CHAPTER TWENTY ONE;
moonlight and fresh tears.
AMALA'S SUITCASE FALLS ON THE CARPET IN A LOUD THUD. Upon entering the hotel, Amala had a single goal in mind: get to her room and pass out until everything is okay again.
They'd arrived at around midnight and students clambered out, desperate to see the hotel. It was a massive upgrade since Venice — so much so, they honestly couldn't believe it. Instead of dingy signs and moldy carpets, beautiful chandeliers and marble floors greeted them. It was beautiful and it probably cost more than the entire trip's budget.
It just made it all the worse for Amala.
After a long, long, long safety speech given by Mr. Dell and Mr. Harrington (that only needed about two minutes, had they not jogged circles around the point) everyone went up to their respective rooms. Students were given a room each, so Akira and Amala separated sadly, but promised to hang out before everyone woke up.
Akira could see the emotional exhaustion in Amala's eyes, so she bid her goodnight and told her to take care of herself. Amala simply smiled, thankful for such an understanding best friend.
Now in her room, Amala takes a moment to assess the space. A clean, queen size bed sits in the middle, two nightstands on each side. The walls are a simple cream color with curtains a shade darker. The carpet is a deep maroon and it contrasts nicely with the wallpaper. More importantly, the room looks clean and Amala wants to sob in relief.
Sighing, she unzips her suitcase and grabs her bag of toiletries in one hand, juggling a set of pajamas with the other.
She enters the bathroom and nearly swoons at its cleanliness; white tiles and a beautiful vanity are stationed, with crisp light making the room brighter.
Amala undresses quickly and turns on the faucet to the hottest dial possible, before stepping in.
Burning water hits her back, neck and hair. She sighs under the stream, letting her whole body get drenched. Her muscles un-tense and for just a moment, she feels at peace.
"Fuck." Amala curses as a detangler brush gets caught on a strand of knotted hair.
She breaths in and out, before trying again. After several more tries, she finally brushes through it and finishes the rest of her hair. She applies her standard hair products, taking care to rake it all through her curls. Once satisfied, she walks out of the bathroom, dirty clothing in hand.
Amala throws them into a mesh bag of her other dirty clothes and shudders at the temperature. The AC has been on since she got here and she hasn't bothered to turn it off. After a bit of searching, she finds the remote and shuts it down. Still, it feels too chilly for comfort. At this, Amala digs through her suitcase for a hoodie. Brown eyes land on a deep emerald hoodie and her hand pauses.
Don't be pathetic, she tells herself. You have other hoodies.
It's almost taunting her, the fabric stands out amongst her other clothes and she can almost smell it's cologne.
Don't, Amala, she beckons to herself. Don't.
She groans. Fuck it.
Her hands yank the hoodie out of its place and she slips it on angrily.
It's only because she cold and that's the first hoodie she saw. There's no ulterior motive. She simply needed to get warm, no matter the fix.
You're a loser, her internal monologue insults.
She scoffs.
Turning around and facing her bed, Amala contemplates her choices: stay awake and sob from paranoia or sleep it all away and hope for a better tomorrow? The choice comes easy.
Moon drops patter against the window, sliding down against the glass in a slow motion. Overhead, critters and the like flutter across the sky, squeezing through ajar doors. Sounds of cars and traffic muffle into the air, streaming through bedroom windows.
Amala is back in her room, sitting cross-legged on the bed as soft music streams through her phone. A book is laid between her thighs, its bookmark discarded somewhere between the sheets. She switches songs every now and then, from "I Can't Handle Change" to "Sodus".
There's an odd tranquility about nights like this; when the whole world is asleep except for her. It feels intimate, almost. To exist when the world ceases to — even if it's temporary.
Her balcony door is slightly open which lets silent wind spread across her room. She's unsure why it's still open, given the breeze is chilly, but she doesn't dwell. She doesn't close it, either.
Several minutes pass and "SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK" by Joji rotates onto her phone speakers. That's when she hears it.
A quiet but distinct thud comes from the balcony.
Amala turns towards the source, her finger caressing the part of her book. Slowly, a figure slides into view, their body turned away and perched on the railing.
Amala's heart stutters, he came back?
Slowly, she closes her book and slides out of her bed. Amala slides on random slippers sitting near the base of her bed and grabs a familiar emerald colored hoodie.
With her lips pursed, she slowly pushes the door fully open, before sliding out and closing it behind her.
She breaths in the night air as raindrops splash on the railing.
"Amala," The voice says quietly.
She closes her eyes. "B,"
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he simple adjusts his perch, gripping the metal bars, his back turned to her.
Amala takes a nervous step back; she doesn't want to get wet and somehow, being close to him makes her nervous.
For a moment, Amala contemplates asking him why he's here. After what went down — after that night — why come back? He hadn't come in so long, what changed?
Truthfully, Amala missed him. She really, really did. His company was sweet and even through all the anonymity, she still felt safe with him.
Quiet stretches beyond them. Nothing is heard except for the rain and the streets below. Spider-man doesn't move — not even an inch — and Amala is too anxious to disturb him.
She sighs. God, she can't handle the silence any longer.
"B, are you-"
"What does he have that I don't?"
Amala pauses. "What?"
"What does he have that I don't?" He repeats, a bit louder this time.
"Who's 'he'?" She asks, rubbing her hands across her arms to stay warm.
"Amala, please." His voice comes out in a plead. "You know who."
Her face tenses. He's right, she does know. Yet somehow, the answer gets caught around her tongue.
"B, I - I don't understand," she mumbles. "Why do you -"
"Care?" He answers for her. "Don't give me that. Just tell me," his feet swing off the railing and he lands on the balcony floor. "Please, Amala."
She lets out a shaky exhale and can't stop the way her words roll bitterly off her tongue. "Well, I know what he looks like for starters."
The whites of Spider-man's mask widen before they fully close.
Amala feels bad almost immediately. "I - I didn't mean - I didn't mean it like that." She winces.
His words come out hoarse and the sound of her name on his tongue sparks a match of familiarity she can't extinguish. "Then how did you mean it, Amala?"
Sighing, Amala looks at the moon. The rain makes the sky look like it's melting and the moon hangs proudly above it all, glimmering and untouchable.
"I just mean - I just meant that between you and him, I know him more. I know what he looks like, where he goes, his school, his family background. What do I know about you?" She explains, her stomach starting to churn.
"All the things that count." Spider-man says simply.
"Yeah, I know. But there's more to it, B" Replies Amala. "Trust is important to me. Honesty, too. I don't feel like you trust me or tell me the truth. Not enough, at least."
In a swift motion, Spider-man takes a stride closer to her, until she can almost feel his costume dig into her thighs. His hands hover over her, unsure of what to do. Amala doesn't back away and he uses that as a green card to settle his hands on her clothed shoulder.
Goosebumps spread across her skin and she gasps quietly.
"I do trust you, Amala. I really do." Spider-man whispers. "I let you see me at my worst moments, I let you take care of me when I was at my weakest, I let you see and know me."
If Amala closes her eyes, she can almost feel his breath fanning against her. Her mind becomes a playground of chaos. "I know."
He shakes his head. "I am honest, too. You know all of me — I've given all of me to you. Nobody sees me like you. I tell you all the things that matter."
Her heart grows uncontrollably erratic and her voice strains with a build up of tears she didn't even know were there. "But not the things that are important."
Spider-man's shoulders visibly deflate and whether he lets out an aggressive sob or a defeated sigh is unknown.
He mumbles something under his breath that Amala can't understand and all the while, her body shivers from the rain.
"I'm sorry, B." She starts to say, feeling her vision get clouded. "I'm so, so, sorry." She repeats, unsure of why she's apologizing.
Spider-man slides his hand down her shoulders until he reaches her wrists. He holds her right one gently, before bringing it back up. Pressing it on his chest, Amala can feel his heart beat; bump, bump, bump, it goes.
"I have nothing to hide from you," he whispers. "This is all of me." He grabs her hand again and presses it to his neck. "Everything you touch is yours, Amala — I'm yours. If it takes showing you who I am for you to believe it, I'll do it. I trust you."
A single tear falls from her eyes. Her heart strains and begs for relief.
"Take off my mask."
Amala's world stops. "What?"
"Take of my mask, Amala."
Another tear cascades down her cheek. "What - B - what are you-"
He takes one of his hands and presses it into her cheek. "Take off my mask." He repeats.
Amala just stares at him, dew-eyed and heart about to explode from her throat. "B, I don't understand -"
He says nothing except for, "Take off mask."
Her hands are shaking against his clothed neck and she slides it back to his chest in a desperate attempt to steady herself. Sanity has left her grasp and she's reduced to a raw, shaking mess.
Spider-man says nothing more and his hands don't waver from her cheek.
Slowly, with quivering hands, her fingers loop around the base of his neck. She scratches at the fabric gently, until she feels a seam, and loops her fingers around it's end.
Her chest rises and falls quickly, the rain making her fingers slippery. She starts pulling the mask slowly, from bottom to top. Instinctively, her eyes close and her hand stutters.
Take it off, take it off, take it off, her mind chants.
Her eyes scrunch even tighter and in a final, bold motion, she rips the mask off.
For a moment, pure silence swarms the air.
Amala refuses to open her eyes. Spider-man doesn't say a word.
Rain splashes around them and for a second, it's all she can hear. Just the sound of clouds spraying the earth clean, just the sound of breathing, just the sound of fear and something new.
"Open your eyes." Spider-man says, suddenly breaking the silence.
She shakes her head.
"Open them." Spider-man repeats.
She shakes her head again.
"Open them, Amala." Peter whispers.
Silence.
What?
Beyond confused, Amala opens her eyes reluctantly. The sight she's met with almost makes her sink to the floor.
Mocha brown, mid length hair falls in a wet cascade against Spider-man's forehead. Thick eyebrows frame his face, his coffee eyes glimmer under the moonlight. His nose is rounded at the end, his Cupid 's bow wet from the rain. His lips look soft and gentle — his lips look kissable.
She takes him in, all at once. From his hair to his chin, Amala looks and looks and looks. She can't believe this.
A myriad of tears spill onto her cheeks. "Peter?"
His eyes meet hers and she officially breaks.
"Hi, Amala." He smiles shyly.
Her head is shaking and her vision skews. "Peter..."
Suddenly, she's backing away, her back hitting the railway of her balcony. It's like her feet have moved on their own, no command needed. Rainfall dribbles against her and her whole body soaks in seconds.
Spider-man - no, Peter takes a step towards her, following her into the rain.
"Can I come closer?" He asks quietly.
Words form and die on her mouth. She nods.
Walking up to her, Amala watches him move. The suit fits him like a glove and she'd be making a mockery of herself is she said he didn't look good.
He was beautiful. That was her Peter and he was so beautiful, it hurt.
Placing his hands on either side of Amala — and on the railings — Peter regards her with a gaze of pure, unadulterated affection.
Even through her blurry visions, Amala stares back, completely enamored by the person in front of her.
Raindrops fall onto his forehead, before they slip down his cheek and continue their journey to his neck.
There is so much she wants to say.
"Peter - I - I don't understand. I mean - what?" She starts off, her head and heart synonymously on fire.
A warm, spandex glazed finger presses onto her mouth, actively silencing her.
Peter shakes his head, hair ruffling.
"Nothing for you to understand, Amala. It's just me." He soothes.
It's just you, her voice echos.
In this moment, when the world outside them spins, their world stops. Time comes to a slow and anything beyond then is reduced to a senseless, deafened silence.
Nothing makes sense. She's drowning. She knows nothing.
Yet, there's one thing she understands.
With shaking hands, she grabs Peter's cheeks, her palms flat to his face. One deep breath, one blink, one tear and then her lips are smashing against his.
Lips slide against each other, water and tears mix together and drown their bodies. Peter wastes no time reciprocating the kiss, diving deeper. Her back arches against the railing and she quickly takes off a hand to support herself in fear of falling. He takes it off though, and wraps it around his neck, both his hands on her waist.
"I got you." He mumbles into the kiss.
She gasps and her mouth opens just a bit. Peter takes this as a chance to deepen the kiss.
He tastes like mint and rainwater — desire and lust swirl through her tongue. He feels like spring and the galaxies above them, like the moon's love child is between her palms.
This moment is nothing short of euphoric. Fireworks bang against her ribcage, her knees are weak, her mind is on fire. All her body reacts with passion and she kisses him like it'll never happen again.
She kisses him with meaning.
A deep part of Amala mourns the loss of this moment, even if it's not over.
Peter senses her sadness — or perhaps he just really wants to kiss her — and presses their bodies together till they're flushed. Their lips never separate and little by little, they grow familiar with each other, forming a steady pattern.
Amala tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck and Peter releases a quiet groan. Her cheeks flush impossibly darker and she kisses him with so much fervor, the Gods would be envious.
"You," he kisses her. "have no idea," he kisses her again. "how long I've waited to do this." Another kiss.
Amala tips her neck back in a blinding rage of lust, allowing for Peter's mouth to flutter to her neck. He slowly works his way down; near the point where her jaw meets her ear, the bottom of her lips, the base of her collarbone.
She shivers like a leaf, her nails digging into his shoulder.
She never wants this to stop. Ever.
Amala regrets the thought as soon as it materializes in front of her mind because just moments after, it all seemingly goes away.
The warmth flees her body and she feels the wind hit her wet face.
"Peter?" Asks Amala, confused, her eyes still closed.
Silence.
She wipes the rain from her face. "Peter?"
Looking in front of her, Amala is met with an empty balcony. Her heart sinks.
Turning back around towards the outside world, Amala calls him again. "Peter?"
No answer.
Is he...? Her mind hopes he isn't.
One final look around the balcony confirms her worst nightmare.
He's gone.
The moon drapes from the sky, it's presence still blinding.
Amala looks up and stares, fresh tears mixing with the rain on her face.
If she looks closely, she can almost see the moon taunting her.
Pathetic, pathetic, girl, it would say.
Her body shivers.
Amala wakes up devastated.
Her body is stuck to her clothes and her sheets are on the floor. In a desperate attempt for relief, she practically fights the hoodie she's wearing off of her. It lands aggressively on the floor — just a pool of green fabric, discarded.
She feels the ghost of Spider-man's touch linger against her body. No, she feels the ghost of Peter's touch linger against her body.
She cries for the first time since spring.
— END OF CHAPTER 22 —
[ NOTE ]
:] lol
been waiting to write
a dream like this since
before i starting writing
this book.
anyways! i added a
couple paragraphs to chaps
11 and 13 — i felt like this
story needed more spider-man
x amala moments to better
understand their friendship !!
consider giving them another
read for more info!
that's all. thank you for all the
support and votes !!! 1.1K reads
is crazy <3
see you soon!
pearl <3