, as if considering the other seat cushion, before abandoning course and choosing to perch on his typical kitchen bar stool instead. Ilya tried not to deflate, excited as he was by the prospect of a real interaction from his skittish occupant. With just a thousand square feet to share between them, it wasn’t as if the kitchen was far anyway.

“Uh yeah, actually,” Shane said with a shrug, eyes lowered, “I looked into other hockey careers for a bit, when I knew going pro was no longer an option.”

Ilya frowned, sitting up from his horizontal position. Despite the rather serious turn in the conversation, he was still thrilled that Shane was choosing to make more than pained small talk with him. Gingerly, he replied, “Sveta said you were sick?”

Shane cringed but nodded back, fingers knotting in his lap. “Still am. It’s, um, a rare autoimmune thing. Incurable, as far as we know.” At Ilya’s widened eyes, he hurried to add, “Whoa, no, I’m not dying or anything! I just… have a lot of symptoms to manage. And they make hockey too risky.”

“Some coaching is not so physical,” Ilya pointed out, “if that is the problem?”

Shane huffed out a laugh at the suggestion, expression doing something strange. “No, that’s definitely not— um, it’s just they usually prefer guys with playing experience, you know? And I was out by nineteen.” He bit his lip, worrying at the skin there. “Not to mention the huge gap in my resume after my, erm, diagnosis. Obviously, starting university at twenty-two set me back a lot in my work experience. And I don’t really have the right network for hockey anymore.”

Ah. Well that side of the hockey business Ilya did know.

He’d played all his life, enduring brutal Russian coaching; endless, agonizing pressure from family and country alike; and one very — at the time — embarrassing stay in the psych ward after a more-or-less accidental overdose. Oops. Upon discharge, he’d opted for a fresh start, accepting a full-ride scholarship with the Colgate Raiders in sleepy Hamilton, New York (a decision that he knew looked insane for a formerly top-rated NHL prospect without the context of his crippling mental health crisis). The easy fun of American college hockey and an antidepressant prescription were enough to propel Ilya toward an optimistic AHL stint in Syracuse. But, of course, his cruel bastard of a father just had to choose that year to lose his mind (brilliant fucking genetics, eh?) and Ilya had spiraled into the worst of his habits once more. After two semi-disastrous seasons, Syracuse had politely informed him that his inconsistent play and terrible PR were more trouble than he was worth to a professional franchise.

Still, Shane wasn’t wrong in knowing that the connections helped immensely. One miserable summer funeral in Moscow and an M.S. in Kinesiology with a Sports Science concentration later had Ilya back in New York’s pro hockey pipeline with just a handful of calls. As much as owing favors to Scott Hunter of all people rankled him, he was grateful for the chance to be rink-side again. And technically eligible for a Stanley Cup one day, if his team changed basically everything about their current performance.

“I could put in a word for you?” Ilya offered, after giving Shane a very abridged version of his pathway to the Admirals locker room (sans the whole ‘trying to kill yourself really throws a temporary wrench in future plans’ thing). “What is your Master’s in? I do not think you said?”

Shane stared at him for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip again, and replied, “Toxicology.”

Ilya blinked, piecing together the meaning from the Russian cognate. “That is… a big pivot.”

There was a shrug in return. “I like science. And my illness has, um, suspected environmental factors so...” Shane shifted on the stool. “It’s kind of a special interest of mine.”

Ilya nodded. Right, so maybe no hockey avenues needed then, as long as he’d found happy alternatives.

“And you like this program at your school?” Ilya ventured, feeling oddly desperate to keep Shane talking. He heard Sveta’s voice in his mind, chastising him for his obsessive need to understand what made other people tick. ‘You are a curious person, Ilya,’ his therapist had similarly claimed, ‘but not everything has a Why that will satisfy this.’

Shane, however, smiled at the question, maybe the first real smile that Ilya had seen from him, and said, “Yeah, I do. I spent years dreaming about this city and learning here.”

“Good,” Ilya echoed, heart warm. He felt the same about New York — a place for different dreams, indeed. Emboldened, he added, “And I know we have not talked much, but you are never bothering me, you know? If you want to chat or, like… hang out.”

Shane’s eyes went round at the invitation. “Oh. Um, thank you for saying that so clearly. I’m a little awkward around people and—” he cut himself off abruptly, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I guess I wasn’t sure if you usually made friends with your subletters or…”

Internally, Ilya cheered at the evening’s progress. Out loud, he said, “It is not a requirement or anything. But we are both late twenties and we like hockey and working out, yes?” And men, I hope, his brain added unhelpfully. “If, ah, you ever want to order food in and watch a game here together, let me know. Or I can get you tickets to MSG any time once the season starts.”

Shane glanced away, though Ilya could see the tug of a smile in his profile. “Thanks. Though I have liked our Saturday morning gym dat— time together, too. Since I’m busy most evenings now with, um, school stuff so.”

Ilya leaned back into the couch cushions, waving another hand, wrist loose. “Like I say, no pressure. I know you have… responsibilities.” He grinned, thrilled with the way the last word had rolled off his tongue, accent increasingly less of an obstacle to his fluency.

Something in Shane’s eyes darkened at that, though the odd expression cleared a second later. “Ha, yeah, responsibility,” he echoed, looking exhausted by the thought, “I’m juggling a lot these days.”

“Well, I am told I am good at entertainment. And stress relief,” Ilya joked, toeing the line of actual flirtation. It was all the fault of those tiny shorts, really. How else was he meant to cope when Hypnotized by Thigh.

“Yeah, I know. I hear all your glowing reviews,” Shane deadpanned, and then turned instantly red for the second time that night. Again, he seemed shocked by Ilya’s resultant laughter, which shocked Ilya in turn with the impossible notion that Shane Hollander might not know he was funny.

As Ilya’s laughter faded, Shane hopped down from his stool, scooping up his gym bag. Poised to flee, he paused for a moment, considering, and then said, “Um, good talk though? It’s late so I’m just… going to shower now. Early morning.” His anxious posture softened ever so slightly as he added, “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya replied, smiling bigger than ever. His pleased little grin hardly faded as he went about his evening routine. Spitting toothpaste into the sink, he vowed: We WILL be friends slash kind of chill roomies at minimum.

The following morning, he awoke to bright sunlight in his eyes and the sounds of the city’s morning commute echoing from below.

Ilya knew, without even rising from bed, that Shane’s window was open again.

“I feel like I’m going crazy, Sveta,” he moaned, flopping onto the duvet next to her, “He’s so polite. And funny. And helpful around the apartment—”

“And handsome.”

“And handsome,” he echoed, then froze, “Wait.”

Svetlana laughed, a little meanly even, and said in cutting Russian, “Oh please. You are very transparent with your crushes.”

Ilya made a few nonsensical grumbling noises in response.

Turning on her side to look at him, she said, “The window thing. It is weird though. You said you’ve never actually seen him out on the fire escape?”

He shook his head against the pillow. “Not once. And if I hadn’t watched him use the front door with my own eyeballs, I might think he was coming and going that way. In a hurry, I guess.”

Svetlana snorted. “What, like some kind of Spider-Man?”

Ilya stuck his tongue out at her. “C’mon, you’ve met him. Shane is no masked crime fighter. He’s just really obsessed with airflow for some reason.”

“Having the window open occasionally in summer was one thing,” she mused, “but the constant forgetting to close it… Are you sure he’s not messing with you?”

Ilya groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “No, and that’s exactly what is driving me insane. He’s smart and particular and tidy, and he loves the sublease rules so much he started suggesting more of them. It feels out of character that he would forget over and over like this, tired grad school brain aside.” He let out a beleaguered sigh. “And I really don’t think he’s cut out to play the long game, even if it were some kind of prank. He apologizes every time he chirps me.”

Eyebrow raised, Svetlana hummed in thought. “Hiding until you catch Shane in the act of… whatever he’s doing feels a little crazy but…” She shrugged, lips pursing. “… at this point? Might be the only way to get a clear answer.”

Ilya scoffed at the suggestion. “What? No. I’m not going to be a creep about it and risk spooking him, Sveta. He’s only recently been willing to hold a non-hockey conversation with me without running from the room. Sometimes I load up the Chel ‘14 title screen on the PlayStation just to lure him out.”

“Best in the franchise after ‘94,” Svetlana agreed, appraising, “He’s got good taste.” Throwing a leg over Ilya’s own, she shifted close enough to poke him in the chest with one sharp acrylic nail. “But to reiterate, you’re sure you can’t just ask him directly what the deal is?”

He sprawled out fully with another grumble, wrapping one arm around her to complete their soft pretzel knot. “Like I told you, I did ask the very first time. Sort of. And he mumbled some weird excuse about ‘missing the Canadian breeze’ or whatever.” Seeing Svetlana’s incredulous expression, he added tersely, “Hey, it made sense at the time! As if I know anything about Canada that isn’t puck-related.”

“You could throw the book at him, so to speak?” she proposed with another shrug, “If he’s as rule obsessed as you say, maybe threatening consequences for breaking the sublease agreement might motivate him to pay more attention?”

“Maybe,” Ilya acknowledged hesitantly, “but I’m kind of a coward about conflict right now. The last round of roommate search was a nightmare. I really don’t want him to move out.”

“I know,” she said, poking at him again, “You want to kiss him on the mouth. Propose marriage, maybe.”

Squawking, he shoved at her, ignoring her pleased little giggles. “Thirsty. I need a glass of water.” At her snide, ‘oh I’m sure’ he added, “And none for you, evil woman. Get your own.”

Sliding out of bed and padding into the dark kitchen, he flicked on the big light and immediately let out a loud string of Russian curses. Clutching at his bare chest, he stared back at the outline of Shane Hollander across the kitchen island, clad in black sweatpants and a black jacket zipped to the neck, hood pulled up to obscure his features. He was clearly in the middle of — good grief, of all fucking things — making a PB&J, knife still dipped in the jar of the health-conscious monstrosity he pretended was real peanut butter.

“Sorry,” they both started to apologize simultaneously, Ilya’s version trailing off as he noticed the wide trickle of blood leaking from a deep cut over Shane’s left brow. His bottom lip too was unnaturally plump, skin stretched and purpling at the center.

“You are bleeding,” Ilya murmured, syllables stilted after an English-free evening. On coaching staff autopilot, he skirted the counter in two quick steps and hooked a finger under Shane’s chin, tilting his wound toward the light.

Shane winced at the contact, jolting violently backward, the sharp movement making Ilya suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he’d touched his cagey roommate for the first time, unthinking.

“It’s fine,” Shane muttered. He balanced his PB knife on the edge of his plate and scrubbed at his face with one sweater paw, only managing to smear the blood all over his forehead instead. Another droplet welled up, sliding down Shane’s cheek and off his chin like a possessed horror movie tear, landing to bloom crimson on the counter.

Used to the light gore of a professional hockey game, Ilya didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he stepped forward again with a frown, hands making a useless grabby motion with the need to Fix. “No, definitely not fine. I have a spray and Steri-Strips I steal from the team physician. Will just take one minute to patch you up. Wait here.”

He turned to dart toward the bathroom, but immediately felt his shoulder yanked back, caught frozen in place by the way Shane’s (big) hand encircled his wrist. The skin of Shane’s palm was dry and roughly calloused, prickly almost, in a sandpaper-like texture. Christ, he really must lift a lot of weights.

“Ilya,” Shane repeated, firmer this time, “I said it’s fine. Head wounds bleed a lot, you know. It’s not actually that serious.”

Ilya shook his head, tugging his hand out of Shane’s powerful grip. “If you die of sepsis, you cannot pay rent. And you have your immune thing. It is not good to risk infection.”

Shane scoffed, glancing around as he hissed out in a half-whisper, “I’m not going to die, you drama queen. And I know you have a girl over right now. Shouldn’t you be… relieving stress together?”

“We were just hanging out,” Ilya argued truthfully. They’d watched a movie, and cuddled in their underwear a bit, and Svetlana had let him spend the hour afterward complaining about how pretty, perfect Shane Hollander was driving him batty.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out again, thumb swiping at the smear of blood on Shane’s flushed left cheek. He did not miss the way Shane shuddered at the touch, anxious probably, and a little angry with Ilya’s mothering too. “Sveta is my friend before anything else. And she likes you. More than me, probably. She would not be happy if you were hurt and I did not help.”

Let me take care of you, he very nearly said aloud, cringing at the instinct.

Shane stared at him for a long moment, before finally his shoulders seemed to sag in acquiescence. “Alright, fine,” he said, the consonants softer against his swollen lip, “You can patch me up.”

Ilya did a brief, ridiculous jig of victory that made Shane snort out the tiniest of laughs. “Okay! I will get the supplies.” He took another few steps and then paused, spinning back, “Any allergies I should know? Medicine that you cannot use with your condition?”

Shane blinked at him, looking surprised by the question. “Um, ethyl chloride?”

It was Ilya’s turn to stare. He was obviously familiar with the compound, given his sports medicine background, but the prescription strength topical anesthetic was no longer widely used in professional sports. It was a wonder where Shane had encountered it enough regularly to have a known allergy. But maybe juniors hockey in Canada was just that brutal back then.

“Ah, no worries,” Ilya said, cracking an uneasy smile, “Very flammable, regulated substance. We do not have this at home.” He motioned Shane toward the bar stool he favored. “Sit. And press your cut with this paper towel until I am back. You are going to get blood in your sandwich, and I do not think you are a vampire. Yet.”

Shane bit down on his busted lip, clearing fighting a smile, and winced at the pressure there. Still, he complied without protest, hopping onto his usual seat and kicking his feet in a way that was unfortunately cute enough to cause Ilya minor psychic damage.

Twirling away, Ilya first darted into his bedroom, explaining the situation to Svetlana in one breathless, rapid-fire rant. Competent as always, she seemed to take the minor emergency in stride.

“When did he get home?” she whispered, tugging on her jeans, “I didn’t hear the front door.”

“No,” Ilya said, something tingling at his brain stem, “Neither did I.”

Gathering the rest of her things, Svetlana turned toward him. “And what the hell was he involved in to get roughed up? Ilyusha, I don’t like this. You should be careful.”

Her words had Ilya pausing in his frantic urgency to help, help, help. He sucked in a steadying breath, finding himself a little hesitant about the situation too. “If it will make you feel better, you can sit with him while I get the supplies.”

“It will, thank you,” she said primly, waltzing out of the room. Ilya followed close behind, peeling off to raid the medicine cabinet, and returned not a moment later to see Svetlana on the other bar stool, quietly clucking her tongue at Shane’s injuries.

“You are lucky this cut did not come any nearer to your eye, you know,” she was chastising him, Shane somehow even pinker now than he’d been under Ilya’s scrutiny. “And if you don’t want people to know you are in some underground fight club, you should probably get better at fighting.”

Ilya snorted at the affronted look on Shane’s face, sidling up to the bar stool as he laid out his supplies on the nearby countertop.

“I’m not— I wasn’t…” Shane began, more frustrated than Ilya had ever seen him, “I just left the lab really late, walking the twenty minutes home as usual, and I passed this group of guys messing with a drunk girl outside of a bar. I stopped to help call her a cab, but… um, they didn’t like that so much.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow as he tore open a disinfectant wipe, swiping it over Shane’s brow and mumbling a soft apology when he winced at the sting.

“And I do know how to fight, actually,” Shane argued, almost pouting in his defensiveness, “Or take a punch, at least, given all the hockey. But it was four against one and one of the guys was wearing all these rings so…” He paused, gesturing to his eyebrow. “I honestly think I made it out alright, all things considered.”

Svetlana whistled at the story, looking impressed, if still a little skeptical. “Look at you, Shane Hollander, a regular neighborhood hero.”

Shane winced again, visibly folding in on himself. “I’m not a hero.”

Ilya froze, surprised at the vitriol with which Shane delivered the word. He glanced at Svetlana, seeing her eyebrows were at her hairline, though she recovered quickly.

“You’re right,” she said, voice gentler, “Maybe that is too grand. But you did a good thing, Shane. I’m sure that girl will be so grateful you were there.”

“She asked for my number,” Shane murmured, sounding morose, “Kept calling me her sexy savior. I was just trying to get her into the car at that point.”

Ilya huffed out a laugh, his fingers smoothing the neat row of Steri-Strips over the deepest part of Shane’s cut. Squeezing a bit of ointment onto his thumb, he reached back up, dabbing just below the swell of Shane’s bottom lip where a shallower lesion was notched into his chin. Their eyes locked for a moment, a jolt of something electric in the air between them making Ilya swallow. He dropped his hands.

“Well, she was right on both accounts, hmm?” he teased, deflecting badly, “My roommate is very sexy. And he saves me from my own messes all the time.”

Ilya’s play doctor job all done, Shane spun on the stool to look at Svetlana. “It really doesn’t bother you?” he asked, sounding grumbly again, “That he flirts with everyone like this?”

Svetlana laughed, bright and full-throated, and reached out to pat Shane’s knee. “No, you sweet thing,” she said, with a hint of pity, “Why do you ask?”

“You’re here a lot more often than the others,” Shane explained, eyes cutting to Ilya for a moment, “I thought you might be together but like… open? To other women?”

She smiled, brushing back a few strands of copper curls. “Ilyusha is my best friend, since we were children in Moscow. Even if, yes, his eyes have always been very big and very hungry, and he has terribly greedy hands.” Ignoring Ilya’s affronted noises at the [true] implications of his sluttiness, she continued, “But you see, in his chest is this sad, squishy thing that aches for love. Probably he will have to fuck his way through all five boroughs before he settles down enough to find it, but he is a romantic at heart. We are just passing time together. Never serious.”

“How dare you,” Ilya cut in, secretly flattered by her assessment of his buried softness, “I would never resort to Staten Island for sex, and definitely not love.”

“All this talk of standards,” she said drolly, waving a hand, “Means nothing when you take money from the Admirals.”

Svetlana’s jab, as a Boston Bears loyalist, got a real giggle out of Shane, who had an Ottawa Centaurs pennant on his wall and thus zero room to judge anyone’s taste in hockey franchises.

Ilya told him as much, laughing when Shane shoved at him and said, “I’m injured, Ilya. And I had a long night. You have to be nice to me.” Ilya made a valiant attempt at ignoring the way the imprint of Shane’s palm on his pec burned like he’d been branded.

“Speaking of long nights, boys,” Svetlana cut in, eyeing Ilya with her horrible, all-knowing gaze, “I should head out now. Red eye flight to LA tomorrow and I still haven’t packed back at the hotel.”

She hopped down from the stool, rising up on her toes to place a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, and then, much to Shane’s visible mortification, she pivoted and gave him one too.

The moment the door snicked shut, Shane was all but running from the room with a muttered excuse about an early bedtime. Ilya watched him flee as he had a dozen times before, thinking, ah, back to normal then.

But then again, maybe things could be a little different now. They were getting closer, in a way, or at least in the sense that Shane finally seemed more comfortable around him. And the more he learned about Shane Hollander, the more he wondered…

Following a bizarre hunch, Ilya padded over to the front door and looked at the little ceramic dish there, noting with a growing unease that Shane’s keys were not in it. In his mind’s eye, he saw Shane’s exact, hyper-precise entrance routine: one step inside, keys into the bowl, two more steps, then shoes on the mat, always starting with the left shoe first.

“Hey, Shane!” he called out, pulse thrumming. A moment later, he heard a soft ‘yeah?’ echo back across the apartment. “Close your window, will you?”

It was worse, maybe, the way he received only silence in response.

Even so, the next morning Ilya woke to blessed quiet for the first time in ages. No traffic noises or pigeon coos or guitar neighbors, just Shane humming to himself in the kitchen and offering Ilya an abomination of a pancake when he wandered out of his room.

“Twenty grams of protein per serving!” Shane advertised sweetly, his expression shifting into one of dismay after Ilya accepted the plate and then promptly drowned the entire stack with the maple syrup he kept in one of his cabinets (along with a whole host of snacks with terrible macros that Shane sometimes watched him eat with obvious longing). He ignored Shane’s protests, pouring a little more syrup on the side for dipping, and hopped up to sit directly on the counter.

“Yum,” Ilya said around a massive bite, pasting on a cheeky grin as he swung his long legs childishly, “Thank you for the healthy breakfast, Shane.”

Watching Shane’s expressive brows furrow in mock offense, Ilya refused to think any harder about the fact that the several millimeter deep gash through the left one had all but mended overnight, soft pink scar tissue visible under the bandages. Ilya either had an undiscovered career in spiritual healing or—

“You’re welcome, Ilya,” Shane replied, and his brown-eyed gaze warmed enough for a moment to evaporate all of Ilya’s concerns. And so what? He was certain that being on the receiving end of a fond look from Shane Hollander, who was stingy with eye contact at best, would melt the hearts of even the strongest of men.

It was a little pitiful after, the way Ilya cleaned his plate and then asked for one more pancake, syrup-free, just to make Shane smile.

When Shane prepared to head out for class a bit later, Ilya — not due at the Admirals’ facilities for pre-season informal skate until late afternoon — made a point of occupying the living room sofa. It wasn’t the subtlest of stakeout attempts, but he was determined to follow last night’s hunch, watching for the exact moment his roommate chose to leave.

As Shane finally crossed the living area, backpack straps pulled tight over his sculpted shoulders, Ilya deflated. He felt a shameful sense of misplaced paranoia soak his bones, as he returned Shane’s wave goodbye, the front door swinging closed behind him.

When Ilya peeked into Shane’s room a moment later, the window was firmly shut.

Chapter 2

The Kingfisher is an evil, evil place, Ilya thought with a hiccup, sliding his key into the lock, An evil place with evil gay drinks and Scott Hunter loudly in love with his stupid hot boyfriend who kisses him even when he records zero points on the night.

And then there was the matter of said boyfriend Kip’s potent weed pen. Being crossfaded was a magical thing, until he’d crossed the line from ‘wow, the world is beautiful’ to ‘wow, the world is tilting in slow motion.’ Ilya had begged off another round of shots under Vaughan’s influence and taken a chilly, sobering walk through Greenwich for several blocks before the worst of the spins had set in, eventually calling an Uber to ferry him the rest of the journey uptown.

He stepped unsteadily across the threshold, making his way to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water. Chugging that down and discarding the empty cup somewhere along the island, he wandered through the living area, hips swaying, and pushed open his bedroom door with a scratch of his belly and a deep groan.

It was the strangest drunken sensation he’d ever felt in his life — the whoosh that immediately followed and the sudden lightness of his limbs. Blinking in slow surprise, Ilya looked down and realized that he was, much to his chagrin, now stuck against his bedroom wall, his wrists seemingly glued on either side of him.

“Booby trap,” he whispered, giggling to himself as he tugged at his bindings.

There was a scuffling noise and Ilya looked up just in time to watch in awe as Shane Hollander literally dropped down from the ceiling.

Oh. This wasn’t Ilya’s bedroom at all.

“Ilya, fuck, are you okay?” Shane was muttering, mostly to himself, panicked and tugging at the strange, sticky cuffs around Ilya’s wrists. “Shit, fucking bioengineered amino acid bullshit. You surprised me! Idiot. Why would you just walk in here?” His hands stilled upon hearing Ilya’s next series of giggles, nose scrunching as he inhaled. “Oh. You’re drunk.”

“Not… that drunk,” Ilya argued, feeling his lips form a pout, “Just also high. And I saw you. Up there.” He moved to lift an arm to point at the ceiling, frowning at the resistance when he remembered his predicament. “Shane. Помоги мне. Why can’t I move?”

Shane huffed. He was shirtless, Ilya realized, and glistening with sweat like he’d just been working out, loose track pants riding low on his hips. Ilya licked his lips, experiencing a brief moment of sober clarity that told him to be grateful his hands couldn’t attempt to roam on their own right now. He was sure, however, that the desire to touch was plain on his face.

“I don’t really have time to explain that,” Shane was saying, as if answering a question. Huh. Had Ilya asked him one? “And given the current state of you, I’m hoping in the morning I won’t have to.”

Leaning in, Shane continued to fiddle with Ilya’s bindings, nearly full-body bracketing him as he worked. Ilya hummed happily. From up this close he could count Shane’s freckles. It was nearly enough to distract him from—

“Why are you naked? And crawling on the ceiling?”

Shane stilled, frowning. “I wasn’t on the ceiling, Ilya. Just, um, doing tuck jumps when you walked in. You must have imagined me higher up than normal.”

Ilya’s remaining active brain cells, though admittedly coated in the sweet molasses of mind-altering substance, still had him shaking his head. No, that was wrong. He’d watched Shane scurry, all four limbs connected to the plaster, like— like a…

“Spider,” Ilya murmured.

He heard Shane suck in a breath.

“Luckily we don’t get many up this high,” Shane said lightly, though the words came out stilted in his usually phonetically-precise monotone.

Ilya flexed his fingers again, rolling his wrists. He glanced over Shane’s shoulder, sleepily eyeing the queen bed and its navy blue comforter, an absurd number of decorative pillows scattered across the headboard. To its left, the window was open, light blue curtains moving in the breeze, which made him frown.

“Will you let me go now, please?” he whined, in a manner bordering on undignified, “I am tired of standing. And I will probably have to piss soon. I promise not to tell anyone you are magic or whatever.”

“Not magic, science,” Shane corrected on autopilot, and then visibly winced, “Now hold still.”

Hands free, Ilya might have saluted. “Yessir, Hollander, sir.”

“You’re impossible,” Shane murmured distractedly, as his fingers deftly picked at the silky ties.

Ilya tucked his chin down and watched the process, Shane hooking single threads over one curled pinky, while his pointer finger and thumb unspooled the woven fibers. He wasn’t untying knots so much as compressing and loosening the webbing in turn, like one of those finger trap puzzles, stretching the cuff wider until Ilya was able to slide his wrist back through.

Puzzle solved, Shane made quicker work of the other side. Holding each of Ilya's wrists in hand now, his thumbs rubbed gently over the pulse point, as if soothing chafed skin. The silky material of the trap had barely caused any friction, however, and Ilya told him as much.

“‘s’kind of nice,” Ilya murmured, drowsier by the minute, “Soft but strong.” He winked, laying it on thicker than he might have in the sober light of day. “Many… applications.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Shane spluttered, dropping Ilya’s hands. He spun away, the red blush of his cheeks spreading down to his shapely pecs as well. “You’re free now,” he mumbled, eyes at his feet, “Get out of my room.”

“Okay, you got it, sir,” Ilya said, adopting a serious expression as he stabbed a pointer finger at Shane’s bare chest, or in what he thought, swaying, was that general direction at least, “But! We are talking about… all this, in the morning.”

Shane stared back at him for a long moment before sighing again, loudly, and bodily ushering him through the door. “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, паучок,” Ilya sang back.

Shane, perhaps sensing the affection in it, [gently] slammed the door in his face.

The sound of his morning alarm snatched him violently out of REM, Ilya groaning as he rubber-banded back into a more conscious state.

He blinked, eyelids sticky with sleep, and shuddered when his hips kicked where he lay on his stomach, half-hard cock still sensitive. He rocked back and forth a bit, chasing the thread of fantasy arousal that had gotten him there.

Something about being tied up, silk scarf tight around his wrists, a large hand holding his arms above his head, and… oh, yes, powerful thighs, splayed over his own as the person rode him, taking what they needed.

“Ilya, fuck,” the voice moaned, and the sweet, low tone of it sounded so familiar to his ears.

Mmph, he mumbled, face pressed into the pillow and humped helplessly at the silky sheets beneath him, spilling without much fanfare into the fabric of his briefs.

Letting his heart rate settle, he rolled over and sucked in a breath. The memories flooded back, sights and sounds creeping in as his hungover brain rebooted, last night’s terrible puck the next item on his mental agenda. Svetlana called his pillow talk predictable. Sex and then hockey. The things he knew best.

The Kingfisher had been a sloppy affair, the Admirals losing 5-1 to the Voyageurs in their final game of the pre-season. It wasn’t a real game, of course, so the stakes were low, but they’d tested a few line combinations and a new PP1 that had completely flopped in terms of chemistry. Hunter had struggled to connect on the simplest of passes with his rookie left winger — a first round pick and supposed generational talent, who had gorgeous edge work and even prettier hands, but the current situational awareness of a horse with blinders on. And Eric Bennett in goal… sheesh. Ilya and the ATs had known since the end of last season that his hips were in rougher shape than non-invasive treatment and sports massage could mediate, yet the old man had stubbornly kept his GAA under 2.5 for two brutal rounds of playoffs, scraping by with a decent defense in front of him.

As he remembered it, Bennett had spent a good portion of the night next to Ilya on the bar stools, flirting with the twinky blond bartender in a way he probably thought was subtle and complaining to Ilya about the ephemeral nature of professional hockey careers (ouch). Ilya liked and respected Bennett and tried to be encouraging about the season just beginning, knowing he’d been diligent enough to follow the summer conditioning guidelines, never one to slip on cardio or nutrition. He’d looked a touch slower through training camp, sure, but he’d tested in the same range for all his skills, if at the lower end of average. And whatever the other coaches had seen in goalie practice had been deemed acceptable enough to keep him on as starter, eager prospects be damned. Bennett took the observations in stride with a grateful smile, though privately Ilya knew he’d be lucky to stay off IR through December.

Still, the end result had hardly been the goalie’s fault alone. Everything a little messy, nothing gelling quite right, it wasn’t the type of game you wanted to see just before the real hockey began, with most of the active Admirals’ roster on the ice and most of the Voyageurs’ too. Letting Hayden Pike of all fucking players score a hat trick was an embarrassment to the sport itself. It was in those moments, some time around goal four, that Ilya wished he was on the bench instead of watching from the suites, the type of coach that could make the calls that mattered for the wins, over slower days in the gym spent assisting the Head S&CC in designing their fitness programs.

But whatever. At least he had a job in hockey and a sponsored work visa and a team with an out gay captain and a Black head coach who gave slightly more of a shit about what the room looked like. Pity they’d gone on that incredible Stanley Cup run before Ilya had been hired, and had only scraped together one wildcard playoff appearance since.

With a stretch and a groan, Ilya starfished a bit, limbs splayed out as he let the hockey ruminations ping pong around his aching skull one last time. There was little sense in over analyzing what he couldn’t control. He could make guys faster, more powerful, and less injury-prone, but the execution was up to them.

And anyway, despite the loss, Hunter was good people, Captain enough to abandon his strict approach for a non-sanctioned night out in an attempt to boost some morale; the Kingfisher being just the sort of campy sports bar primed to accommodate the hockey herd. Ilya had quickly amassed a strong-livered European contingency, downing shots with Jalo and Andersson, until Bennett — who didn’t even drink, sly fucker — had announced he’d bought the entire bar a round of electric blue ‘Scott Hunters’. That had been strike one. And also strike two. Strike three, obviously, was whatever Devil Oil that Kip was toking on, his cutesy pink weed pen luring Ilya into a false sense of security on the Kingfisher’s back patio.

After that, the night became a beautiful blur, Ilya’s hockey brain finally letting go of the evening’s disappointment. In some ways, it was nice to fade out a bit. Ilya, once a fan — to put it lightly — of party drugs in his youth had only recently worked his way back to allowing himself some occasional recreational use. With the help of his psychiatrist, he’d tapered off his anti-depressant about two years ago, eager to try out existence with a renewed outlook on life and fewer uncomfortable side effects. He could admit, perhaps, that last night had gone a bit too far. But he’d left for home as soon as he felt his control slipping, and he’d had fun anyway, hadn’t he?

Rolling back over, he grappled for a baby wipe from the package he kept in his nightstand, cleaning himself. The only downside to a two bed, one-point-five bath apartment was that the shared bathroom nearer to Shane had the actual shower part. And in the mornings, its availability couldn’t be guaranteed since Shane usually liked to—

Wait.

In an instant, all thoughts of his roommate coalesced into a single image: Ilya pinned against Shane’s bedroom wall, Shane’s bare chest nearly pressed to his own, something warm stirring in his gut as he whined to the man in front of him.

Fuck. What the hell had he done last night?

Clearly browned out, there was no way he was in any state to actually have sex. And why was there something else nagging at him? Like some other key part of the puzzle? His headache began to throb harder at the temple, brain cells already petered out from his stupid morning hockey thoughts.

Prodding at the distorted memories, Ilya felt his eyes flicker down to his wrists.

He gasped.

There, on his right, was the glint of something in the low light.

A string, no— a strand of gossamer silk. Almost transparent and so thin you could hardly see it with the naked eye, still encircling his wrist like some sort of fucked-up bracelet. He tugged at it with his other hand, shocked by the single thread’s resistance. It was strong, stronger maybe than the real gold chain that he sometimes accessorized with — a present from Sveta when he’d been hired on by the Admirals, not even as a proper coach yet, just a sort of loose paid ‘intern’ position while they evaluated his usefulness compared to the staffing budget.

But fuck, enough of the hockey tangents. Now he had to deal with the mental load of whatever was wrong with his roommate. Who apparently climbed walls. And shot sticky stuff at intruders. And who was definitely using the fire escape to fly(?) out of their building.

Little spider, Ilya recalled now, teasing in Russian.

But that was ridiculous.

There was one Spider-Man. Once. Active in New York in the early 2000s, long before Ilya had come to the United States. As far as he knew, this Spider-Man had sort of faded into obscurity, and while there seemed to be minor superheroes cropping up here and there to replace him, they were almost always exposed as being rich guys with fancy toys and no actual special abilities.

So Shane wasn’t Spider-Man. At least not the same one? And should Ilya even make that kind of comparison? Shane had some sort of disease, didn’t he (though that was possibly part of the cover story), and the spider-like behaviors might be… side effects? He'd fought those losers outside of the bar a couple weeks ago too and gotten decently roughed up, which seemed unlikely if he had proper powers. ‘Not a hero,’ he’d told Svetlana when she’d joked about it, with enough vehemence to it that Ilya believed him.

Still, now that he’d seen evidence beyond a simple cracked window, it seemed more than reasonable to ask for a real explanation, at least. If his roommate was going to assault him every time he was jumpscared, for example, that felt like something they should talk about.

Swapping his underwear and dressing quickly, Ilya wandered out of his room, shocked when he saw Shane’s door ajar, two large suitcases open on the floor in between the entrance and the living room couch.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” he asked.

Shane startled, spinning toward him.

With a yelp, Ilya ducked sideways on instinct, executing a sort of flailing swan dive onto the sofa. Overshooting a bit, he rolled off the cushions with unhampered momentum, cracking an elbow against the coffee table on his way down.

“Ilya? What the fuck?” Shane called out, his face suddenly appearing overhead.

“I scared you,” Ilya explained, breathless, “I thought you might… do the thing again.”

Shane’s face, colored with concern, quickly shuttered. “What thing?”

Spluttering, Ilya propped himself up, elbow still smarting from the impact. “Last night! You shot me!”

“I didn’t shoot—” Shane argued, seeming to realize his mistake at the instant rebuttal.

“Do not use your semantics on me,” Ilya fought back, blood pressure rising, “You glued me to the wall!”

“Ilya,” Shane said flatly, doing an impressive job at recovering his composure, “You must have hit your head with that crazy leap just now. You were very intoxicated last night and you came into my room, but all I did was help you back to bed.”

“Oh bullshit!” Ilya protested, rising to stand, “Do not make me do the whole Twilight song and dance with you.”

Shane, mouth already open to argue, faltered on his next words. “The what?”

Ilya flapped his hands. “Like in the vampire movie, Shane? I say ‘I know what you are’ like Bella, and then Edward goes ‘say it’ and then she correctly guesses that very pale guy she has crush on is a hundred year old monster!”

Shane blinked. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“I— you are missing the point!”

Shane looked properly irritated now. “Yeah? Then get to it!”

Ilya stalked closer, watching Shane fight to keep a neutral expression, Adam’s apple bobbing at the proximity. “You are the neatest, smartest, most disciplined person I know.”

“…Okay?”

“Yet you constantly leave window open. At first, I was not so suspicious of this. I made excuses in my mind for you. Like, it would be crazy to assume you are using fire escape instead of front door.”

“I use the front door!” Shane protested, “You’ve seen me.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, “and if that were the only thing, maybe I don’t look closer. But then you get injured. Fighting off those men, so you say.” He reached up to touch the space above Shane’s brow, skin smooth and unblemished, not missing the way that Shane trembled. “And the very next morning you are healed.”

“It’s my… medications. For my condition,” Shane tried, leaning away, “Quick recovery.”

“Nope,” Ilya dismissed, “I do not believe you. And that is because last night I come home, a little fucked up, but not so fucked up I do not wake up remembering you were on the ceiling, and—” he touched each wrist, before presenting the one with the webbed band as irrefutable evidence, “that you shot me. Pinned me up like butterfly on display.”

Shane opened his mouth again, though his tired posture verged on resignation.

Ilya quickly cut in. “Last night I called you паучок. Do you know what this means?”

Shane closed his mouth, shook his head.

“Little spider,” Ilya answered, taking another step closer, “Tell me, Shane. Is that what you are?”

Shane’s eyes fell shut for a moment, his chest heaving with the force of his inhale. “Not… exactly.” His eyes reopened, gaze hardening, “And it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Why?”

Shane gestured to his bags. “Because I’m moving out.”

Ilya froze, taking a step back in surprise. “What? Why?”

Shane sighed. “Clearly I can’t control myself around you. And you knowing… whatever it is you think you know puts you in danger. And that’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Ilya blurted, “What is fair about breaking sublease agreement? Leaving me without roommate? You are supposed to give one month notice.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane said, “And I am. I’ll pay the next month’s rent. I’m just also going to move out earlier than that.”

“Shane, what? I don’t understand?” Ilya questioned, the conversation threads spooling out chaotically around him, “This is so sudden. You still have school. Where will you stay?”

“I have other friends, Ilya.”

The use of the word ‘friend’ made Ilya’s chest hurt. He’d never known if Shane considered him as such.

“Okay, but why danger?” he asked, feeling frantic, “Are you… do you hurt people? Do they hurt you?”

“Only the bad ones,” Shane said plainly, wincing, “And I don’t always like that part. I was never much of a fighter in hockey either, but… sometimes it’s necessary.” His expression sobered. “And it’s dangerous because the kind of forces I’m fighting against… they might try to come after the people close to me.”

“So you are a hero,” Ilya argued, “You are like Spider-Man.”

As with Svetlana before, Shane looked properly irritated at that comparison. “No,” he said harshly, “I mean, I thought I was, maybe. That’s why I came to New York. So that Pe— he could mentor me. Teach me what the hell I even am. But he’s not like me at all.”

“Shane, slow down,” Ilya said, a little desperate now. He certainly hadn’t meant for his confrontation to lead to this. “Can you please explain everything to me? Before you leave? And if you still feel this way after we talk, I will help you pack.”

Shane hesitated, clearing weighing the value of divulging more secret superhero details. “I’ve… never told anyone the whole truth before.”

“So tell me,” Ilya proposed, bargaining now, “And I will tell you something almost no one knows too. We can go secret for secret.”

After some visible deliberation, Shane sighed in a way that Ilya knew meant victory. “Let’s… sit down.”

They moved to the couch, hovering on each cushion as far apart as possible.

“Everything you know about me is true,” Shane said, picking at the thready cushion hem. “I’m Canadian, born in 1991, and I used to be an elite hockey player. I was drafted in the first round by the Voyageurs, played out my rookie season on their third line. And I did get sick at nineteen, before I could start the next season’s training camp. They put me on LTIR and then eventually dropped me entirely, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to recover.”

“What were you sick with? That made you like a spider?”

Shane shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, exactly. It started as joint pain in my knee, nothing weird for a hockey player. But things worsened. Eventually they realized I had an aggressive form of bone cancer.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya blurted, “I am sorry for accusing you. I thought this part was the lie.”

“You weren’t wrong, though,” Shane said gently, “The doctors weren’t optimistic about my chances at keeping my leg, or even surviving, given how quickly the cancer had spread. But they started me on chemo and we all just… hoped. My parents, they have this place on a lake, kind of middle of nowhere, and they took me up there during a break in the treatments, just so I could be out in nature or whatever. I was in a wheelchair then since I couldn’t walk on my own anymore.”

Ilya felt his chest constrict at the thought, remembering how even his temporary hospitalization and time off the ice had felt as a teenager, the visceral urge to claw his way back to the only thing he really knew.

Shane, continuing his story, visibly shivered before he delivered the next part. “I was sitting outside with my mom and dad on the dock, watching the sunset. And that’s when it bit me.”

“What?” Ilya asked, horrified.

“The dock spider,” Shane said, holding up a hand in size, “Huge fuckers. Really common in cottage country.” He shrugged. “My mom totally freaked out, was calling my medical team for advice, even though their bite isn’t really venomous. More like a bee sting. Still, they made all the preparations to get me back to Ottawa where I was being treated. But, and I swear this is true, an hour or so later, as they started packing up the cottage, I stood up.”

Ilya gaped at him. “You stood up?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. And then… I got better. Total remission. Everyone chalked it up to successful chemo. A miracle. Six months later, I started to train again, on my own, thinking I could re-sign with my agent, get to a camp on PTO and play pro again.”

“And why didn’t you?”

Shane’s smile was wry, though tinged sadder at the edges. “I was too good.”

“What?”

“I never really believed it was the chemo that cured me. I hid it from my parents, still do, but the pain from the bite the night it happened was excruciating. I remember writhing in bed, feverish and swollen, and certain I could feel something… shifting beneath my skin. I don’t think that was just any spider.”

“A super spider,” Ilya whispered, thoughts going a mile a minute, “Radioactive, maybe. Like animals near Chernobyl.”

“That’s what I think,” Shane said, a pinched line developing between his brows, “And it not only healed me, it… it changed me. The first thing I noticed was a crazy predictive sense for things. Like, yeah, my hockey IQ was always strong, but this … I was basically running logic-based hockey programming too fast to even play with others properly. Suddenly everything felt so slow and… obvious. I would scrimmage a bit with local guys, OHL and AHL, like real proper players, and get frustrated being too many steps ahead of the play. And it didn’t help that I was faster on my skates too, a lot faster. I had to hold myself back so that it wasn’t noticeable.”

“Like Dash, in The Incredibles,” Ilya said, groaning when Shane looked at him blankly. If he could convince Shane not to move out, they would be having a 2000s movie night soon.

“And then there was the strength thing,” Shane added, “I was never much of a physical player, but I was suddenly checking guys off their feet with the smallest amount of contact. I dislocated a guy’s shoulder and it freaked me out so bad I started playing even worse, terrified to touch anyone for fear I’d injure them permanently.”

“Jesus,” Ilya whispered, mind going a mile a minute, “But you were not still tempted? It sounds like you could have been unstoppable. Greatest player ever.”

Shane looked devastated as he admitted, “I loved hockey. Obviously, I still do. But it didn’t feel like me playing anymore. I didn’t want an advantage. I wanted to be the best and know that I’d earned it. And the publicity scared me too. Imagining all the inspirational stories about me as a cancer kid turned hockey phenom was already a lot. But I held onto the dream for a bit, thinking that the side effects might wear off one day. Or that I could learn to control them perfectly. But even now, I can still struggle with that, especially with strong or unexpected emotions.” His eyes flicked down to Ilya’s wrists. “As you accidentally found out.”

Ilya laughed, and then felt crazy for feeling so casual about the whole My Roommate is a Spider thing. “And so… the toxicology degree?”

“An excuse to get to New York,” Shane said simply, “And I do like science, like ochem was my jam at university, and I also enjoy doing the work to try to understand what might have happened to me. How radioactivity can alter human DNA via different types of exposure. But really I needed a reason to be in the U.S. and it was easiest to get a student visa. Then I sought out Spider-Man.”

“He has not been active in a long time,” Ilya remarked, “Basically New York folklore by now.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Shane agreed, frown deepening, “He was retired, he told me. He looked… kind of awful to be honest. Total bachelor pad dump. But I wanted to learn more about my powers, from the only person who appeared to have similar ones. As I said though, he’s not like me at all.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “He was not bit by spider?”

“He was,” Shane said, “In a fancy lab. But… I don’t know. It just… kind of made him smarter. Like super, super intelligent. Not many biological effects. And he used that intelligence to recreate spider technology. Don’t, um, tell anyone I said this but… most of his powers aren’t super. He just uses mechanical inventions to enhance his abilities. Like his web shooters. They only mimic the type of protein structure that spiders use in their silk, but he doesn’t have like… actual spinnerets. Not like I do at least.”

“Spinneret?” Ilya questioned, “I do not know this word.”

“It’s, um, where the silk is stored and… squirts out from,” Shane explained, “Spiders have them in the abdomen.”

Ilya couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted downward.

Shane gasped, going pink. “No, eww, oh my god! Mine are in my forearms.”

He held his arm above his head, two fingers of said hand pressed together like Spock, and then bent those same fingers to his palm. Directing his gaze upward, a thick braided rope of white silk shot out, and Shane — calmly, his legs still criss-crossed — grabbed the silk with his free hand and proceeded to hoist himself half a meter off of the couch cushion.

Ilya gaped up at him.

“Strong as steel,” Shane said with a smile, “Or, well, some types at least.”

“And that… does not hurt you?” Ilya asked.

Shane frowned. “Um, not usually. But it can, if I’m sick and/or low on production. It depends a lot on health and nutrition. I’d probably eat clean anyway, but I do especially because of the web stuff.”

“The type you used on me,” Ilya asked, watching Shane lower back down, a little nauseous with the way the rope-like silk seemed to retract back into the crease where palm met wrist, “It was not… attached to you.”

“No,” Shane affirmed, “There are different types and strengths. It’s a chemical makeup thing and I can control that, if I’m paying attention. The kind of sticky blob trap I hit you with is one I don’t use often. Usually to stop an assailant. It’s, as you noticed last night, kind of a bitch to untangle.”

Ilya laughed, then blushed, remembering once again the feeling of Shane leaning over him. And how he’d sort of gotten off to that sensation just this morning. Fuck, wait. He’d been on his way to shower. Could Shane—

“And your other senses?” he ventured, suddenly very concerned that he smelled like cum to his spider roommate, and what a brand new fucking sentence that was. “Are they… enhanced?”

Shane hummed. “Vision, a bit. I used to wear glasses. But not much else.”

“Smell?” Ilya blurted.

“What? No?” Shane said, laughing, “I’m not a dog. Spiders don’t even have noses.” He hummed thoughtfully. “I mean, they do use their leg hair to detect sex pheromones in the air, so it’s kind of smelling in a chemical sense, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t inherent that power. Would have made university really weird.”

Ilya gulped, panicked heart rate slowing just a bit at the admission.

“And, as far as we know, it’s how male spiders smell interested females, anyway,” Shane continued, cracking a wry smile as he stayed oblivious to Ilya’s morning wood turmoil, “I think I would have noticed that effect around human women by now, if women did anything for me.”

Ilya’s mouth was sort of permanently stuck open at this point in the conversation, aghast at just how many truths were being web-blasted at him in a single morning.

“They… don’t?” he asked, thinking back to his hookups giggling with Shane at breakfast.

“Ilya, I’m gay,” Shane deadpanned, “Haven’t you been poking fun at that with your fake flirting this whole time?”

“Fake flirting?” Ilya spluttered, shocked at the fact that he was now having a discussion about their sexualities in the midst of finding out his roommate was biologically an arachnid. Could spiders even be gay?

Shane stared at him incredulously. “Wait, you were going all true detective on my spidey abilities, but I didn’t ping your gaydar. Like, at all?”

Ilya scoffed. “Okay, that is not fair. Obviously I did not ping yours either.”

Shane jerked so hard that he kicked the coffee table, letting out a pained yelp. Ilya leaned forward, concerned, but Shane waved him off, crossing his legs again and massaging at his big toe. “You’re gay?”

Ilya frowned. “Well no, not fully. The girls and I are having a very good time, I promise. But I am bisexual, yes. It’s not a secret.”

Shane opened and closed his mouth so many times he looked like some sort of hand puppet. “And the flirting?”

“You are hot,” Ilya said, suddenly nervous, “You know this.”

“You think I’m hot? You. With all your…” Shane waved his hands up and down, gesturing wildly at Ilya’s body.

Ah, interesting. Ilya recovered, smirking a little. “My…?”

“Nope,” Shane said abruptly, jumping to his feet, “Not doing this. I’m supposed to be moving out.”

“Shaaane,” Ilya whined, making grabby air hands at him, “Why would you do that? I won’t tell anyone you are a spider. And I won’t flirt with you anymore either, if it makes you uncomfortable. We can be friends and roommates, like before. But now you don’t have to be so sneaky with your window and your bleeding everywhere.”

Shane paused. “It’s not you, Ilya. It’s, fuck… it’s me.” He cringed at the obvious cliche. “I’ve been meddling too much with organized crime in the city. I only ever meant to stop petty stuff here and there, like those guys bothering that girl outside of the bar. But I’m in some dark shit now. I… care about you, you know. I don’t want you involved.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You think I do not know corruption? Or violence? My whole family in Russia was military police.”

Shane’s eyes widened a little, but he shook his head. “I should really go. I was planning to, honestly, even before you found out about the spider stuff. I’m serious about not wanting you in danger.”

“And if you go stay with these friends you claim, are you not risking them too?” Ilya asked.

Shane shuffled his feet on the carpet. “I guess, yeah, but I was planning to just couch surf a little. I have some savings too, and my parents would help me out, so… I thought about looking at AirBnbs or cheap motels, even. Or someone subletting their whole place.” He shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. “It’s New York, Ilya. There are options.”

“Fine, so you move out,” Ilya said, crossing his arms over his chest, “But then who is looking out for you? What if you are hurt again? What if you go missing? You can risk your life for others, but what? We are not supposed to care?”

Shane shrugged. “You’ve seen the movies. That’s kind of what being a superhero is like. Lonely.”

“Bullshit,” Ilya argued, “Let me risk it.”

Shane stared at him for a long moment. “No,” he said plainly, and then, “You know, the Spider-Man I spoke to told me ‘with great power, comes great responsibility’ and he was right. He had a family once, Ilya. Friends, a woman he loved. He couldn’t protect them.”

“I am not asking you to protect me, Shane,” Ilya argued, though admittedly his efforts were waning, “I am just asking you to stay.”

“I can’t,” Shane repeated, emphatically, but his eyes looked a little moist.

There was another prolonged silence between them, gazes locked on each other across the room.

“Okay,” Ilya replied, nodding, “but can you stay until the end of the month? Three weeks? I will not make you pay for next month even, so you have more funds for your new place.”

“You don’t have to do that, Ilya,” Shane said, but he’d stopped in his tracks nonetheless, “I signed the sublease agreement. I’ll adhere to it.”

Ilya looked at him, smile creeping back onto his lips. “That was not a no on the first part though.”

Shane sagged a little. “I mean, I have been working myself to the bone between classes and crime fighting… It would be nice to rest for a bit and not have to, like, hide my nature at home. I’ll still try to find a place earlier though, and move out in stages instead of a chaotic all at once thing.”

Ilya couldn’t help himself, executing several air punches of victory.

Shane smiled back at him, small but present enough to have Ilya feeling optimistic.

“So now that you can be more open about this,” Ilya mused, “we can be proper friends, yes? And even after you leave, maybe? Stay in touch?”

“Maybe,” Shane murmured, “We could text. When I determine it’s safe enough.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, knowing that might be all the promise he would get, “And if you are in trouble, you can come to me. Always.”

“I won’t,” Shane argued back stubbornly, posture prickling.

“Just let me say it, Shane,” Ilya said, patting the cushion next to him, “Makes me feel better, more useful.”

Shane hesitated. “You’re really okay with this? With me being… mutant? And like, weird?”

Ilya laughed. “You have been weird since you moved in four months ago and not because of spider stuff. I am just happy to have explanation for weirdest parts.”

He patted the cushion again, insistent.

“Now sit back down. I will shower and make us lunch. And then I have at least three RPatz movies to make you watch.”

Chapter 3

“Don’t you have work?” Shane asked him, fifty minutes into New Moon.

His dark hair was a little mussed in the back, sticking up in a way that made Ilya’s heart thump stupidly in his chest. They’d drifted a bit closer together in the time spent movie watching, the early October chill enough to pull out a big throw blanket, which necessitated the proximity for sharing. He slid one hand under his thigh, tempted as he’d been to reach out and smooth Shane’s hair down with a wet lick of his thumb.

Ilya shook his head. “Nope. Team is on the road until Thursday and my next rehab check-in with one of the guys on LTIR is tomorrow morning. I am totally free.”

Shane nodded, one socked foot brushing against Ilya’s calf for a moment. He gestured at the screen. “I think Bella has a death wish.”

Ilya smiled and bit his lip, knowing they’d yet to reach the specific scene that would prove Shane exactly right.

“Most crazy, hot people do,” he deadpanned, then tossed in an impulsive, “especially when we were teenagers.”

He felt Shane tense at the words, eyeing Ilya now with lingering suspicion.

“Is the secret you mentioned about hockey too?” Shane asked, tone gentle in a way that pricked at Ilya’s hatred for being pitied, “I remember your tapes. I must have been thirteen or fourteen when they first told me about this Russian phenom. But you disappeared well before the draft. Didn’t come to World Juniors like you were meant to.”

Ilya swallowed, eyes cutting away. He should have known that Mr. Hockey Encyclopedia would have recognized his name. “Yes, well, I wanted to disappear. That was the goal. Permanently, if possible.”

With a gasp, Shane was on him in an instant, Ilya choking out curses as two spider-powered biceps curled around him and squeezed him like a paint tube. His insides warmed at the contact, in spite of his protests, and he had the briefly terrible vision of a bite from Shane turning him into slurpable soup. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Shane, паучок, please,” he gasped out, scrabbling at Shane’s limbs, “I am fine now. Was a long time ago and I got the help I needed. Maybe in NHL as player I would not have, so… It’s a happy ending.”

After another moment, Shane detached himself and leaned back, cheeks pink as he rearranged the blanket around them.

“I’m glad I found this apartment listing,” Shane said, unembellished, “And that you’re here.”

Ilya, though he would swear against it, felt himself go pinkish too, the sheer earnestness of the words clawing at the walls of his Slavic stoicism.

“Oh, we should get that off,” Shane suddenly blurted, fingers reaching out to touch at the silvery twist of silk around Ilya’s wrist.

Shoving his hand under the blankets like a dog burying its favorite toy, Ilya replied, “Leave it.” Then, embarrassed by the raw sentimentality, added, “I will need an item of yours to give to the witch-for-hire.”

“The witch?”

Ilya nodded solemnly. “Yes. Two Etsy curses, I think. One for protection and one for eternal friendship.”

Shane’s face did something complicated. “Those don’t sound like curses at all.”

“Oh?” Ilya questioned, raising an eyebrow, “I thought they would be most terrible fate, for man planning to abandon me by November.”

The eye roll he received in return was lethal.

“Three weeks is plenty of time,” Shane assured him, “And I’ll still be in the city, at least through the end of my degree program.” He looked at Ilya, smile wicked. “Drama queen, as always.”

Under the blankets, Ilya kicked at him first, huffing aloud, then shifted to press the edges of their socked feet together.

Wordlessly, Shane’s foot nudged him back.

On screen, Bella Swan, that romantic idiot, was jumping off a cliff.

Three weeks was not plenty of time, Ilya thought, two rehab assignments cropping up on the Admirals roster that took up most of his days for the first week or so after their Twilight marathon. And Shane’s schedule looked even worse, midterms and lab assignments piling up, made obviously tougher by the fact that he wasn’t sleeping much, if at all — the call of late night crime always beckoning.

It was sweet then, how they seemed to be in agreement that every spare hour belonged to each other.

Being Shane Hollander’s friend, properly, was glorious and torturous all in one, with the way the exposed secret had catapulted his true personality out in the open. No longer silently creeping around the apartment, meek except in the briefest of moments when Ilya had caught him off guard, Ilya knew now that he had the real Shane all to himself.

And the real Shane was, much to his unending delight, kind of an asshole.

His hockey opinions were bitchy and brutal and unforgiving, that once-famed IQ picking apart every game they watched with incisive commentary. He’d even started texting in their roommate chat — formerly a one-sided string of messages from Ilya about bringing girls over with a thumbs-up reaction from Shane — and sent a flurry of live coverage when Ilya was down at the arena too.

‘You know I do not control the play-making,’ Ilya had texted back once, pleased as punch when Shane had replied with a simple, ‘Someday you will.’

One thing Ilya did control, however, was his access to comp tickets, and he’d smuggled Shane into the box at MSG with ease, watching endless sets of curious eyes linger on the handsome man in the Centaurs jersey, BOODRAM printed across the back with a signature proudly displayed in one of the red number patches. The attention only intensified after puck drop, Shane rattling off his nonstop hockey analysis — and heckling, loudly — with such passion that a few corporate suits in the buffet area had joked about ‘getting this kid a job on the bench.’ The Admirals had faced an embarrassing and preventable loss to Ottawa in OT, but Shane had smiled so big and thanked him so profusely for the experience on the A train home that it had Ilya questioning his own professional loyalties.

And then there was the matter of the powers. At home at least, Shane had become more open about his abilities (though he still kept the exact nature of how he used them for crime fighting to himself). This left Ilya constantly buzzing with interest, the perfect recipient for what basically became daily arachnid fun facts. Like, it turned out Shane’s hands felt rough due to the prickly little hairs on his palms and fingertips — ‘kind of like scopulae,’ Shane explained — which were what allowed him to cling to surfaces with ease. And the whole window thing? Merely a result of his spidey sense premonitions, Shane feeling compelled to get to a mugging scene or an oncoming car crash or even simple after school bullying as fast as possible and with an almost mindless compulsion. A single tingle at the brain stem meant donning the mask or his black Centaurs hoodie if he was really in a pinch, and then swoosh, right out the opening, too quick to close it behind him.

Sensing that Shane was secretly a competitive show off, Ilya challenged him often too, throwing objects his way to watch him shoot them down with his blobby web traps; and, leaning out the bedroom window, hands braced on the railing of the fire escape, he timed Shane doing increasingly elaborate laps around their neighborhood, a dark silhouette on a near-invisible cord streaking through the Harlem skies.

“You should have a suit,” Ilya told Shane one day, The Incredibles playing on the television in front of them. He felt a bit like Edna Mode, dismayed at Shane’s now default superhero outfit being a navy blue CCM compression top, dark gray Lululemon joggers, and a loosely fitted spandex balaclava. “Oh, and a cool mask! I bet Sveta knows some design people who might take custom order. Or you could ask Old Spider-Man where he got his back in the day?”

“A suit feels like a full time branding commitment,” Shane argued back, face contorting at the thought, “Think of the laundry. And they’re so… clingy.”

“Yes,” Ilya said dreamily, laughing when Shane tackled him, no longer so touch adverse now that their mutually queer secret was out of the way too, and slapped a wet glob of webbing over his mouth like duct tape.

Ha. And that was where the most torturous part of being Shane’s friend came into play.

Ilya, never one to shy away from his kinks, and service toppy enough to explore most things with his partners at least once, was pretty sure he had, erm, a new Thing. For bondage, specifically. If his increasingly detailed dreams were any indication. An interest which was helped very little by Shane’s newfound delight in basically turning their home into a carnival-style haunted house, including a few legitimate booby traps that had resulted in Ilya dangling, or tied up, or otherwise in some very specific predicament that left Shane giggling and Ilya so hard in his pants from the combination of silky pressure and shame that he was lightheaded.

The most recurrent of the dream fantasies — stuck against Shane’s wall again, limbs all bound, with nothing but his cock exposed and free for the taking — had him waking most mornings, hard as steel (or, spider silk, apparently) and so flooded with guilt that he found it difficult to look Shane in the eye right away. Thinking with his dick was nothing new to Ilya, obviously, and he liked to imagine he objectified his hot roommate with the same quiet respect he’d always done. But, god if the gorgeous cockslut of his dreams didn’t feel like a violent contrast to the [equally gorgeous] bratty man in his apartment who kept serving him protein pancakes with a smile, hogging the couch blankets, and doing silly spidey tricks just to make him laugh when Ilya returned home dejected from another Admirals loss.

But it really was more than the possibility of sex, wasn’t it? With Shane free and funny and full of life, the crush was becoming seismic. Untenable. And Shane was still planning to leave.

He reviewed his spreadsheet with Ilya often, the many apartments on his list, along with hotel options, plus storage, and shorter term rentals. He was careful not to reveal the addresses, arguing that any knowledge Ilya might have about his whereabouts would be too dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. The process was as meticulously researched as Shane treated everything else, and it was kind of, lowkey breaking Ilya’s heart.

The days counted down, one week swept away in the crisp October air: they went on their gym not-dates, watched an entire backlog of movies that had never entered Shane’s cultural zeitgeist, and cooked meals together whenever their schedules aligned. Ilya was the happy bearer of flash cards for Shane’s grad school study sessions, and occasionally read through complex assignments and essays ‘just to vibe check’ as Shane called it, though he’d warned Shane that he was definitely unqualified to be an English copy-editor. Shane asked Ilya about a million questions a day in general, actually, which was such a contrast to their months’ long silent waltz that Ilya, overly talkative himself, thought Shane might just be indulging him. Sweet and chatty in the interim, knowing he’d soon be free from Ilya’s pathetically swooning clutches.

“I just like to hear your opinion on things,” Shane told him instead, when Ilya finally worked up the nerve to ask if he was being annoying, gaze so fond it warmed Ilya down to his socks.

“Partly because everything sounds good in your voice.” Voice, not accent, Ilya considered with a reddening face, and then promptly burrowed under the couch blankets, ignoring the way Shane giggled at him from the kitchen. “And also because you’re very, very smart. And thoughtful. And kind of bitchy, in a funny way. Who wouldn’t want to converse with you?”

Ilya, still safe in his blanket cave of darkness, refrained from giving Shane a list: most of his family, living and especially dead, a good chunk of old hockey teammates, and many of his former subletters included. Probably his therapist now too, each time Ilya grumbled at her assessment of ‘abandonment trauma’ in relation to his current roommate crisis and unstable childhood.

He imagined it sometimes, how things might have been different if he had figured out Shane’s secret from the jump, if he’d paid just a little closer attention, forced the conversation earlier… Would he have been blessed with this version of Shane for five whole months, instead of barely one? But then again, Shane spooked so easily, it might have been just as likely to drive him away, out the window, forever.

And besides, Ilya wasn’t sure that five months would have felt like enough time either. He yearned for years and years of Shane Hollander in his spaces, supposed ‘dangers’ be damned. It was madness — this whole thing, strange and new and brutal in scope. Lusting was nothing to Ilya; it was the wanting that puzzled him. He wanted this new Spider-Man to tell his ‘great responsibilities’ to fuck right off before he opted into a loneliness he didn’t deserve.

Instead, three weeks into October, Shane wasn’t resting at all. He was getting bolder, stopping higher profile crimes and depositing silk-cocooned Big Bads on the NYPD’s doorstep like the morning paper. And speaking of, the city’s news teams clamored for him now, New York’s long lost hero back in the form of a bright young protégé, waving from the top of a skyscraper in his ‘relatable’ athleisure. Shane ignored the media, for the most part, identity still well protected, and told Ilya to cut out the teasing about Spider-Man Junior. ‘Not a hero, just Shane,’ became his mantra in the apartment, and Ilya wondered if Shane realized how far he was drifting from himself with the cognitive dissonance. Spidey Shane felt compelled to use his powers for good, and yet the more he used them, the more fearfully aware of the city’s dark underbelly he became. And that fear was driving him away from Ilya, from his schoolwork and hobbies, and far, far from the original goal of simply understanding himself.

Ironically, only Ilya seemed to recognize what brutal work the crime fighting actually was, waiting up for Shane most nights, sick with worry until the exhausted superhero curled into his side on the couch with a contented hum that vibrated Ilya to his core. He’d turned down an invitation to travel on an extended roadie out west with the team even, despite having a real fondness for the PNW and the scenic views of Utah and Colorado, and let the bags under his eyes darken with each passing day.

Late that very night, in fact, he watched Shane swing in from the fire escape, grin bright in spite of the blood leaking from his lips, and thought ‘we both know when you leave that I will never see you again.’ He performed their little routine anyway: patched Shane up on the kitchen stool with more borrowed medical supplies, accepted his invitation to watch a movie knowing Shane would fall asleep five minutes in, and let his tired little spider curl up against his side, their limbs tangling web-like under the blankets between them.

Stirring awake some hours later, Ilya glanced down at where Shane’s shirt had rucked up in his fitful sleep, purple-black contusions still marring his ribs. He stroked a hand over each bruise, knowing they would heal by morning, and wondered what exactly he was good for.

All too soon it was Shane’s final night in the apartment, the last of the boxes for the movers in a stack near the front door.

Ilya felt so raw he might as well have shed his skin, just loose organs and bones for something predatory to devour. He thought, again, of becoming Shane’s spidery soup — like some sort of twisted last meal. Surely it would be peaceful, wrapped in silk like he dreamed about, the world going dark until Shane’s imaginary fangs slipped through, paralyzing him with venom before he simply dissolved into nothing at all.

Christ, he thought, stirring the pot on the stove. His therapist would have a field day with that one.

They were doing a simple pasta night, Shane allegedly returning soon from class — a whole crime fighting free day, unless he somehow managed to stumble into something on the walk back. Which, with the whole spidey sense thing, was more likely to happen than not. Ilya would keep the burner on low just in case, knowing Shane would be starving if he got home much later after a real fight.

‘Home’ Ilya realized with a wince. He’d have to stop thinking that. Shane would have a new home soon. Or a series of disconnected safe houses across the city at least.

Twenty minutes later and Shane came in through the front door, an act which Ilya found kind of performatively silly now, though Shane claimed that web-swinging with the backpack on was an obnoxious sensation. He called out a greeting, hearing the familiar jingle of Shane’s keys dropping into the bowl, before a pair of hands arrived to clasp at his shoulders, Shane hooking his chin over Ilya’s left side to peer down at the tomato sauce as it bubbled.

“Hello, Ilya,” Shane said, spinning away.

“Hello, Shane.” He tried not to choke on the words, embarrassed by how sad he would be not to say them again like this.

“Shall I set the table?”

“Please.”

Setting the table involved little more than adding plates and cutlery to the kitchen island, but Ilya knew by now that Shane just liked to feel involved, uncomfortable with acts of service without his own contribution. A predictably heroic mindset. Ugh.

Ilya plated up their food and they dined side-by-side, ignoring for now the massive elephant in the room between them. Shane chatted for a long time about a suspected trade for the Centaurs, his evil biostatistics professor whose midterm scores averaged below 40 percent, and how he’d halted a bodega catnapping over lunch (‘She was a Calico called Pickles, Ilya, isn’t that fucking adorable? Look, here, I took a picture with her in my mask’).

The couch was the natural next stop, the final movie in the Twilight series cued up as a ‘last roommate hurrah’ as Shane had called it. Ilya wanted to puke thinking about Breaking Dawn, Part 2 and the battle against a corrupt vampiric government or whatever. It really was sickening, how much he felt like Carlisle’s severed head, rolling in the snow, but without the reprieve of the fake vision reveal. Just sad and dead, in the permanent sense. Like the worst possible ending of a choose your own adventure book.

As expected, Shane fell asleep part way through, snuffling into Ilya’s shoulder until he slumped over entirely, head finding its way into Ilya’s lap. It was muscle memory by now to reach for the remote and turn the television volume down to a low hum, letting his own eyelids flutter shut as he felt Shane’s body rise and fall to the rhythm of his breathing.

An hour later, credits rolling, Shane blinked awake to Ilya’s hand in his hair, big brown eyes gazing upward as he practically purred at the contact.

“Mmm, that feels really nice,” he murmured, mouth tilting into a sleepy smile.

Ilya, heart aching, smiled back and scratched lightly at Shane’s scalp. “You should go to bed soon, little spider. Big day tomorrow.”

It was true and yet the wrong thing to say, with the way that Shane’s face seemed to crumple. He rolled sideways, face pressed into Ilya’s stomach, and groaned out a childish ‘don’t wanna’ into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Shane, it was your idea,” Ilya said, fighting against the fondness that threatened in the back of his throat, “You booked movers for seven after doing all that research on…” He put on his best Shane Hollander impression, adding finger quotation marks for: “… optimal morning traffic patterns.”

There was another minute of grumbling, and then Shane was rolling away again, propping himself up to a seat as he sucker punched Ilya square in the chest with his non sequitur: “Um, so I noticed you haven’t had anyone over in a bit. At all, really.”

Ilya scrubbed at his face, dreading the honest answer but giving it anyway. “Well, I have not wanted to spend nights with anybody else. I have this very needy roommate, you know? And he has never seen a single popular movie. Basically I am tutoring him to be cooler.”

He smiled when the quip made Shane reach out and shove at him as intended.

“But don’t you miss it?” Shane asked, leaning forward a little. He lowered his voice, as if the ‘it’ in question was a terrible secret. “You know… sex?”

“I have hands, Shane,” Ilya said, laughing a little. There might have been something in the air then, a sparking tension, but he was too bruised by his sorry pining to pay it much mind. “Do you? You have not brought men home either, busy spider.”

“Do I miss sex?” Shane echoed, tongue tracing his bottom lip, “Of course I do. I had a sort-of boyfriend in university but I spent a long, long time avoiding actual sex before I had more control. I was worried I would— Poof.” He pressed his hands together and spread them back out shoulder-wide, a perfectly intact orb web between them. “I still don’t like sleeping with strangers, just in case they do something unpredictable. But, um, I have needs. Obviously.”

Ilya chuckled, karate chopping straight through the web’s purposefully fragile silk just to make Shane laugh. “Yes, I can see how that might scare the boys off. Maybe you could keep the balaclava on?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I have seen some scenes like this online.”

Shane frowned and frowned, though Ilya could see he was thinking hard with the way his brows curved down cartoonishly. Ilya waggled his own eyebrows in response and smirked, intent on soaking up every last bit of Shane’s attention before he disappeared.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Shane bemoaned, looking genuinely disturbed by the fact, “Why does that do it for me?”

And then he swung a leg over, dropped his full weight onto Ilya’s thighs, and ducked his head, sealing his lips against Ilya’s sharp inhale of surprise.

It took about a half second too long to realize that Shane Hollander, literal man of his dreams, was kissing him; in that time, Shane had started to pull back, wearing an expression like a scolded puppy, the start of an apology on his lips. Which was, obviously, unacceptable.

“No, fuck, come here,” Ilya groaned, and got one hand around Shane’s waist to tug him closer, the other coming up to cradle his cheek.

He guided Shane’s mouth to his own, both of them sinking into the kiss with twin exhales of relief. It was sweet, almost tender, until it wasn’t — one hard grind of Shane’s ass against his half-hard cock turning it into a frenzy. Hands scrambling everywhere, tongue threading through the seam of Shane’s lips to finally, properly taste him, Ilya was sure the exhaustion had caught up to him, that his vivid dreams were teasing him worse than ever with the sound of Shane’s low whimpers so real in his ears. A hand snuck its way between them, Shane’s prickly fingers finding the edge of Ilya’s waistband and slipping down, down, down. Ilya felt the first brush of contact against his cock like a bolt of fucking lightning, more curses flowing out of him in Russian and English alike.

“Want to…” Shane was huffing out, pausing to lick into Ilya’s mouth again like a man possessed, “Want us to come together.”

Ilya groaned, head spinning. “Fuck, yeah, yes. The lube is—”

“No,” Shane cut in, rolling his own joggers down over his hips and freeing himself from the elastic waistband of his briefs, shifting so that he and Ilya were now blissfully skin on skin.

He took them both in hand, performed two perfunctory, experimental strokes that had Ilya’s breath catching in his throat, and then — seeming to think better of it — slid down to his knees on the carpet. He spit on the cock in front of him with a confidence that made a flare of irrational jealousy bloom in Ilya’s chest, wondering with irritation the type of guys that Shane must have practiced on… and how long he’d dated that college boyfriend of his. Undeserving, all of them, given they had seen Shane Hollander like this, mouth open and panting with want, and still let him go.

You are not any different, his traitorous mind supplied, which was unfair and hurtful and, worst of all, true.

All earthly thoughts quickly departed, however, as Shane nudged at Ilya to lift his thighs, tugging his pants farther down until his bare ass was pressed to the cushion and he could spread his legs the slightest bit to accommodate. With a pleased wiggle, like his restaurant order had just arrived at the table, Shane leaned forward and took Ilya into his mouth in one smooth motion. It was sloppy but in a purposeful way, saliva leaking wet from the corners of Shane’s lips as he choked around Ilya’s girth, eyes rolling back a little when the head of Ilya’s cock hit the soft lining at the back of his throat.

It was the most studied blowjob Ilya had ever received, Shane clearly going through a multivariate analysis of suction power and tongue use and attention to tip. The process was so very Shane in its approach that it had Ilya fighting an idiotic smile, wondering if it might be possible to orgasm from sheer fondness alone. As if in answer, Shane’s face wrinkled cutely in concentration, and he did something diabolical with his tongue that had Ilya’s whole pelvis jolting.

“If you want us to come together, you need to get up here, now,” Ilya hissed, tugging at Shane’s hair in desperation. An almost fatal mistake. The resultant moan vibrated around him at a frequency that nearly had him spilling into Shane’s mouth then and there.

Still sweetly obedient, Shane scrambled up from his knees, pretty cock heavy between his legs and weeping at the tip, and slid back into Ilya’s lap. They kissed for a moment longer, Ilya suddenly unable to imagine a world that might exist before and after having Shane like this. He wanted to be eaten alive; prey to a spider. He wanted—

“My wrists,” he choked out, watching Shane lean back in confusion, “Want you to tie me up.”

Those round brown eyes widened impossibly further, expression shifting to one of understanding when Ilya modeled squeezing his hands into fists and crossing them in an X shape over his chest. Shane raised a hand, made the two-fingered gesture that activated his spinnerets, and tilted his head to ask: “This?”

“Yes,” Ilya whined, not above begging if Shane made him, “Need to feel it, паучок. Been dreaming of it ever since...”

Shane whimpered, hips kicking at the words, and he let the webs fly, silk wrapping around Ilya’s forearms in two uniform overlapping loops.

“Too tight?” he asked, impossibly gentle, even when he’d trapped Ilya like a fly with a flick of his wrist. And had the power to leave him bound like this forever, probably.

Ilya shook his head, half a mind to ask Shane to gag him too, but sure that was too much, too soon for a first time. And a last time, his stupid brain chimed in again.

Shane looked at Ilya for a long moment, bound before him, with an expression so obviously adoring it made Ilya want to beg for other impossible things, and then stuck out one open hand with a whispered, “Lick.”

Ilya complied, tongue darting out to lave at each finger, tasting salt and a deeper, masculine musk. He wrinkled his brow, wondering aloud at the softness of Shane’s palm now without the sticky, wall-climbing hairs, and barely registered the science-y explanation about being able to turn that particular feature on and off. Wet hand caressing them both again, Shane was still talking, though the words were muffled by the way they were making a valiant attempt at maintaining a kiss. Truthfully, it was little more than exhaling into each other’s mouths at this point, Ilya already so close to the edge given his weeks’ long dry spell that his breathing was audibly labored.

Shane, for his part, was chanting Ilya’s name like an invocation, his Russian pronunciation so intentional even at the height of his ecstasy it nearly brought Ilya to tears. He could feel his orgasm looming and knew, intrinsically, that the moment it hit would ruin him forever. He’d already spent all this time dreaming of Shane Hollander, and to finally have the real thing, just for it to be taken away come sunrise? He felt nearly nauseous with it.

“Ilya,” Shane whispered again, the thumb of his free hand coming up to swipe at Ilya’s cheek.

Fuck, he was crying. How mortifying.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmured, shame flooding him, “Just… intense.”

“It is,” Shane agreed, stroking them slowly.

He dipped his head, mouthing at Ilya’s neck before ever so gently sinking his teeth into the soft skin there. Ilya knew the bruise would look beautiful in the light of day, and begged in garbled Russian for Shane to leave a proper reminder. For a moment, he yearned for Shane’s bite to be as real as the spider’s had been, transforming him into something strong enough to fight alongside this new Spider-Man. If he could exist as more than a tender bag of flesh, Shane wouldn’t have to be alone. And he wouldn’t have to leave either.

Ilya’s impending climax pulsed like a sickly, sensual death knell. The end was coming. But fuck if it didn’t feel too good to stop.

Shane was just as far gone, writhing on top of him as he sung out a chorus of moans and whimpers and echoes of Ilya’s name. Ilya thrashed just once in return, aching to touch but addicted to the deeper ache that came from the bindings, hands unable to grasp what was not his to keep. It was torture, pure and glorious. For a harrowing moment of premonition, he knew that he would not be able to come without the ties, not for a very long time and not without the ghostly feeling of Shane all around him. It was self preservation, maybe, that he wouldn’t fuck Shane tonight. He had a feeling that was a level of intimacy from which he would not be able to recover, if he even survived this first.

“Fuck, it’s so good,” Shane hissed into Ilya’s open mouth, thighs beginning to tremble, “We should’ve been doing this the whole time. Could’ve had you in me.”

Nope, definitely not surviving this.

“You were… so shy,” Ilya murmured back, pressing sloppy kisses to Shane’s jawline, “Would have scared you. Me flirting for real.”

Shane was shaking his head wildly, grip tightening around them to the point of near pain, before he abruptly abandoned that approach. He spit into his hand again, palmed his cock, and then reached out to grab each of Ilya’s shoulders, rutting forward once he’d balanced properly. The glide was filthy, all saliva and watery precum, and Ilya felt dizzy looking down at the way his foreskin slid up with the motion of Shane’s cock, glans an angry red as it nudged against his stomach.

“Wanted you the whole time,” Shane said, sweat beading on his temple now and eyes manic, “All those girls. I could hear it sometimes, how well you fucked them. Hated it, hated how nice you were to them after too. You were — oh, fuck, Ilya — supposed to be an asshole.”

“They meant nothing,” Ilya whispered back. Not like you do. “Was just easy fun.”

“They didn’t make you feel like this?” Shane asked, forehead falling to the juncture between Ilya’s neck and shoulder as he panted.

“No,” Ilya moaned, startled by Shane’s sudden bout of dirty talk, the jealousy in his voice licking a fire in Ilya’s belly. His next words tumbled out, more raw emotion than whatever teasing quip he meant to deliver. “You know me. All of me.”

“Jesus Christ, need… need you to touch me,” Shane cried out, and reached out to loosen Ilya’s silken cuffs with a hook of his finger, like some sort of quick-release knot. Ilya nearly moaned aloud again, realizing that Shane had probably planned it that way.

Hands freed and pulse throbbing, Ilya wrapped his fingers around Shane’s cock, thumb tracing the fat vein on the underside as he watched Shane leak prettily all over his fist. God, he was so, so wet. With his other hand, Ilya reached up to squeeze at Shane’s left pec, finding his nipple through the thin fabric of his gym shirt and pinching hard. In the flurry of frottage, he’d forgotten just how desperate they’d been from the start, still barely undressed and yet nearing the climax.

Shane sang his name out again, pitch tilting higher than ever, and Ilya tried not to commit the sound to memory, knowing it would only hurt him later. He was lasting longer than he’d thought at least, eager to impress, as if one practiced handjob and some juvenile humping might be enough to convince Shane to stay.

Minutes ticked by with more frantic breaths and wet, stuttering movements, the squelch of good sex a delicious soundtrack in Ilya’s perverted ear. And then, as Ilya came suddenly with a nearly operatic yelp, vision whiting out completely, he could’ve sworn he heard Shane whisper, ‘Mine.’

Shane’s release came not a moment later, mixing hot on their bellies, his o-face so earnestly contorted by pleasure that it looked like it hurt. Ilya, feeling wrung out and desperate for something he dared not name, scooped two fingers into the wetness there and held them out, lingering arousal flaring deep in his gut as Shane leaned forward unprompted and sucked each digit clean.

They sat there for an indeterminate eternity, connected thigh-to-thigh and catching their breaths, Ilya shocked to find that his eyes were still moist with unshed tears.

God, this was going to be unbearable.

“Your necklace,” Shane said, first to speak between them as two fingers came up to touch the thin gold chain. “What does it mean?”

Ilya leaned back, sniffling, and hooked his arms around Shane’s torso, sliding his hands up under his shirt to palm at the warm skin there. “It was my mother’s.”

“Oh,” Shane whispered.

(Ilya had told him once that he was an orphan, Shane spilling out a litany of apologies for talking about his loving parents back in Canada so much. “I’m lying to them,” he’d said, “About who— what I am. They accepted me as gay, but this is… I’m scared I’ll lose them too.”

“They would understand,” Ilya had reassured him, “They love you. Though, I know this well, accepting does not make it easier to see you put self in harm’s way. Thinking you have to, that your abilities make it, ah, obligation.”

“With great power,” Shane murmured, and Ilya swallowed back a dismissive scoff. “Yeah, Shane, I know.”)

It was then, with foolish, oxytocin-based hope flooding his veins, that Ilya decided to be brave.

“I like you, Shane Hollander,” he said softly, forcing the eye contact, “For real. And I do not want you to leave.”

He felt Shane tense, holding his breath. And then Ilya’s poor heart began to shrivel, ribs splintering in his chest like shrapnel at the look of dismay on Shane’s face, eyes wide with genuine terror. Shane scrambled back to the far side of the couch, fixing his rumpled clothing, and said, “You can’t.”

“I can’t what? Like you? Want to date you?”

“No,” Shane said with a grimace, “You don’t do that.”

Ilya blinked. “Do what?”

“Date, Ilya,” he explained, voice coming out cruel in its frustration, “I thought I could have this. One night with you. And then go, like all the others. There wasn’t supposed to be…” he waved his hands in a vague circular shape, “… more.”

Ilya felt his face drop. “You do not remember what Sveta said to you? It is true I like casual sex. Love it, really. But I am not a commitment-phobe. With the right person, I have always wanted something real.”

“Well I’m the wrong person then,” Shane argued, eyes glistening, “It… it can’t be real with me. You know that! I don’t have a normal life. I… everything I’ve heard from other heroes has been the same. You can’t lo— be with someone without the villains knowing that’s a weakness.”

“And who are these villains, Shane?” Ilya argued back, voice rising in volume, “You never fucking tell me. You just say ‘Oh this is for your safety, to protect you. It is so you do not get hurt.’ Well guess what? You are hurting me anyway. More, maybe, than imaginary risk.”

“It’s not made up,” Shane said, his own voice colored with hurt, “There are darker things out there, I swear. And they take time to unravel. I wish, sometimes, that I could give it all up and go back to… to before. But I like helping people, Ilya. I feel useful for the first time in a long time, like I’ve finally found something I’m good at beyond shooting a stupid puck too well to even play.”

“Yes, you are friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, saving bodega cats and helping old ladies cross street,” Ilya sneered, anger and heartbreak making him meaner, “This is all I know of your work. So how am I supposed to feel okay with you leaving here, leaving me, not being able to judge other threats for myself?”

Shane looked away, though Ilya hadn’t missed the way the tears had started to fall. “I’m… working with this group, okay? And now there’s government shit involved, like so many layers of classified I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. But there are other supers with me. That’s who I’ll be staying with. I… won’t be as alone as you think.”

“Ah,” Ilya said, growing colder, “so only I am left alone then. Stupid, useless human.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, a palpable devastation on his features, “I don’t want to leave. You have to know that. I just… I don’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Ilya said, standing and tugging up his fucking pants, feeling the indignity of the cum drying on his stomach. He looked Shane in the eyes, and pleaded, “Stay.” And again. “Shane, stay. Or… at least promise that I will see you again, like you told me three weeks ago. That we will text, remember?”

Shane hesitated, and Ilya recognized it — that familiar posture he adopted just as he was about to run.

“I can’t— I’m sorry.”

And then, barely a blur, Shane darted across the space and beyond his now empty bedroom, save for the mattress on the floor marked for donation. Ilya didn’t have to follow to know that he’d left through the window and that soon the apartment would turn bitterly cold. How fucking appropriate.

Anger quickly fading in favor of a deeper wave of sadness, Ilya turned away from Shane’s door, walking numbly to the shower and cleaning himself. He went about his nightly routine, and then… god, he was pathetic… he walked back into Shane’s, no, the guest bedroom. Terrified and fighting nausea to overcome his fear of heights, he crept out onto the fire escape, clutching his knees to his chest. He imagined Shane swinging back to him, saying ‘I’m sorry, I’ll stay, I like you too’ and waited out there, like a pining loser, until the November chill was too bone-chilling to bear. He let the tears fall in earnest when, sliding the window shut, he still could not bring himself to flick the locks.

The next morning, the movers arrived to grab the last of Shane’s stuff, all boxed up and neatly labeled.

Shane did not return to say goodbye.

Chapter 4

The benefit of working for an NHL team was that the regular season did keep you busy.

Ilya went through the motions, fewer workout plans needed and more focus on rehab and injury prevention. The Admirals roster, as Ilya liked to tease, was bordering on nursing home when it came to median age, and they certainly kept Ilya and his head coach busy cycling onto IR and back — not to mention the poor ATs being put through the ringer with game time response. It would only get worse as they pushed into spring and neared the end of the regular season; keeping Scott Hunter’s merry band of thirty-somethings in playoff shape would be a real challenge.

For now, though, there was still time for the occasional Kingfisher beer with the boys, Scott Hunter himself sitting across the table and eyeing Ilya like he knew there was trouble afoot. Nosy old bat. Thankfully they’d lost Eric Bennett — whose goalie powers often divined even more of Ilya’s internal turmoil than was comfortable — to Kyle’s simpering gaze from behind the bar ages ago, with little hope of getting him back before night’s end.

“You seem off, Roz,” Scott observed, “Where’s the roommate?”

Ilya winced. He’d brought Shane out once between home games, the guys all in awe of his hockey diagnostics at morning skate the next day, echoes across the ice like: ‘Bro, that Hollander guy totally fixed my wrist shot!’ and ‘Ilya’s boyfriend told me my edge work looked like shit, but I think he’s right?’ ad nauseam. Scott Hunter had not escaped the attention either, Ilya knew, Shane bashfully explaining at home later that he’d thanked the captain for what he was doing for the sport, being out and so visible with his queerness, before gently picking apart his contribution to the Admirals still-shaky power play. Scott spoke of the interaction fondly from his own perspective, though he’d been shocked by Shane’s admission that he might’ve been another closeted gay NHLer, if dealt a different hand.

And Scott, as well as he knew Ilya at this point (after Ilya and Kip had met via Ilya’s graduate work-study arrangement in the gym at NYU), had obviously made some assumptions about the nature of Ilya’s relationship to his so-called ‘roommate’ and well— it wasn’t the worst guess at the time. Now, however…

“Um,” Ilya said, tracing a finger along the rim of his pint glass, “he moved out.”

“What, why?” Scott asked, eyebrows at his hairline, “I thought you two had, uh, a pretty serious thing going on?”

Swallowing, Ilya parroted the explanation he’d invented to explain Shane’s absence: “Ah, he is still in school but working a job farther away so. He found something more… convenient to both. He was only on sublet agreement with me, month-to-month.”

“Wow, busy guy,” Scott replied with a nod, “Shane did strike me as having a crazy work ethic. But I hope you’re able to get some time together. I basically had Kip living at my place at one point and not having him around twenty-four seven was a tough adjustment.”

Ilya took a long sip of his beer. ‘Tough adjustment’ was underselling it a bit in his case. He’d left the window cracked the entire first week after Shane left, burrowing under several layers of blankets and feeling his electric bill rising with each passing, pining moment. The heartbreak was exacerbated by the way that Shane Spider-Man was literally everywhere, plastered all over the news and socials with his cohort of proper superheroes, for whom the media kept trying to coin increasingly cringey names like some sort of pop star performance group. He still wore his typical sweats, Ilya noticed (and hated the way that felt so very Shane to him), but his plain balaclava had finally been swapped for a proper mask, an all-over spiderweb pattern and two sharp eye holes cut into what had to be intentionally Centaurs-colored red and black material.

Glancing up at one of the televisions, Ilya sighed. A break in sports coverage had NBC 4 reporting on ‘New York’s New Supers on the Block’ who just yesterday had been credited with busting a multinational trafficking ring, one of the leaders killed in the final sting and several more in custody. Ilya supposed that qualified as some ‘dark shit’ as Shane had argued, as did perhaps their now very public battles against some spooky green weirdo that had resulted in the upper floors of the Oscorp building in Midtown literally exploding. Still, no one had bothered Ilya about any of that specifically, or seemed to suspect he’d ever known the mysterious reincarnation of Spider-Man at all.

But, either way, Ilya probably needed a new roommate, as Svetlana often reminded him now, with his paycheck taking a much nastier hit covering rent for the entire place alone.

‘He’s not coming back, Ilya,’ he heard her voice say, gentle but firm, and he washed down the bitter truth of it with another sip of his IPA. Three weeks into December and Shane had made no attempt at contact after their disastrous final night together. Their roomies chat lay dormant, Ilya too afraid to text it only to find out he’d been blocked all this time. Sometimes, though, he’d see Shane on the news, clearly hurt, and feel a desperate tingle in his fingertips to type out ‘you okay?’ or, at his lowest points, some variation of ‘I miss you’ and ‘come home.’

It was nearing midnight when Ilya finally left the bar, following a second round of beers and some light encouragement from Scott to not be so down on himself (‘if you can keep my shitty cardiovascular endurance passable enough to play hockey, you can do anything, Roz’). Zipping up his black puffer coat and tugging his Admirals beanie over his curls, he made his way up a long stretch of 7th Ave, planning to duck into a station and grab the 2 train back to Harlem once the cold became too much to bear.

Bracing himself against the winter wind, Ilya sighed, considered a dollar slice through the warmly lit windows of a passing pizzeria, and quietly promised to list the room again for rent in the morning.

Hideous as it felt, it was probably time to move on.

Thunk.

The sound of something hitting the side of the building had Ilya jolting in surprise, television still playing Admirals game tape on a loop while he evaluated Bennett’s mobility. What a thrilling American Christmas this was shaping up to be.

Thunk.

His notepad slid from his lap as he spun to look over the back of the couch, the open door of the still empty guest room framing the window to the fire escape beyond.

Thunk, came the sound again, louder. A confused bird maybe. If not for the horrible streaking noise against the glass that followed.

Ilya was up in an instant, darting across the room just as the window slid open a hair, one gloved hand grasping weakly at the sill.

Shane.

“Fuck! Fuck, xуй, hold on,” Ilya cursed on repeat, unsure what language he was speaking, and hurried to tug the window open fully. His pulse picked up, noticing the handprint-shaped outline of blood on the glass, four streaky lines dragging down from the fingertips.

Using all his strength, and fueled by a sudden heart-pounding adrenaline, he slid two hands under Shane’s armpits and hauled the barely conscious man inside. Momentum failing, Ilya found himself and the shivering lump that was Shane collapsing to the floor in a heap. When he finally untangled himself, rolling Shane’s masked head into his lap, he sucked in a gasp of horror. There was blood, so much blood, a stark crimson against the darker red of Shane’s mask and flowing heavy enough to wet Ilya’s palms everywhere he touched.

In a rush, Ilya pulled Shane’s mask off entirely, terrified by the sight of the man’s face drained of color, verging on a pallid yellow-green and contrasting horribly with the dark purple circles of exhaustion under his eyes.

“Ilyaaa,” Shane said happily, clearly out of his mind with the way his incongruous smile never faltered. He reached a hand up, eyes shining, and touched Ilya’s cheek.

Ilya winced, feeling the smear of blood left by the contact. “Shane, listen to me. Where are you hurt?”

Shane blinked up at him, beaming, and said, “Hi, I missed you.”

He coughed and the spittle came out unnaturally pink.

“No, focus,” Ilya rushed to say, trying to ignore the sudden hurt on Shane’s face as he dismissed him, “You are bleeding, Shane. A lot. I— I need to know what happened.”

“Oh,” Shane whispered, blinking slowly, “My leg.”

“That’s good, паучок, thank you,” Ilya urged, trying to remain calm as he shifted Shane from his lap to the carpet, wincing at the spreading red stains beneath him. Carefully, he removed each of Shane’s white sneakers — still those awful, fatherly New Balances — and then slid down his ripped sweatpants, nearly gagging when he found the source of the bleed.

The gash through Shane’s left thigh was easily twenty centimeters or more, so severe at its deepest point that Ilya thought he saw bone. Given Shane’s current state, the blood loss was bad, very bad, but not the fountain-like spray of something fatal at least. A severed femoral artery would have killed Shane in minutes — it was a fucking miracle that the slice had somehow avoided the worst areas. But fuck, he could absolutely still die from this, and soon, if infection set in. And he was injured elsewhere, surely, from the countless scratches and darkening bruises that littered his visible skin. Without equipment, they couldn’t diagnose an internal bleed, but it was not out of the question.

“Hey, Shane, listen to me,” Ilya told him, slapping lightly at Shane’s cheek until his lids fluttered open, smile still dopey each time he met Ilya’s eyes, “We need to call an ambulance, okay? I — you are going to be fine, but right now you are in bad shape. You need help from professionals.”

“No,” Shane replied sharply, though his next words came slower, haltingly, as he gritted his teeth against an obvious wave of agony, “No… 911. No hospitals. The news helicopter… saw the whole thing. And then the men with cameras. They’ll… they’ll know.” He reached up, grabbing at Ilya anywhere his hands could reach, “They followed me. I barely… swung… away. Didn’t know where else to…”

Shane trailed off, eyes glazing over once more, and Ilya felt a brief flare of anger toward the parasitic losers who would rather chase a story, literally, than let an injured man get proper help. Swallowing, he risked a glance down at Shane’s wound again and retched, bile high in his throat.

“Shane, please,” he begged, “I can’t help you. I am just… fancy personal trainer, not an ER doctor. You require stitches at least. And I think you are losing too much blood to not need more.”

Shane’s eyes were wet with tears, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, and yet Ilya watched in shock as he managed to rearrange his features into something briefly serene. His voice was clear, deadly serious when he said, “Stitch me up then.”

“What?” Ilya asked in shock, both of them wincing at how he’d nearly shouted the word.

“Stitch… me up,” Shane repeated, his previous moment of bravado slipping away as the pain returned, his hand in Ilya’s shirt gripping tightly. “I can heal this, cocoon myself, but… I need… a h-head s-start.”

“I…” Ilya began, feeling sick at the prospect. He’d seen some truly gnarly hockey injuries, of course, compound fractures and bloody handfuls of teeth, but never anything he’d needed to treat himself. That was what their team physician and the ATs were for. Ilya couldn’t possibly—

“Ilya,” Shane whispered, gaze going distant, “I… trust you. Just you. Please.”

With a jerky nod, Ilya found himself in the throes of insanity as he agreed, “Okay, fuck, okay I will just— I have sewing needle and lighter to sterilize, but…”

“Bathtub,” Shane choked out, “and then I can help.”

Ilya scrubbed a hand over his face, heart pounding, and then leapt into action, dragging all ninety kilos of dead weight Spider-Man into the bathroom. Shane, with a half yelp-half moan, used his upper body strength to tug himself over the lip of the tub, back hitting the porcelain with a violent thunk as Ilya lifted his legs to follow. Removing his sweatpants entirely, Ilya then grabbed the detachable shower head in one hand, letting Shane thread his fingers through his free hand and squeeze brutally as the first spray of water hit his wound.

“Sorry, I am so sorry,” Ilya whispered, trying for comfort even as his own panic threatened to overwhelm him, “I know it hurts. But you are so brave, hmm? And strong. Strongest person I know.”

He shut off the water and turned to reach under the bathroom sink for the medical kit. Slipping on gloves, he wiped carefully around the wound, murmuring apologies as usual for the alcohol’s sting, though he was sure it was nothing compared to the bone-deep pain already radiating from the gash. It was lucky that Ilya had treated Shane’s injuries enough times, albeit in less emergent circumstances, that most of the initial triage process was muscle memory by now. Working quickly, he next rooted around the medicine cabinet for the sewing kit, using the long-necked lighter they lit candles with to sterilize the tip of a thin silver needle. There was just the matter of thread and—

“Shane, I am almost ready,” he said, stomach roiling, “You said you would… help?”

“Mm,” was all that Shane managed, before his hand curved over the edge of the bathtub with two fingers pressed to his palm. Almost immediately, Ilya realized what he meant to do.

A length of thread-like silk slipped through the creases, Ilya scrambling to catch it in hand as it spooled out.

“Can’t get… more sterile than that,” Shane joked, making a wet sound that might have been a laugh as his eyelids fluttered shut. He raised a hand and with what must have been the last of his strength conjured a thick ball of gooey web. “Don’t tell me when,” he warned, and then shoved the silk into his mouth like a makeshift gag, biting down hard.

Ilya swallowed, threaded the needle, and placed the point to skin.

Shane had been in the bathtub for three days.

Eyes closed, unmoving — his lower body wrapped entirely in silk in the cocoon-like state he’d described.

Terrified, and still haunted by the sounds of Shane’s muffled screams as he’d worked, Ilya had slept fitfully on the floor next to the bathtub for the first two nights. Gasping awake every few hours, he would lean over the edge of the tub, pressing a hand to Shane’s chest and waiting for the slow rise and fall that signaled life.

He had no time frame for the healing process. Shane, brave as he’d been, had passed out after the fourth row of stitches and never regained consciousness. Ilya had seen him heal minor cuts and bruises within a day, of course, but this was… Shane had been on the verge of death when he’d collapsed on the fire escape. He might still—

Ilya sank down to the floor, legs in a criss-cross shape on the bathmat, with a small bowl of instant oatmeal in hand in an attempt at finally feeding himself. He’d neglected all hygiene and personal care on day one, near catatonic with the way he’d sat, unmoving, covered in Shane’s blood. On day two, he’d managed to leave the bathroom, changing his soiled clothes and drinking a bit of water, before the panic of leaving Shane on his own hit him so violently he was rushing back across the apartment with ragged gasps, collapsing to his knees again.

Now, day three, Ilya felt… not calmer, but more stable at least. There was a hint of color returning to Shane’s complexion, his inhumanly slow pulse picking up. Sometimes one of his fingers would twitch, just a little.

Ilya scooped up another bite, swallowed, and then started to speak.

He told Shane about all the snow they’d gotten the day before, blanketing the city in white like something straight out of an American Christmas movie, and how the Admirals had carved their way back to third place in the Metropolitan. They’d done a whole holiday promotion for the last game before the short winter break, every player and coach decked out in a truly hideous, patterned red sweater.

“Maybe you saw already,” Ilya said, setting his bowl to the side, “I do not know if you have time to follow hockey now that you are top tier crime fighter. But, when you wake up—” he swallowed around the words, emotion thick in his throat, “I will model mine for you, hmm?”

Shane, as usual, said nothing.

With a sigh and a pat of Shane’s limp left hand, Ilya stood up and padded back out to the kitchen, giving his bowl a cursory spray of water before dropping it in the sink to soak. It was almost routine now, walking back to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth under the tap and pressing the cool fabric to Shane’s forehead, his skin still flushed with the feverish warmth of infection. Though today he was, much to Ilya’s relief, not burning up anymore.

“Mm,” Shane hummed as the cold compress touched his face.

Ilya jolted, heart pounding faster at the first real sign that Shane’s healing trance wasn’t a permanent state.

Still, his eyes did not open.

Making his own soothing humming noise in return, Ilya let his knuckles stroke lightly over Shane’s cheek. The freckles there were lighter now this deep into winter, a reminder of just how much time had passed since they’d last seen each other.

He watched, hope soaring as Shane’s lips pursed again, forming a voiceless word. Shane repeated the shape several times, and on the final iteration added the tiniest puff of whispered breath behind it. Ilya realized then what he was asking.

Safe?

“Yes, Shane, safe,” he said, “You’re safe here, паучок. And alive.”

O-kay. Shane’s mouth formed the syllables, and then his body seemed to sag, fading out again.

Ilya smiled, eyes teary, and felt his optimism for Shane’s recovery grow. He was still in there. He would be okay. He was home, even if just temporarily. It was more than Ilya had dared to wish for, in doubt that he would ever seen Shane in this life again.

He spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the apartment, mess having grown in his neglect. He yearned, not for the first time, for the chance to shower, but he wouldn’t risk moving Shane during the precarious recovery stage. And he wasn’t sure he could anyhow, all that inflexible dead weight wrapped in slippery silk would be quite the lift.

Chores done, Ilya video called Svetlana, who had texted earlier about some hot gossip from a recent magazine shoot. It was comforting to hear her voice, even from a distance, and to speak Russian again, the words coming to him without a concentrated thought while his brain was otherwise so fatigued. When she asked him about his own week, he repeated the news he’d told Shane earlier, just boring weather and hockey stuff. He’d kept all details of Shane’s injury from her thus far, sure that she’d be overly concerned about Ilya now harboring the fugitive superhero who’d all but broken his heart. He would tell her once Shane was better, and have to beg for her support, probably, knowing a healed Spider-Man in full possession of his faculties was certain to leave him… again.

Night falling, Ilya collapsed onto the couch and put on New Moon. He must have seen it a dozen times since Shane’s last night in the apartment, subjecting himself over and over to the painful, overly wrought teenage longing. It was just as Bella was attempting another one of her ridiculous stunts, that he heard it.

A rustle.

The shower curtain, metal rings sliding on the rod.

He leapt up, rushing over to the bathroom, freezing in the doorway at the vision of Shane stood upright in the tub staring back at him.

The webs around his legs were shed, falling in mummy-like tendrils at his ankles, revealing a long, bare expanse of golden skin. One thigh was marred by a massive puckered scar, pink skin bunched at the edges, the knotted threads of Ilya’s stitches poking out in places like a macabre human scarecrow. Alive, in just a ripped t-shirt and his black briefs, he looked every bit a miracle.

“Ilya?” Shane asked, voice rough from lack of use.

Ilya wasted no time, launching himself forward to wrap his arms around Shane’s torso. He kept his grip light, not knowing what might still hurt, and pulled Shane against him. The tears were immediate, soaking Shane’s shoulder as he shook with relief.

“Ilya, hey,” Shane repeated, his hands coming up to grasp at Ilya’s back, rubbing in tentative circles, “What… what’s going on?”

Ilya pulled back to look at him, finding it unacceptable to let too much space grow between them. Nearly nose to nose, their eyes met as he explained, “You were hurt. Bad. You came here for help.”

Shane sucked in a breath. “When?”

“Three days ago. I patched you up, like always, but this time I… I wasn’t sure you would survive. You would not let me take you to hospital.”

Shane shook his head sharply. He still hadn’t wriggled free of Ilya’s hold, which Ilya took as a win in and of itself. “Yeah, no. The press have been waiting for any of us to slip up. They’re obsessed with getting the scoop on our identities.”

Ilya frowned. “Yes, well, you told me you could heal yourself and I chose to believe you. But it was scary, to not know for sure. I have been… waiting this whole time for you to wake up.”

Shane looked at him, probably seeing the way Ilya’s eyes still welled with tears, and pulled him in for another shaky embrace. “Thank you.” He leaned away, meeting Ilya’s gaze with intention, “You saved me.”

“I just helped,” Ilya said, gesturing to Shane’s thigh, “You did the rest.”

Shane glanced down at the scar, cheeks going pink as he seemed to remember he was standing in only his underwear. “I… I’m remembering some of it now.” He shook his head. “Another battle gone wrong. There’s been… fighting in the group, amongst the supers, about who is in charge, what we’re even really fighting for. It’s… disorganized. And costing us.”

“You hate when things are not organized,” Ilya commented, and the observation made Shane laugh a little. He wobbled on his feet, Ilya quickly ducking under his arm to allow him to lean for balance. “Easy there. Come, let us sit.”

He helped Shane move toward the living room, before announcing that he was going to grab him some fresh clothes and returning a moment later with a large t-shirt and his loosest pair of basketball shorts. Using Ilya again to keep upright, Shane murmured his thanks as he changed. He watched as Ilya disposed of his tattered, bloodstained shirt in the catch-all triage garbage bag he’d been using in the kitchen, and then started to shake his head.

“I… I should really go. It’s been so long. They’re probably looking for me.”

“So?” Ilya asked, brows furrowing, “I will fight off your entire little hero club like mother bear with current strength of my irritation if they try to take you now. You need to rest.”

Shane untangled himself from Ilya’s grasp, though he did plop down awkwardly onto the sofa, balance and coordination still clearly lacking. “I’ve been resting for three days apparently. That’s more than I’ve had in—” he cut off, looking sheepish under Ilya’s disappointed glare.

“Shane, you cannot keep going like this,” he said, “You are going to make mistakes if you are so tired. And that will cost you, like you said. Especially if your team does not have your back.” He shivered, fighting a wave of nausea at the memory of the bathtub’s gory scene. “I can’t… I do not ever want to see you how you were again. Dying in front of me.”

“Ilya,” Shane murmured, looking stricken, “I really am sorry for scaring you. And putting you through this again. But I have to go. I have my—”

“Responsibilities,” Ilya filled in, fighting an eye roll as he lowered himself on the other cushion, “Yes, I know. And I still think they are too much for one person. I do not think you should have to die for them, at least. All because Canadian spider bit you by accident when you were teenager.”

Shane groaned, flopping back against the couch. “I… fuck, I hate you so much. You’re right. I know you’re right.”

Ilya froze. “What?”

“The work… it’s overwhelming,” Shane said, exhaustion bleeding into his tone, “I just… wanted to help with the small things. But then the government group found me and it all spiraled. I’m so tired, Ilya. But I don’t know if I can ever go back to normal.”

“What if you tell them you need… sick leave?” Ilya proposed, “I know it is stupid to compare to LTIR but…? A mental and physical break can be important. Might help you to, ah — I hate this stupid word — reevaluate your priorities, you know?”

Shane chuckled at the thought, looking surprisingly receptive. “That’s… actually not the worst idea.” He glanced at the TV, where Ilya’s movie was paused. “Were you watching New Moon again?”

“Yes,” Ilya admitted, not seeing the point in lying now, “I have watched it thirteen times since you left two months ago.”

Shane stared and stared. “You… what? Why?”

“It felt relatable,” Ilya deadpanned, “though you would not know. You fell asleep on me before the end.”

“Shut up,” Shane said, blushing hard, though there was a real smile on his face now. He seemed to take Ilya in properly for the first time since waking, his gaze growing predictably fond, “God, wow, it is good to see you again.”

Ilya swallowed, refusing to let the sweetness of those words sink in more than skin deep, knowing he was at the point of understanding logically why Shane had left but not quite forgiving it. “Do you want to talk about what happened before you ran? And why you came back here?”

Shane frowned, his posture becoming uncomfortably hunched as he glanced away. “You told me I could. If I needed to. I wasn’t really… all there given the shock, but I guess I instinctively remembered that offer.” He paused for a long moment, then added, “You left the window unlocked.”

“Yes, I did,” Ilya agreed, “And first week after you left I did not close it at all.”

Shane gaped. “It was November, Ilya. Coldest one on record. You could’ve gotten sick!”

Ilya shrugged. “I thought you might change your mind. Now I know better." His smile was bittersweet as he said, “I understand what it is to be normal person who is friends with a hero. I can be a safe house, but I cannot be home.”

Shane sucked in a breath, shifting in his seat. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

“Speaking of this, where have you been staying? It is okay?” Ilya asked, and then teased (though it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it): “Do they agree to eat your protein pancakes?”

Shane gnawed at his lip, shoulders doing a sort of half-shrug. “One of the other supers has this fancy set of condos in a high rise. He’s been letting us all stay there, for coordination. But I crashed with the old Spider-Man for a while, at first. It… wasn’t so good.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“He’s so fucking sad, Ilya. I don’t… I don’t want to be like him. Or fight his old battles.”

Ilya frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Shane explained, “This Green Goblin guy who’s been terrorizing the city lately — he’s clearly in some kind of psychosis. He sees me and thinks he’s fighting the old Spider-Man, screaming out all these names of people I don’t know. I honestly think me being so publicly visible now has made things worse.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “If you stopped, do you think he would too?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said, “but I think he would be less agitated for sure.” He scrubbed at his face, exhaling, “I haven’t brought it up with the group yet but… I think it’s worth a try. Before this they were kind of using me as bait.”

At that, Ilya sat up, immediately incensed.

Noting his anger, Shane shifted closer, reaching out across the sofa crack to place a hand on his thigh. “I get it. I’m angry too. I just wanted to help people around the neighborhood, to use the powers I’ve been given for good, but the heroes I’m working with… they’re so out of my league. Former military and intelligence types who are used to the risk.” He cracked a smile, clearly trying to lessen the tension. “Meanwhile I’m just a dumb former hockey player from Canada.”

Ilya’s frown deepened, but he took a steadying breath, reaching down to prod at Shane’s hand until he got the message that he meant to thread their fingers together. Squeezing gently, Ilya said, “You know, I liked that former hockey player. Just as he was, spidery bits included. And preferably not bleeding out all over my apartment.”

Shane went pink at the admission, though he’d obviously heard Ilya confess before. Ducking his head, he said, “I told you once that Spider-Man lost people. Everyone closest to him. But… I don’t know, I think I took the wrong lesson from his story.”

Ilya tilted his head in question.

“I thought this life meant sacrificing everything to make the world safer. I kind of forgot that I have to live it too. That I might… want things for myself.”

“What kind of things?”

Shane shifted again, scooting gingerly across the cushion until the edges of their thighs were pressed together. He disentangled their fingers in the process, shoulders rigid and eyes cast straight ahead, not looking at Ilya as he said, “To finish my degree here in New York, do a PhD even, if I can get my final grades back up, and then eventually look for work back home. Maybe with the ECCC. That’s, um, Canada’s department that deals with environmental policy. They have a National Wildlife Research Centre in Ottawa.”

Ilya nodded, staring at Shane’s profile intently. “This sounds perfect for you. What else?”

“Um, well, I’d like to go to some more hockey games. I’ve grown kind of fond of the Admirals and I have this… friend with team connections so.”

Ilya laughed, smile growing. Of course, simply watching puck would be on Shane’s list of big dreams. “Ah, yes, I am sure this friend might be willing to hook you up again.”

Shane, still refusing eye contact, had started to tremble just a little. “And, uh… I’d probably tell that friend, my old roommate actually, that I’m sorry.” His shaky inhale matched Ilya’s own. “I left him, partly out of a sense of heroic duty, yeah… but also because I was scared. I liked him, a lot, more than liked if I’m honest. And he liked me too, for god knows what reason, somehow even after learning about my powers. But—” Shane cut himself off with a sharp, self-deprecating huff of laughter, “I know I fucked it up, so… we can scratch that one off the list.”

Shane Hollander, you insufferable martyr, Ilya thought, heart pounding in his chest and hands squeezing into fists with the desperate need to touch.

“Shane.”

There was no reaction.

“паучок, can you look at me, please?”

Shane’s head turned, ever so slowly, and Ilya felt broken all over again at the sight of his big brown eyes flooded with tears.

“Yes, you fucked it up, a little,” Ilya admitted, which got a laugh as intended, Shane staring back at him incredulously, “But you came back. And we are actually talking about it.” He reached up to cup Shane’s cheek. “There are things I want too. Still want. I just was not sure I would be allowed to have them.”

“Like what?” Shane asked.

Ilya couldn’t help the way he snorted at Shane’s earnestness — god, he’d missed that genuine curiosity — and brought his other hand up to frame Shane’s face, leaning in until their noses bumped, his breath on those plush lips.

“You, obviously,” he murmured, “What is it you said? Not a hero, just Shane?”

“Just Shane,” came the echo.

And then Ilya kissed him.

There was no frenzy this time, no scrambling rush to chase pleasure as the clock ticked away… Instead, they simply held the connection for a moment, chaste and closed-mouthed, until Shane was letting out an impatient whine that had Ilya pushing him lengthwise into the cushions. Lips hardly detaching, Ilya layered his body over Shane’s with a gentle pressure, careful of his healing wounds.

“Ilya, ‘m fine,” Shane mumbled into his mouth after a moment, “You won’t crush me.”

It was all the invitation he needed, both of them groaning happily as Ilya let his weight collapse, interest mutually stirring in their pants at the point of contact.

“Don’t… want to rush anything,” Ilya said, when they parted for breath, “But, ah, I have a lot of ideas.”

“Yeah?” Shane asked, a perfect picture of arousal and amusement, “And do some of these ideas involve my webs?”

Ilya froze, brain glitching out so hard it took him a very noticeable second to reboot.

“Ilya?”

Fuck, he was definitely blushing. “Only, like, ninety percent.”

Shane grinned, leaning up to initiate their filthiest kiss yet, content to let Ilya’s tongue reorient itself with the mouth he had missed. Nearly breathless after that short detour, Shane prompted, “And what would you say is the overlap between web stuff and you fucking me into the mattress until I cry? Like Venn diagram-wise?”

Ilya gulped, pleased to discover more of Shane’s confidence in bed after that brief taste back in October. Freeing his hands, he made a C-shape with each, placing them together as he said, “Perfect circle.”

“Just what I wanted to hear,” Shane replied, and shoved a hand down Ilya’s pants.

In the end, they didn’t end up doing anything nearly as kinky as promised, both too emotionally overwhelmed to go beyond a tender, kiss-laden missionary position.

But god, Ilya would be hard pressed to name a hotter moment in his life as he came with a shudder, Shane’s name on his lips and the word ‘stay’ again, full of hope.

This time, Shane didn’t run, didn’t even hesitate as he mouthed at Ilya’s jawline and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Ottawa, Canada — 2023

This was the hottest moment of Ilya’s life.

He was naked and spread eagle in bed, ropes of spider silk connecting his wrists and ankles to opposite ends of the four-poster bed frame — his boyfriend’s gorgeous body on similarly naked display as he checked the final cuff by Ilya’s left foot with his one-finger safety rule.

Shane turned away for a moment and went to their toy drawer, his ass still a delicious crimson from the spanking scene they’d done to warm-up, always eager to let Ilya be in charge before they shifted the dynamic, just a little.

There was a sudden pressure on his abdomen and Ilya let out a squeak, bursting into laughter when he realized that their cat, Dill, had apparently found her way into the room and onto his stomach. His blinding arousal cooled somewhat as he cackled, those little paws all too happy to begin their standard biscuit-making procedure.

(Dill, a crusty-looking calico with one eye and a ripped ear who Shane had found wandering near his government office building, had all of Shane’s bratty attitude and wide-eyed curiosity with a good helping of Ilya’s clinginess too. Ilya had been given no choice but to immediately call her his daughter when Shane had first brought her home as a surprise from the vet, freshly spayed and registered via micro-chip to their address. He remembered vividly how Shane had burst into tears on the day they’d moved from Harlem, stopping at their corner bodega to tell Pickles — rescued a record ten times from various threats by a local guy who was definitely not a retired Spider-Man — a final goodbye.)

“Dill, honey, no,” Shane yelped when he finally noticed, making for a comical sight as he ran over to the bed, scooping their cat up in one hand while holding a purple silicone cock ring in the other, before darting out of the room.

Ilya heard the bathroom sink running, Shane returning a moment later with clean hands and making his way back to Ilya with a saucy sway to his hips.

“Shane, мой любимый,” Ilya said, feeling very fond, “Close the door.”

“Oh, shit,” Shane replied, laughing as he darted back across the room, “You’d think I’d be better at that by now.”

“No, I don’t,” Ilya said dryly, “Considering we just got back from our cottage rental where, hmm, someone left the back door open at least once a day. Which was definitely not connected to the arrest of illegal hunters in the area who turned themselves in after…” Ilya hummed, pretending to take his time in recalling the news headline, “…beating each other up?”

Shane climbed onto the bed, straddling Ilya’s spread thighs, as he replied, “Huh, yeah, that was weird. Glad they’re facing consequences though.”

“I love you,” Ilya said softly, smiling up at him.

Shane froze, cheeks pinking, before wagging a finger in Ilya’s direction. “Nice try, but I’m still putting the cock ring on,” he said, and did just that. Giving Ilya’s dick a mean tug, he added, “You’d think the novelty of the web bondage would have worn off by now but— !”

In spite of the insult to his stamina, Ilya laughed again, though his eyes were quick to zero in on his chosen prize. “Shane Hollander, my handsomest, most perfect spider boyfriend, can I please suck you off? Just a little?”

He watched Shane’s cock twitch at the words, already interested again after coming with a squirm in Ilya’s lap after spank number fifteen. For a moment, it seemed like Shane might waver, but he shook his head sharply instead. “No, because we both know you’ll try to get me so close that I beg you to come in me and take the ring off.”

Ilya scoffed, arguing, “That was not my plan” (knowing that had been his exact plan to a T). Stupid spidey senses.

“Mm, right,” Shane replied, “and it was also not your plan to come home late from Centaurs practice? Knowing our rule about Wednesday dinner being sacred?”

“I’m the assistant coach, baby,” Ilya argued, tugging a little at his restraints just for the hell of it, “Wiebe needed me for video review. And I took a bunch of notes I know you’ll want to read later.”

(It was an unspoken but universally acknowledged truth by the franchise that Ilya’s boyfriend was the real brains behind the coaching operation, and would immediately be bestowed an official title if he ever retired from his fancy, conflict-of-interest federal job.)

Shane wriggled happily at that, looking pleased, his face contorting into deeper pleasure as he reached back to work two lube-slicked fingers into his hole at the same time. He prepped more slowly than they both knew he needed, turning around and putting on a real show of spreading himself knowing that Ilya’s greedy hands were bound.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whimpered, kicking his feet a little with impatience.

“I think I’ll go reverse today,” Shane mused, ignoring Ilya’s pleading sounds entirely, “Give you a pretty view. Since you can’t touch.”

“I really do ask for this, don’t I?” Ilya said with a moan, whimpering again when Shane laughed at him meanly and slapped at his thigh.

Taking Ilya in hand, Shane lined himself up and sank down in one smooth motion, managing to choke out a half-whined, “Yes, you do. You’re welcome.”

Once fully seated, he began to move in earnest, riding Ilya like the pro he was. After more than three years together, the sex was verging on a mind-meld with how gloriously in-sync they were in foreplay, variety, and intensity — plus all the little moments of humor that made it feel so very human. Or, well, as human as sex could be when half the time you were strung up by spider silk while your ‘retired’ superhero boyfriend used his altered arachnid DNA to intuit your pleasure.

But anyway, god, the sight in front of him was as unbelievable as ever: the tantalizing curves of Shane’s ample ass cheeks jiggling with the rhythm, his hole stretched beautifully around Ilya’s cock as he sang out his impending climax. “Fuck, Ilya, I’m not going to last.”

“Take what you need,” Ilya urged, grateful now for the aching pressure of the cock ring as Shane slammed down on him with unmasked urgency.

In a different, crueler scene, Ilya would have pulled out, maybe scratched lines through the red impact marks on Shane’s buttocks, and then forced him to take one slow stroke at a time, over and over, until he was quivering on the edge of orgasm. And then he would repeat that all again. There was certainly precedent for it.

For now though, already keyed up from the evening’s activities, it was hot as fuck to let Shane use him, their dabbles in bondage always a delicious call back to his earliest dreams after discovering Shane’s powers, spun up in silk and all too happy to be his little spider’s next meal.

Thighs trembling, Shane was gasping out a string of curses, his hole fluttering in sharp pulses that were nearly painful on Ilya’s forced erection.

“That’s it, gorgeous thing,” Ilya said, his words his only tool for now, “You needed this cock, hmm?”

“Always,” Shane replied, voice breaking on the syllable. He halted his bouncing, swinging off of Ilya for a moment just to turn around. Their eyes meeting, Shane lowered down again and switched to a slower roll of his hips that felt like heaven, Ilya’s eyes threatening to roll back in his head at the sensation.

“Gonna come, Ilya, fuck,” Shane continued, Ilya harnessing every bit of his core strength while tied up to kick his hips a bit, nudging Shane over the edge. It was a testament to the force of his orgasm that Shane not only spilled in messy ropes onto Ilya’s chest, but that he’d done so while hovering on the tip of his cock, body lifted twenty centimeters — give or take — into the air by the silk that had shot out from his hand, connecting him to the ceiling like a cowgirl chandelier.

“Oh my god,” Shane said, as they both laughed, lifting himself off Ilya’s cock fully and swinging a bit.

As he spun and lowered down to the bed, bracketing Ilya’s legs once more, Ilya couldn’t help but note, “You know, they make sex swings for purchase.”

“Fuck you,” Shane huffed with a smile, running a hand through the mess on Ilya’s chest, a few droplets of cum having made their way all the way up to his chin. With the other hand, he carefully removed the cock ring, and then slicked Ilya up with his own release. Two pumps and Ilya was already feeling lightheaded, the rush of blood through his rock hard dick making him groan.

“At least,” Ilya started, choking when Shane slid down the bed and promptly sucked him down, “I did not make any spider puns. Yet.”

Shane pulled off, tonguing at the slit hard enough to make Ilya wince, before he replied, “Christ, do you ever shut up?”

Ilya, who had been very obviously baiting this exact reaction, just opened his mouth, pleased when Shane pushed two fingers together and shot a wad of web directly between his teeth.

“Mmph,” Ilya said for emphasis, both of them knowing he could spit out the gag at any moment.

It didn’t take long at all after that, Shane’s warm throat and eager suction bringing him to the edge, his sounds all muffled by the silk on his tongue. With one final pass and a sticky hand pressed to his abs to hold him down, Ilya came with a barely audible shout, Shane swallowing deep to suck him dry.

They lay together for a long moment afterward, Ilya still tied up and chest heaving as he caught his breath, and Shane smiling dopily, mouthing at his favorite resting place with his cheek pressed to Ilya’s right thigh. Eventually, Ilya’s grumbling stomach brought them down to earth (they had skipped dinner in favor of his punishment, after all) and Shane stood up, carefully untying each of Ilya’s limbs, before massaging them to get the blood flowing.

Ilya couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted to the massive scar that still cut across Shane’s leg, from groin to knee, faded from pink to a stark white over time and jagged like a bolt of lightning. It was easier to see it now than it had been in their first year together, Ilya often transported back to the gruesome surgery, and the sick feeling that he would lose Shane again, permanently. They had stayed only six more months in the Harlem apartment, through the end of the Admirals’ playoff run, with Ilya nearing a panic attack every time he had to step into that tub to shower. The rent-controlled apartment remained with the Rozanov family, though they’d started leasing it out to rookie Admirals players instead (after replacing the carpet in the guest bedroom, obviously, which had been bloodstained beyond saving).

After gently wiping them both down, Shane curled into Ilya’s side, letting Ilya persuade him into ordering pizza — ‘baby, we burned so many calories just now, we are not getting vegan cheese’ — and instructing Ilya to cue up Eclipse, which was Shane’s favorite of the Twilight series for inexplicable reasons (but probably involving werewolf abs, if Ilya had to guess). They both knew, of course, that fueled by carbs and another quickie round, he would fall asleep well before the credits.

It was odd, this little life, and so full of second and third chances. Teenage Ilya, languishing in shame in the hospital, would have found it unbelievable — a house and a cat jointly owned with his boyfriend in a boring Canadian city, both of them gainfully employed in their fields, and a calendar on the fridge full of baffling events like: Beer League, Thursday, 7 p.m. (Shane needs skates sharpened!), New York Trip, Friday to Sunday <3 Dinner with Scott/Kip/Eric/Kyle at The Good Good, and David catsitting (no extra treats, Dad!).

Ilya smiled to himself as Shane submitted their order in the app, dropping his phone somewhere amongst the sheets, and nosing into the space at Ilya’s collarbone. Arm wrapping around Shane’s shoulder to tug him closer, Ilya glanced at the glint of silver there, a delicate bracelet encircling his wrist, held together by a spider-shaped clasp. If you looked extra closely, you might even see a different, second shimmer, a gossamer web forming part of the stack. He had, much to Shane’s teary-eyed realization back in the old apartment, simply never taken it off.

It was barely five minutes later, when Shane’s nose did a familiar twitch, his body suddenly jolting up to a seated position. Ilya grumbled, bearing the brunt of Shane’s elbows and knees, and watched with fond amusement as Shane tilted his head, like a dog being asked a question in peppy human tones.

“Fawn. Stuck on the pond ice,” he explained briefly, already on his feet.

Ilya sank back into the pillows, waving him off. “Go on. I will get the door when the pizza guy arrives.”

Darting over, Shane pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then — in a complicated blur of motion — he was dressed, plain black balaclava pulled over his features, and launching himself out of their second floor bedroom’s wide bay window (a highly specific requirement which their realtor had taken in stride).

Ilya watched him go, his little spider, still heroic in the ways that counted. The curtains flapped in the wind, cool spring breeze blowing through now refreshing rather than frightening him.

After all this time, these were their simple truths:

Shane would leave the window open.

And Ilya would welcome him home.