𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓼- 𝓜𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓵 𝓞'𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓪

Diamond Secrets

Author's note: Just a heads up, this book may have some deviations from the comics! I typically try my best to keep things accurate as much as I can. Thanks for bearing with me and thanks for still reading. :)

BACK TO THE STORY

Through the distorted haze of the alcohol, you lunged up from Arachnida's lap and kissed Noir. Right on the mouth.

The reaction wasn't explosive and immediate. Instead, it set off an unsettling, horrified silence from Arachnida and Hobie. 

Noir jerked himself backward, and stared at you with startled, unblinking eyes. You were sitting on the floor across from each other, your hands curled loosely on your knees. Noir never removed his mask, and through his silvery, goggle-like eyepieces, his expression was unreadable. 

"Noir, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" you started, the guilt of your impulsive decision churning like a typhoon. Noir jolted to his feet with the rapid reflex only a spiderman could have, as if you'd stabbed him with a pencil. He shot you a scared, agitated glance, before flashing out of the room and blending into the darkness. Noir's shoulder bumped against Miguel's, and Miguel staggered backward, knocked off balance. 

"(Y/n), you're an idiot." Hobie lightly smacked you on the back of the head, groaning as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Noir was saving his first kiss."

"Oh." You stayed kneeling on the floor, staring down at your hands. Your throat tightened with remorse. "I didn't know."

"You know I like him!" Arachnida cried, abruptly slamming her palms down and leaping up. The threat of tears shimmered in her blue eyes, but she angrily blinked them away. "I can't believe you!" Arachnida gusted out of the room, the set of her shoulders taut and upset. 

"Did you know that?" Hobie asked, chewing on his cheek with bewilderment. 

"I didn't know," you lamely repeated, feeling horrible. 

"Hobie," Miguel growled, "Clean up this mess. Now."

Hobie shrugged and nimbly hopped to his feet, leaving you alone with Miguel. You'd been kneeling on the floor, and you scrambled up to meet his gaze. Even standing, you had to tilt your chin up, almost painfully. You wondered how much of his aura of intimidation came from his height. 

You'd expected to see his fangs flash with irritation, and maybe you'd hoped for a little jealousy. But you hadn't expected his sharp vermillion eyes to land on you and then soften. 

"I'm sorry," Miguel said quietly, like the rumble of a mountain cat. "I shouldn't have kissed you. That was selfish." 

Frustration tinged with hurt rushed through your veins. You didn't want him to be sorry. You wanted him to like you enough to kiss you again. To admit he'd been mistaken, that he couldn't just shake you out of his system as if you'd been a fluke cold. 

"Are you sorry?" You challenged, brazenly throwing your head back to stare him in the eye. "I'm not." 

"(Y/n)..." Miguel took a deep, conflicted inhale. He pinched the bridge of his nose, dipping the muscular curve of his neck. "I can't. It's not personal. I can't." 

"I know you don't like being touched. And that's fine. We can go really slow." You carefully held his hand in both of yours, cradling it like a fruit, warm from the sun. You ran a thumb over his knuckles, where angry red bruises betrayed that he'd been training too hard. 

 After a breathlessly hopeful moment, Miguel drew his hand back, wariness darkening his gaze. As if you'd glimpsed a little too deeply into his soul. As if he dreaded what you'd find if you pressed closer. "I made a mistake in my office. That's all this was. We're done here."

Before you could protest, Miguel strode out of the starlit atrium, but from the corner of your eye, you saw him linger by the doorframe. Silvery light glinted off of his chestnut hair as he whirled around, watching you with a desperate expression. And then he was gone.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I hate this," you grumbled at 6am the next morning. Morning trainings always felt miserable, but with a hangover they felt as torturous as a cold shower. 

"You get used to it," Hobie grouchily said, hauling himself out of the bunk beneath you. The wooden framework jostled, jarring you out of sleepiness. 

Noir and Arachnida didn't speak as they changed into their spider suits. You felt a tremor of hurt when Arachnida brushed past you, not making eye contact. Maybe it didn't matter, anyway. This afternoon was your sister Rebecca's chemo treatment. When you used the stolen watch and Miguel inevitably tracked you down, you could be kicked out of the training program. He'd probably shout at you. You knew he might be cruel enough to hit you.

For Rebecca, you sternly told yourself. I promised I'd be there. And I will. For her. 

In the training room, an adult spiderman with the classic blue-and-red suit lounged beside Miguel, his shoulders drooped in a slouch. With his mask off, you could see the friendly shine of his hazel eyes. 

"Miguel!" The new spiderman cheerfully crowed, slapping Miguel's broad back with a confident camaraderie that made the sharp line along Miguel's jaw harden. "So, you finally called for help from the Spider Society? Couldn't handle thirty-six teenagers alone?"

"I thought I could handle it," Miguel muttered, staring straight ahead with a serious expression. He raised his voice to address the throng of recruits. "Listen up. This is Peter B. Parker. He'll be replacing Jessica until she returns. Now get back to work." 

Peter B stretched his muscled arms over his head, leaning against the wall with a jocular grin. His eyes surveyed the gaggle of spider people and suddenly froze on you. Like icicles collapsing from a roof, his smile dropped. 

"Miguel, what do you think you're playing at here?" You were close enough to hear Peter B's worried murmur. 

"I have everything under control," Miguel snapped, crossing his powerful arms. An uncomfortable, brittle tension charged the air. 

Are they talking about me? You averted your eyes, pretending not to listen. 

"Have you told her?" A warning hung in Peter B's careful words. 

"Of course I haven't told her." 

"Have you kissed her?" 

Silence. 

"C'mon, man," Peter B groaned softly, studying Miguel with sympathy. The kind of sympathy you'd seen pressed into handshakes or tearful smiles at funerals. 

"I know. I messed up." Miguel sounded genuinely remorseful. He rushed a hand through his dark auburn waves. You frowned; you'd only ever seen him do that when he felt crushed by stress.  "It won't happen again."

"You should send her home; this won't end well." 

"I can't." His gravelly voice was low and choked. 

He couldn't send you home? Why? Confusion swarmed in your head like bumblebees. 

"Miguel." Peter B rested a hand on Miguel's broad shoulder. Miguel stiffened, digging his claws into the palms of his hands, but he didn't shake Peter off. An odd, anticipatory thumping pounded the base of your neck. As if a terrible secret glimmered in the balance, about to shatter like a diamond necklace. Peter's next words slipped out so gently, you barely heard them. 

"You know she's not your (y/n)."