unruly › peter parker

fifteen. aiden mills

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"AIDEN MILLS, SON of a renowned tycoon, was found dead in his condo at 4:46 AM this morning." A picture of Aiden Mills appeared at the right corner of the TV screen; lustrous dark hair, prominent cheek bones, a dimpled smile, and sun-kissed skin.

Too bad he's dead.

Rhea let out a gasp, eyes widening at the man she was certain she's seen before. "I... know him."

"You do?" Peter, who insisted on skipping school and accompanying Rhea at home, took a seat unintentionally close beside her, before quickly shifting away in a state of diffidence.

"Well, I recognise him. When I returned home yesterday, my mother was all over him," Rhea recalled, frowning at the unsheathed memory she couldn't wait to forget, "I can't tell whether she liked him for his money or his looks. But he's gone now, she must be heartbroken."

Her words struck a pang in Peter's chest. Something didn't sit right with him, and he knew this was way more than just a gut feeling.

"He had died as a result of a brain hemorrhage, after allegedly slipping on the bathroom floor and hitting his head on the edge of the bathtub. However, the New York Police Department has not concluded it as an accidental death. Further investigations are ongoing."

"If they haven't confirmed that it's an accidental death... Do you think someone might've been behind it?" Peter asked, pursing his lips and eyeing Rhea for any signs that told him she wasn't herself.

But she only returned him with a credulous, innocent gaze, "You mean to say, he was murdered?"

"Maybe." He shrugged, inhaling sharply and swallowing his apprehension down, as if that was enough to get rid of the horrible, appalling thought that at one point just yesterday, it was possible that Rhea's hands were covered in crimson.

It felt so, so wrong to call that monster Rhea. He had to do something, anything, to stop it from gaining complete control over the girl he knew so well, yet he can't even distinguish between the two anymore.

It was starting to consume her, become her. And he didn't want to lose her.

"Rhea," he began, facing her on the couch, "I really like you." Please recognise those words.

"What?" She broke out into a mousy smile, champagne pink starting to infuse with her cheeks as she looked away from his intense gaze. Far more intense than it ever was, as if he had an ulterior motive.

But of course she didn't notice, because she wouldn't remember a single thing from their exchange yesterday. To her, it never happened.

"I really like you." He repeated, begging internally to see a glimmer of realization that he was merely quoting her exact words.

Rhea cupped his cheeks in her hands, taken aback by his sudden, unusual words of affection. "I really like you too."

That glimmer of realization he wanted never came.

In the late afternoon, half an hour after Midtown has dismissed all its students, Peter kissed Rhea goodbye for his "Spider-man duties". But in actuality, he headed straight to Ned's apartment.

Knocking on his window, he was greeted by the familiarity of his best friend, something that he could lose forever with Rhea if he continued doing the bare minimum.

"Won't Tony Stark be upset to see you here not doing the superhero stuff you're supposed to be doing?" He teased casually, seeing Peter in his suit. He had known his secret far longer than anyone else, although him finding out was by accident, and Rhea's was on purpose.

"I need to ask you something really important."

"What is it?"

"Did Rhea contact you yesterday?" Peter forced out from underneath the mask, not bothering to remove it.

"Now that you mentioned it, yeah, she did. She wanted me to track some phone number, said it was her mother's friend who had lost his cellphone, so she wanted to help."

A pathological liar, got it. He was mentally taking down notes of every characteristic he's known so far about Rhea's imposter. He was going to recognise and call her out eventually, by hook or by crook. "What's his name?"

Ned paused to think, before nodding to confirm it, "Aiden." That name poured gasoline onto the spark of dread within Peter.

Letting out a breath through a swirl of sickening horror and epiphany, not a single word left his lips. He was glad he kept the mask on, so Ned wouldn't notice how pale his face had gone from the paralysing fear that spread throughout his body like icy, liquid metal. And the sweat that was starting to engulf him in the body-hugging suit.

Peter's terror sat quietly, eroding him. What started as a contortion of his stomach became a feeling of being smothered by an invisible hand when he came to a realization. There were two types of murderers, one who kills and crumples under the weight of guilt, while the other never loses a wink of sleep over it.

The unruly was the second one.

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qotd !! ;
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