Help Me Love You

You Know Nothing

The rush and exhilaration of swinging through the air will never get old. The floating feeling, like being able to fly is so freeing that he'd never get tired of it. The adrenaline of the risk, the constant quick calculations paired with the pleasant feeling in his lower stomach make no trip the same, and one will never be boring. Although it's a lot of work, it isn't stressful. It's routine, second nature even.

It would however be much more relaxed if he wasn't being shot at constantly.

The Reader just does not seem to give up. Every fight one of them has to come out victorious, but neither settle with a single victory. Both knowing the war isn't won when the first battle is done.

Spider-Man is still burdened by last time, but it fuels him too. He won't let anyone get hurt anymore, definitely not by the hands of someone who won't even speak to him.

So far the battle seems fruitless. They're flying a lot around each other, changing positions constantly. Attacks are being thrown every now and then too, mostly from the villain in white. Spider-Man just jumps around, avoiding every blast and manoeuvring them around the pedestrians. Most importantly though, he has been avoiding eye contact. Not wanting a repeat of earlier battles.

But he knows it's inevitable. One slip up and he is stuck in that gaze, seeing memories behind eyes of whom he doesn't know, not aware of anything for the split second that it takes.

This time it happens more unexpected than ever before. He is mid swing when The Reader flies past him, so startling close, and looks him directly in the eye.

He can't fathom what happens next. He knows a lot went through his mind, processing images faster than the speed of light. Perhaps it's not processing though, maybe it's showing, projecting. A canvas of film for the villain to see, what a disturbing thought that is.

Each time a sliver of it slips through though. He's somehow glad that it does, that way he is aware of it happening, and if he sees a bit more he can calculate their next moves on the information The Reader read from his mind.

This time it's a whisper of something. It's unfamiliar in his memory, like his ears haven't heard it yet, but he knows it came from him. "I don't want to be strangers anymore."

The words are said so softly, it can barely be called a whisper anymore. It's a stark contrast to the bright, intense blue that accompanies the words. It feels like there's more to see, than more has been shown, but he is still hung up in the intensity of the colour.

Desperate to pull himself back to the battle, Spider-Man cries out a remark. "Can we wrap this up? I have somewhere to be!" he bellows, trying to put as much strength and sass in the words as possible.

He isn't prepared for the robotic voice that rings out from somewhere around The Reader's chest. "You're always late already, you can disappoint them again this time." And, ouch- if that didn't hit close to home. The Reader must have seen something of his flailing excuses and inner loathing about how often he let's his friends down. It doesn't help that The Reader once again has terrible timing as it's again on a counselling day. Peter should be there in about fifteen minutes. Instead Spider-Man is swinging through the air. Disappointing Harley Keener once more.

He's so wrapped up by his inner turmoil that he doesn't notice himself shooting a web, at absolutely nothing. Calculating his path and webbings is a big part of being Spider-Man, and somehow he forgot about it just now.

He crashes towards the ground at an alarming speed, desperately shooting webs around. He knows it's hopeless though. Now that his mind is fully back in the present his infamous calculation skills have returned as well. He is definitely able to see that there is no way a web will catch onto a high enough building in time, lifting him up without his body dragging over the ground. If it would drag at all, the possibility of a sudden crash landing seeming more likely by the second.