𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓼- 𝓜𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓵 𝓞'𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓪

Conniving under Candelight

Author's note:

Hi, everyone! Sorry updates are coming a little slow; I've had a stressful couple of days. Monday, in the parking lot of my gym, a 42 year old man in a massive pickup truck hit my parked car. He cursed and shouted at me, and then physically hit me when I told him what he did wasn't okay. I've been a little busy filing for assault and a hit and run. I got a video of him scraping up my car, but I can't get him on assault because I have no proof.

I wanted to tell you guys this to remind you that you should always video situations like that.  Take pictures of license plates. Sometimes people can be terrible, and you need to have evidence to protect yourself. 

Be careful out there lol. Sorry for the upsetting story! 

BACK TO THE STORY (not the one about a violent middle-aged man with a beard and assault charges)

Miracles do happen.

Because the next day at training, Miguel acknowledged you.

You had just glided through the air, sticking a crumbly landing that sent you staggering backwards. A broad hand pressed up against your back, fingers almost curled as it caught you. Startled, you glanced up and saw Miguel's dark features staring down, his eyes unreadable rubies. Inexplicably, your heartbeat tripped. You didn't move away, frozen against the support of his palm.

"Balance your weight between both feet," Miguel corrected in a concise, sharp tone. He nodded brusquely and slid his hand off of your back. Glitter danced hot against the skin where his fingers had been. You shook it away like sparkles off of a prom dress. 

You clambered up the wall, fingers skidding along the surface in the half-lit darkness. The Spider Complex room had absolutely no windows, sealing it in pitch blackness. Thankfully, Jessica had speckled the complex with her concerningly large collection of scented candles. Their flames swished like skirts in the crosswinds of training. 

As you shoved your feet off the wall and became airborne, you arched your back. Exactly as Miguel had suggested, you planted your feet and steadily landed. With an expectant grin, you whirled around for Miguel's approval. But he'd long moved on, coaching Paxton Parker on his web slinging. Besides, something else distracted him:

Miguel despised clothes. Because of the power outage, he couldn't project his holographic suit. He uncomfortably tugged on the color of his crisp polo shirt, scowling down at it with the distress of a martyr. He kicked his leg as if a pebble haunted his shoe. 

Finally, Miguel stalked away from Paxton, his hands holding his narrow waist. Pressing his lips into a flat smile, he tapped Hobie's arm. Hobie yanked off his mohawked mask with a question hovering in his eyes, and Miguel grimly nodded. The two of them vanished down the corridors and didn't return. 

"You and Miguel talk an awful lot," you mentioned to Hobie that afternoon at lunch. Hobie devoured a chunky peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut into precise little triangles. Hobie always ate neat things: sliced into squares or diced into cubes. It was a funny contradiction. Maybe because he whipped most of his life into a whirlpool of chaos, he liked his food well-behaved. 

"Guess so." Hobie chomped into a dainty sandwich, distracted by a pad of paper he scribbled on. You felt a brief prick of curiosity for what he wrote but didn't linger on it. 

"What do you two even have to talk about?" 

"That's what this is, innit? You're jealous!" Hobie's grin was impish and smug, as if he'd stolen your answer on a math test.

"Jealous? For who- Miguel?" You scoffed, crossing your arms. "No way." 

"Listen, luv. If you want his attention so bad, just ask him for those night training sessions." Hobie kicked his platformed converse onto the table. Noir looked pained and protectively drew his tray closer. "Miguel complained my ear off about you skipping those. You wasting an opportunity and all that." 

"First of all, I'm not about to train at night. The power's still out, and-"

"I don't do the dark," chorused Arachnida, Hobie, and Noir, smirking at each other. 

"Exactly." You declared, deciding to ignore your friends' amusement at your new favorite phrase. 

"I don't do the dark," you'd said when Hobie had pounced on your bed to drag you out for midnight exploring.

"I don't do the dark," you'd said when Arachida had mischievously tried to set you up on a date with Paxton Parker. 

"I don't do the dark," you'd said when Noir had quietly asked you to stay awake with him. 

"Maybe the dark is meant to be lonely," Noir had dolefully agreed, and his response sounded so crestfallen that you'd demanded he light a candle and hold out for the sunrise with you. 

"Second of all." You brandished your fork in the air like a baton, whisking away your clouds of thought. "I don't even want Miguel's attention." 

"Too bad you already have it," Arachnida giggled, a hint of awe in her lilting voice. You followed her catlike blue eyes. Miguel slouched his muscled shoulder against the door frame of the lunchroom, troubled lines etched into his forehead. He looked contemplative, as if you'd spilled into jigsaw pieces and it frustrated him to leave the puzzle alone. 

Ignoring the little ping your heart gave, you forced your focus back to Arachnida. She usually gave closed-mouthed smiles because of her crooked bottom teeth, but now she unabashedly grinned at you. "Maybe I don't need to set you up with Paxton, after all."

Then, to your horror, Hobie gallantly leaped to his feet in the middle of the crowded cafeteria and shouted, "Hey, Miggy!" Miguel's dark eyebrows lifted, and he shouldered through the colorful traffic of spider variations toward your table. 

"Hobie, you idiot," You hissed, ducking your head to glare at him. A blush bit your cheeks, and you briefly buried your face into your hands with embarrassment. 

"Just helping out a friend," Hobie said, beaming with wide-eyed, mock innocence. You straightened self-consciously as Miguel reached your table. Not as if it mattered, he didn't even toss you a glance.

"What," he moodily snapped at Hobie, who's grin deepened until he resembled an edgy cheshire cat. 

"Remember when you said I could call in a favor?" Hobie began, twirling a silver ring on his finger. "(Y/n)'s been working hard, but I think she could benefit from some extra help. From you."

"I don't have time to squander on girls who don't care about the fate of the multiverse." Miguel said bluntly, with a serious face. "Besides, I'm meeting someone else tonight."

"Who?" Arachnida demanded, her ears practically pricking up to collect the gossip like grass collects dewdrops. 

"Hobie." Miguel icily crossed his arms, bristling at her curiosity. Arachnida shrank into her seat a little. Miguel still unnerved her. Your curiosity shimmered briefly like sunlight across a laketop. Why would Hobie and Miguel meet? Why did Miguel owe him a favor? 

"Hey, don't worry about that," Hobie immediately insisted, shooting a sidelong, lazy wink at you. "We'll chat tomorrow. Help her out tonight." Hobie. The best wingman for a flight you didn't even want to fly.

"Fine." Miguel gave a miffed nod, as if he wanted to protest but couldn't. "9pm. On the dot."

"Wonderful," you dryly said after he'd left, and Arachnida, Hobie, and Noir burst into applause with gusto. 

Later that evening, a crumpled, yellow sticky note lay on your pillow. 

Waste my time again and I'll beat you until you can't walk.

You laughed weakly at Miguel's grumpy joke. It had been a joke, right?