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That person who helps others simply because it should or must be done, and because it is the right thing to do, is indeed without a doubt, a real superhero.
– Stan Lee
This was possibly the most inconvenient Friday afternoon of Shane Hollander’s life.
He had a game against Boston this evening. Which would normally be great news– hell, ecstatic news even. He loved hockey and he loved playing against Ilya Rozanov on home ice. What was really stressing him out was that he planned to get to the Bell Centre in a few minutes. Which wouldn’t be a problem if Shane wasn’t still chasing down some petty thieves stirring up shit in downtown Montreal.
“I really don’t have time for this,” Shane muttered to himself as he saw the couple of thieves rush into a car and begin speeding down the street.
Shane continued to swing his way across the city, using his webs to latch onto a shorter building. He tucked and rolled to a stop on top of the building’s roof.
From his vantage point, Shane saw one of the thieves lean out the car window and give him the middle finger, smiling widely and yelling, “Suck on it Spidey-Boy!”
The street turned to chaos as pedestrians and cars swerved to avoid the reckless speeding of the thieves, honking and shrieking all at once. This really could not have been worse timing. And to think that he had to turn down Ilya’s invitation to meet up earlier in favour of this. Shane quickly checked the time through a built-in watch integrated along the arm of the suit. Okay, there was approximately 10 minutes left before he really had to get going. At times like these, Shane contemplated if his reputation as the punctual team captain was more of a vice than a virtue.
Shane took a deep breath and leapt from the building, his eyes swiftly tracking the speeding band of thieves. With a few large strides, Shane swung his way around a small alleyway where the thieves were beginning to turn into. He hid behind a large trash bin, nearly gagging at the smell. He checked the time. Eight minutes to spare. Sure enough, Shane soon heard the rumbling of the thieves’ car as it slowed into the alleyway.
Shane didn’t even wait for them to completely step out of the vehicle before he sprung out and webbed both of their hands, effectively immobilizing them. One of the thieves, the one that had yelled at Shane earlier, opened his mouth to yell something but Shane instantly sealed both their mouths shut with more webbing.
Phew. Okay, there was still six minutes left to spare. Not too bad. The threat was subdued. Now Shane just had to check the car to make sure–
Suddenly, Shane sensed a click and he leaped into the air before a bullet came flying straight into the spot he stood a few mere seconds prior. Shane leapt up and clung to the side brick wall of the alleyway and narrowed his eyes to focus on the source of the attack. A third, much burlier, man emerged from the vehicle, holding a shotgun between both hands. So there were three of these fuckers. How did Shane not sense that? He supposed he was too preoccupied with thinking of his game later. He was never a good multitasker.
Another bullet was fired and Shane dodged imperceptibly quickly, landing back on the ground. Another bullet, another dodge.
“I really don’t have time for this,” Shane mumbled to himself for the umpteenth time.
He shot out a web to clog up the barrel of the gun and lodge up the trigger.
“Augh!” The burly man shouted out in frustration when the gun refused to fire.
He threw it aside and began to storm furiously at Shane, his arms raised in attack. Shane easily dodged the first hook, leaping to the side to avoid it by an inch before shooting a web at the man’s wrist, effectively gluing his right arm to his side. The man yelped in surprise and swung his left fist, but Shane did the same thing.
The man stood on two legs, stiff as a bowling pin as he charged at Shane furiously despite both arms stuck to his sides, “You little shit!”
The man was large and heavy handed, yet packed a surprising speed that Shane genuinely did not expect. He ran headfirst, trying to ram Shane into the garbage bin like a wild beast, but Shane dodged in a blink. The man slammed head first into the garbage bin with a rattling clang, body crumpling instantly at the impact.
“That definitely calls for concussion protocol.”
In the distance, Shane could hear the whirring of police cars. Finally, took them a while. He checked the time. One minute to spare. Great. If he cleaned up this mess and rushed home, he might have time to whisk up a quick protein smoothie to grab on the way to the Bell Centre. He knew the traffic was going to be awful, the typical traffic that jammed the streets before any game on home ice– paired with the fiasco that these thieves had just caused– would not make for the most pleasant streets. Did he have enough yogurt left over in his fridge to make his smoothie? He would have to do a quick grocery run after the game if he was running low. Shit, he also forgot to text his Mom about that Sobeys partnership– Wham!
A resounding smack jolted Shane out of his thoughts. Fortunately, his body reacted before his mind noticed what was happening and Shane realized the sound came from a kick to his head. Fortunately, his arm blocked the blow in record speed, but it still hurt like hell against Shane’s forearm. The burly man, despite his probably concussed head and arms stuck to his sides, was still so persistent in protecting his money. The man swung his leg again, trying to strike at Shane’s torso, but Shane caught the meaty leg and twisted, sending the man flying straight into the cobbled ground.
“Shit, sorry,” Shane automatically said. It looked painful. The man’s head was already concussed from his prior ramming into the garbage can and now his face was scratched and bleeding from landing face-first into the rough asphalt of the alleyway ground.
Shane quickly piled the three thieves together with a growing discomfort brimming in his stomach. He webbed their torsos and wrists tightly together and thoroughly searched the vehicle for any possible threats. He ultimately found nothing worth mentioning except for three giant bags of cash piled into the passenger seats.
By the time the police pulled up to the scene, lights blaring and sirens wailing rambunctiously, Spiderman was gone. All that was left were three thieves bound together in tightly wrapped silk webbing and three large bags of cash piled a few feet away from them.
🕸️
“Hey buddy, you okay?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Shane replied.
Hayden was looking at Shane with a raised eyebrow as Shane stumbled into the locker room.
“Nothing, you just look like you ran a marathon.”
“Oh– Uh. Nah, it was just some really bad traffic on my way here,” Shane said.
“You saw the news, Capitaine?” A voice cut in. JJ Boiziau joined the conversation, he was waving his phone wildly around at the two of them.
“There was a robbery here not too long ago,” JJ’s screen showed the local news with images of a busy street in downtown Montreal. “People stealing from the bank and then causing a catastrophe on the streets. That probably caused the traffic.”
“Wait, that’s literally only a few blocks away! When was this?” Hayden exclaimed after peering at JJ’s phone.
Shane schooled his expression to try and look equally surprised, but not too surprised. Just the right amount of Wow really? and Oh, this is just some local news as always.
“Respirer par le nez,” JJ said, “Fucking relax, Hayden. Don’t worry, Spiderman ended up catching them before they got too far.” JJ said the name Spiderman like it was a firecracker, bursting with pride and fervor.
He swiped at his phone to the next image, which was a blurry zoomed-in photo of a man in a red and blue suit swinging along a building. Shane’s ears reddened at the awkward position that the photo captured him in.
JJ sighed. “Ugh, too bad. I almost got to see him in person today, but of course I missed it.”
“I don’t know if you want to get stuck in a robbery car chase just to see some superhero,” Hayden said.
“Eh, but I probably would though. Wouldn’t you, Capitaine?” JJ turned to Shane, slapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah, he is really cool,” Shane supplied, the discrete genius that he was.
“The things I would do to take a picture with Spiderman,” JJ sighed dreamily, “Somehow I always just miss him when he does something cool in the city. Malchance.”
Shane felt a strange mix of pride and tension rise in his chest. If only JJ knew who he was talking to right now.
🕸️
The game was bad. Shane had two clear opportunities at the net but flubbed both of them. The team’s passes just weren’t connecting like they should have. It also didn’t help that Ilya scored a hat trick all within the first period. Fucking superstar. It was beautiful work, Shane had to admit, but he hated that it wasn’t his team that executed the feat.
Shane’s tempo was off the whole game, and he knew that his teammates and coach could tell he was in a sour mood. All Shane could think of was the face of the bloodied thief, his desperateness in securing the money despite the many head injuries, and his bravery in continuing to pick a fight against Shane to protect the cash despite the fact that he was immobilized, and no match for Spiderman, and quite honestly could have died if Shane was any less careful.
The man did a textbook Bad Thing: he robbed a bank and drove a car through a pedestrian-heavy street like a madman for fuck’s sake. And Shane did a textbook Good Thing: swung over to complete his job as Spiderman and stop the robbery. But seeing desperation like that was like seeing a gambler still choosing to throw his last coin. That kind of blind recklessness that only the most desperate people resorted to. There was always a push and pull raging in Shane’s mind when he encountered people like this. How many of these people were driven off the wrong path, changed by misfortune or grief or anger, or any of the multitudes of human emotions that made one risky decision lead to the next? And how, fucking how, could Shane Hollander have the audacity to say he’s “delivering justice” when a thief the same age as his own father looks him in the eyes and is willing to die to protect a couple bags of cash?
“Shane Hollander,” The reporter chippered happily as she stuck a giant microphone under his nose.
Shane was still sweaty and gross, his compression shirt stuck to his chest like tight webbing binding over a bruised torso.
“Pardon? Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he leaned down slightly to focus on the reporter’s words over the loudness of the post-game arena. She looked slightly flushed as she stuttered her question.
“Rozanov scored a hat trick tonight. Can you walk me through the game and how your team was feeling?”
Shane ran a hand through his sweaty hair. No, I don’t really want to talk about that awful game, Shane wanted to say, but ultimately decided to give a very PR friendly response to the persistent interviewer. He threw in a few “get pucks deep” and “keep our heads up” and “the boys did what they could tonight”, until the reporters cleared away and seemed satisfied at what Montreal’s captain had to say about losing to Boston. Shane wondered what Ilya was boasting about to his own reporters on some other end of the Bell Centre.
The subsequent locker room shower was blissfully cold and unpleasant. Shane aggressively dried his hair with an unfortunate towel in a failed attempt to wipe away his overthinking brain when he received a message from Lily.
Lily: Do I get a reward for my hat trick ))
Shane couldn’t help but smile stupidly at his phone.
Jane: You overtook me in the scoring race. That’s your reward
Lily: not really like a reward if i know it would happen eventually
Jane: You won’t be ahead for long.
Lily: Hm.
Lily: So, are you feeling brave tonight? Front door?
Jane: Same passcode
Lily:
Ilya then sent a GIF of a man sticking out his tongue and shaking his head side to side excitedly. Shane couldn’t help but let a small laugh escape him, and promptly sobered up after seeing the inquisitive look that Hayden was shooting him from the side.
🕸️
Shane must’ve been the God Of Willpower to have been able to turn Ilya down before the game. Shane knew there wouldn’t be much time during his game to do Spiderman’s routine nightsweeps. He wanted to make the most of his days in Montreal to look after the city while he was in town, especially since he was away so frequently for games. So he promptly told Ilya that he was busy meeting up with his parents. But now Shane, floating in heaven, resented his former self for ever turning this down.
“Fuck,” Shane groaned.
Ilya’s warmth found a way to embed itself into every crevice between his bones.
“You can’t think straight right now?” Ilya mused, “Do you need concussion protocol?”
Shane tried to relax his body, allow Ilya to overcome all his tensions, ease all the soreness and worries wedged between his muscles. But the sudden reference to concussion protocol just reminded Shane of his encounter with the burly thief from earlier. He couldn’t shake the thief’s bloody face from his head. He needed to forget about all that right now. He wasn’t Spiderman now, he was just Shane, and he needed to clear his mind if he wanted any semblance of peace.
Ilya could sense Shane’s tense up, and paused, reaching up to brush the bangs out of Shane’s face, “Are you okay?”
“No– Yeah,” Shane nodded, “just in my head about the game.”
Shane knew he was a bad liar.
Ilya frowned and pressed a kiss into Shane’s collarbone, “You are seriously thinking about hockey now still?” He nudged himself closer, as if to say, Really? Now of all times?
Shane let out a breathy laugh and grabbed onto a handful of Ilya’s hair, “No, not anymore.”
Shane suddenly heard the shattering of glass and the yelp of a woman. Ilya didn’t pick up on it, obviously, as it was probably from the bodega three blocks down, but Shane froze imperceptively at the sounds that only he could pick up. Please, not now, Shane thought.
But almost as if the universe was directly answering his thoughts, Shane heard the sounds of more shrieking and then a louder smash.
Ilya tentatively reached out to stroke Shane’s cheek, “What’s wrong my Shane?” He asked gently, leaning in for a kiss.
Another sound jolted Shane, and he flinched unintentionally away from Ilya’s reach. The immediate hurt on Ilya’s face felt like a dagger straight into Shane’s heart.
“Fuck, sorry Ilya, I didn’t mean to–,” Shane heard another shriek and then a gunshot. Shit. His heart began thumping a million beats a second as he tore himself away from Ilya on pure instinct. He winced as he felt them disconnect, but couldn’t dwell much on the thought. That sound was surely coming from the bodega a few blocks down. He knew the way there. If he took the path around the main road he could probably get his way there in less than a minute if he timed the momentum of his swings right.
“I– fuck, I have to go,” Shane didn’t know what to say, and time was running short, he could sense something bad was happening and he didn’t want to waste any time.
Ilya looked at Shane like he just kicked him in the gut. Shane reached up to run a hand through his own hair, then rushed to the door, then stuttered as he went back to Ilya. Fuck, what was he doing? He heard another crash and his senses started shooting up like alarms in his head. It felt like he was trying to swim against a raging current while a shark was trying to gnaw at him from underneath.
Without thinking, Shane ushered a quick ‘sorry, I have to go’ before running out the door in a hurry. He threw on a pair of paints and didn’t bother with a shirt as he made his way down the stairs. Once he was certain he was out of Ilya’s sight, Shane switched into his spider-suit at lightning speed and swung his way out onto the streets, being wary to stay hidden amongst the building tops of the dark night.
🕸️
“With great power comes great responsibility,” Shane whispered to himself as he whipped across Montreal’s night air, swinging speedily from web to web.
It was painful how deeply this memo had been brandished into Shane’s heart. He knew this game all too well, knew the unignorable weight of responsibility like an intimate lover.
“Fuck,” Shane tried to focus on his swinging, but his eyes teared up as a tsunami of thoughts began to crash over him.
Since the moment it became clear that Shane Hollander was not your average Canadian hockey boy– the second the possibility of the NHL rose on his horizons– Shane knew he would be that ‘one Asian hockey player’. Anything he did would somehow become a stereotype for all and any athletes that remotely looked like him. Shane wasn't oblivious, but he figured that dwelling on the tokenized, commercialized product that was Shane Hollander was unproductive. Montreal could champion their beautiful image of diversity and equity, and Shane would play good hockey.
It wasn’t a special honour or a sense of justice he had to act on, he simply was Japanese. There was no nobleness attached to the unchangeable way he was born. Shane didn’t even know if he was explicitly proud of being Japanese. He wasn’t ashamed, nor was it something he looked past. He acknowledged it, clear and simple.
The word “proud” would imply that he had something strong to ground his roots in, to refer back to, to stand out with his Japanese-ness worn strong on his shoulders like a medal. In reality, his mother was born in Canadian culture and has minimal conversational Japanese skills, much less carry those skills into Shane. Sure there were small things, the food he ate growing up, the utensils he used, small cultural principles he was told to value. But truly, Shane felt this exaggeration of his Asian heritage had much less to do with his actual lived experiences and more to do with his looks.
Shane knew the power he wielded in simply being himself, being someone like him to do the things that he did. Yet, the concept of Shane Hollander in itself was a political statement, a cultural phenomenon, an active performance in every step. It wasn’t “Look what Shane Hollander Accomplished”, it was “Look what Asian Hockey-Player Shane Hollander Accomplished”. It was whether he was doing a good job at representing a group of people that should never be represented by a singular– much less the singular that was Shane Hollander. It felt like someone had haphazardly plopped a bike helmet on his head before launching him into the void: Big ups, Shane, you are now responsible for representing the entire concept of Asians in hockey.
“With great power,” Shane repeated, pronouncing each vowel slowly as if to engrave every syllable into his mind, “Comes great responsibility.”
And then, with a good dosage of situational irony, Shane got bitten by a radioactive spider and suddenly became responsible for fighting crime and protecting Montreal.
Responsibility was binding; it didn’t matter if Shane wanted to or not, responsibility was responsibility. Responsibility did not ask if you were ready, if you were tired or scared or a little bit too young to carry its weight. It was about being a symbol of Asian-Canadian excellence in sports, a confidently charismatic public figure of his caliber, and a fucking superhero named Spiderman who wore a stupid suit and protected his city from crime.
Now Shane had power over Ilya Rozanov’s heart, and he had the responsibility to protect that– to carefully hold the vulnerability and authenticity and intimacy that Ilya had handed to him, fresh and alive and beating from Ilya’s hands straight into Shane’s.
It didn’t help how he wanted to toss responsibility out the window right now. He wished he could’ve remained blissfully ignorant, turned off his heightened senses and just stayed in Ilya’s arms. It was so stupid and such a small problem to have compared to the duties of both Shane Hollander and Spiderman. But God forbid Shane wanted to spend one night with his boyfriend without having the expectation to be anything.
He arrived at the bodega in time to block the door before the thief stormed out. Shane operated on autopilot as he went through the motions of stopping a robbery, which wasn’t all that common in Montreal, but it happened often enough for Shane that he could probably do it blindfolded.
A skinny man in a shiesty swung at Shane’s head, but Shane caught the fist and sent a punch with his other hand, careful to restrain his strength to land a blow on the side of the man’s face, hopefully enough to knock some sense into the guy.
“Fuck!” The thief stumbled back and grabbed his cheek in pain. The man reached for his gun, a fucking hunting rifle of all things, and loaded it with impressive speed considering his lanky build.
Shane didn’t let him load the bullet, taking the small window of time to bind the thief with webs, sending him flying to stick against the wall of the bodega. Shane pried the weapon from his hands and recklessly smashed it on the ground, trying to break the stupid hunk of metal from impact alone. Feeling like the worst version of himself, Shane cleaned up all the broken glass shards, helped rearrange the shelves to a less dismantled state, and assured that the woman behind the counter wasn’t hurt. He called the cops to get the thief dealt with before swinging back to his apartment. He felt more broken-hearted than the glass windows of the bodega.
Shane wasn’t sure what he would do once he got back. Would Ilya have left already? Shane wasn’t sure he liked either side of that answer. Shane quietly climbed over the back-end of his apartment complex, where the large trashcan and shrubs grew, careful not to cause any ruckus. He turned, going to reach for his mask to wipe at tears when he froze, fingers stilling at his sides as he noticed a tall man leaning against the complex’s back wall, cigarette in hand, equally frozen midway from his lips.
“Ilya!” Shane yelped in surprise. “Shit– I ahem, I mean,” Shane remembered himself and corrected, saying in a slightly lower voice to hopefully conceal his identity, “Aha, you’re Ilya Rozanov. Big hockey fan.”
Shane tried to roll back his shoulders to hide his conflicted feelings, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He awkwardly stuck out his hand to offer a handshake to Ilya. What the hell was he doing?
Ilya stayed frozen in shock for a while before putting the cigarette between his lips and giving Shane a firm handshake. Ilya looked Shane up and down, and Shane couldn’t tell if Ilya was flabbergasted, in awe, or judging him. He assumed it was a combination of the three from the way he still wasn’t saying anything.
“Spider… guy,” Ilya said cautiously, “You are patrolling the city so late still?”
“Yeah, lots of crime and people to help on a night like this,” Shane replied, trying not to stutter over himself as he used his fake deep voice to hide his identity.
He wanted to ask where Ilya learned that word, patrolling. He wanted to reach out and grab the cigarette, tell Ilya to stop smoking since it was horrible for his lungs. He wanted to reach out and fix a messy curl that was sticking out the side of Ilya’s head. Wanted to tear off his mask and lean over and kiss him– to apologize for leaving earlier, because how could he leave so abruptly without explanation and see Ilya so upset?
Ilya nodded like that was a very helpful explanation. He reached into his pocket and procured a box of cigarettes, he flicked open the lid and held it out to Shane. God, of course Ilya of all people would be the type of guy to offer Spiderman a cigarette.
“No, I uh,” Shane pointed to his mask, “Don’t smoke.”
“Ah, okey,” Ilya responded and pocketed the cigarettes.
It was then that Shane noticed the subtle red rims of Ilya’s eyes. Entirely imperceptible to anybody else, but to someone like Shane, who spent hours memorizing every expression and emotion that would come to pass by Ilya’s face, it was a surprise that Shane didn’t notice earlier. Had Ilya been crying before?
Okay, Shane was making a decision now and he couldn’t back out. He had to comfort Ilya one way or another, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to do that as Shane at the moment. Spiderman was going to have to help out one last civilian this evening.
“So…” Shane said as nonchalantly as possible, going to sidle up against the wall beside Ilya, keeping a respectable distance between the two, “What’s the captain of the Raiders doing out so late on the night of a win?”
Ilya let out a startled laugh and looked amusedly at Shane, taking a drag from his cigarette, “I did not know Spider-guy was such a hockey fan. But I guess everyone in Montreal likes hockey, ah?”
Shane nodded, “Yeah, you can’t call yourself someone from Montreal if you don’t know anything about hockey.”
“You are a Shane Hollander fan?” Ilya asked as casually as if he was commenting on the weather.
Shane nearly jumped out of his skin. He spluttered for a good minute like a car engine failing to start before he decided to cough it out, pounding at his chest in the process.
“Yeah, he’s a great player– Go Metros, obviously,” Shane choked out.
Ilya seemed completely unbothered as he continued to smoke his cigarette. “I’m better though.”
Oh this fucker. Unfortunately, Spiderman had no choice but to defend Shane Hollander’s honour, as his responsibility as a citizen of Montreal, of course. No other reason.
“Are you sure about that?” Shane asked, “Doesn’t he have like three Stanley Cups? I– I think that’s what it was last time I checked right?” Shane couldn’t be too knowledgeable about himself.
“Yes, but individual players and teams winning cups are different things. We want to compare individual players? We look at stats, okay. Sh- Hollander has less goals per season for three seasons in a row now–”
“Two seasons,” Shane interrupted, “Uh, I think.” He added for good measure.
“Well, this season also I am ahead of him. So, yes. Three seasons now.” Ilya said matter-of-factly.
Shane battled his pride; should he completely out himself as Shane Hollander, possibly excuse himself that he was just a massive Hollander fan who happened to know every detail about his stats? Or was this really not worth it?
“You only surpassed him tonight, I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.” Shane was going all in now.
“No, I’m not getting ahead of myself, is simple logic. I am the better goal-scorer. More power play goals, all-time leader in power play points, all time highest goal-scorer,” Ilya began listing things off with his fingers.
The two of them continued arguing back and forth over hockey stats, Ilya fending for himself and Spiderman fending for his fellow Montreal representative Shane Hollander. Amidst the dynamic conversation, Shane noticed that the faint traces of Ilya’s earlier crying had disappeared and he looked like a lot less was weighing on his mind. Shane’s heart cramped up at the idea that his leaving probably caused that in the first place, and internally admonished himself for hurting the one he loved. Even though he wasn’t Shane right now, he was glad he could help Ilya in one way or another.
“So, Spider-guy,” Ilya said following a short pause that came after a shared bout of laughter, “You spend your nights saving the city or do you just like finding lonely hockey players to make fun of?”
“Fuck y–,” Shane nearly said before catching himself, realizing how this would be overy familiar to Ilya and Shane’s identity would have been figured out immediately. He cleared his throat and reordered his sentence.
“Yeah! Fuck Yeah! Yeah,” ever the wordsmith, “I love saving the city and, ahem, love hockey as well. Fuck Yeah.” Shane added in a few more for good measure, pumping his fist to show Spiderman’s enthusiastic charm for his city and for hockey.
Ilya looked at him like Spiderman had just reached into his ass and procured a shiny ball.
“You are very fucking strange,” Ilya said simply, giving Shane an unblinking stare. It was the kind of Slavic stare that Shane had come to familiarize himself with, the kind of look that seemed to peer past all his layers and straight into his unconscious mind.
Shane felt himself go red with embarrassment.
“Well, I’m just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman.” Shane said, like it was a sticky note he had to stick on to every conversation he had as Spiderman. It became part of his script and he honestly didn’t know how the fuck else to respond to Ilya’s comment.
“Thank you, friendly Spiderman. Was a nice conversation,” Ilya let out a large sigh as he lifted his weight off of the wall, stubbing out his cigarette and discarding it in a nearby wastebin.
This felt strange somehow. Shane was successful in making Ilya feel better, less upset and worried, but the root of the problem was still wedged deep in the dirt. Shane never wanted to leave Ilya like that, to ever make his Ilya doubt that Shane took his time or vulnerability for granted, that what Shane did was inexcusable and irredeemable and he was sorry. He wanted to reassure Ilya. He wanted to apologize to him. Shane needed to tell Ilya the truth. Right now.
“So, what are you doing here, of all places?” Shane asked. Judging from the way Ilya’s entire figure tensed up instantly, Shane figured that maybe wasn’t the best question. Shane had no idea how he was going about this.
“I, uh,” Ilya turned around to face Shane, looking seemingly non-chalant, but to Shane’s trained eye was clearly distressed, “Just had some errands to run nearby and found a nice place to smoke.”
Shane eyed the no-smoking sign plastered against the wall a few feet away but ultimately decided not to comment. Ilya suddenly reached into his pocket to check his phone, suddenly seeming like he was in a hurry.
“Ah, I have to go now. It is–” Ilya gawked at his phone dramatically like there was something explosively surprising plastered on his screen, “getting very late! Was nice meeting you Spider guy,” he rushed out quickly.
Ilya scuffled around the back of the wall in long strides and Shane soon heard the sound of a car starting, Ilya’s inconspicuously “boring car” that he rented during his brief stay in Montreal no doubt. Shane listened to Ilya drive away far off into the distance, all the way until his heightened senses couldn’t pick up on the car wheels grinding against asphalt anymore before sinking to his knees and pressing his palms into his eyes in exasperation.
🕸️
Ten days later, Shane was in Boston for a sponsorship with New Balance. As per his mom’s requests, Shane was to visit their headquarters, film a joint advertisement with another tennis athlete, and “network with people outside the hockey sphere” as Yuna had graciously put it. Unfortunately, Shane’s dear mom and manager was busy in some romantic city in Europe or another, so Shane was left to fend for himself.
Ever since his encounter with Ilya as Spiderman, the two hadn’t been texting much at all. Shane sent Ilya a message, obviously, expressing his deepest apologies for leaving so suddenly and even adding a voice note to convey his sincerity. Ilya responded saying that he understands and loves Shane so much and doesn’t want Shane to worry about it, and to make it up to him when Shane was to visit Boston. Despite the reassurances, Shane could tell that Ilya was still hurt by his actions.
It also didn’t help that the Raiders had lost by an embarrassing amount to the Pittsburgh Penguins a few days after, a morbid 6-1 that Shane knew must have pounded Ilya’s spirits into the dirt. So despite their semi-frequent messages and sharing of hockey news, Shane could tell Ilya was in a sour mood altogether and it didn’t help that Shane’s actions from that night was probably the cherry on top.
Shane had just finished a long day of commercial shooting and socializing, and had even stayed for a company dinner that Yuna surely would be proud of Shane for attending. After a very extended goodbye and many gracious "Thank Yous” and "We'll Stay In Touches”, Shane retired to the hotel room that New Balance provided him during his brief stay.
The Boston air was crisp and refreshing through the cracked open hotel window. The sounds of traffic rolled ambiently into his stuffy hotel room, and Shane decided that now was time to tackle the more important part of his visit to Boston.
Shane looked into the full body mirror. He could do this. He could trust Ilya more than anyone. No more hiding.
“Hey, Ilya,” He practiced in front of the mirror, “Sorry for leaving you ten days ago while we were in the middle of… um… and not explaining to you why I left… and hurting you so much that you cried, and even as we’re texting still not explaining why I left you...” Shane took a deep breath, “It’s because I’m Spiderman.”
Shane looked into the mirror and flashed a smile. It was the kind of grin he gave cameras during commercial shoots, plastered like he had something to prove.
Shane groaned and dragged his hands down his face. It was almost comical how obnoxiously bright red and blue his spider-suit was. He packed the suit thinking that wearing it during his reveal to Ilya would provide some visual aid to support his argument, but that line of thought was becoming increasingly unhelpful the more he dwelled on it.
Hastily, Shane threw on a pair of black slacks and a zip-up sweater before repositioning himself in front of the mirror. He regarded his reflection for a second before quickly skidding to the washroom to wet his hands and tame his spiky bangs. Once he was back to the full-body mirror, Shane balled his hands together awkwardly as he regarded his reflection once again. He should probably stick his hands in his sweater pockets.
Fuck it, he moved his hands to hook on the belt loops of his slacks.
He cleared his throat and practiced again, “Hi Ilya. I’m sorry for leaving you that day. I could tell I hurt you and that wasn’t my intention. I just had to go because– because I’m Spiderman.”
With a sense of grandeur, he unzipped his sweater to brandish the Spiderman suit concealed underneath. Shane’s fingers returned to their nonchalant position in his belt loops. He caught his own eyes reflecting back at him in the mirror.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Shane murmured.
It was two fucking AM and he was talking to himself, striking silly poses in his spider-suit. Shane decided he would have to face this problem when it came tomorrow. He stripped and showered, burying himself in his blankets and checking his messages Lily. The last message was a half hearted, “Yeah lol” from that morning when Ilya responded to something Shane said that wasn’t even all that funny. Shane sighed to expel the tightness coiling around his ribs and slammed his phone on the bedside table. He curled deep into the hotel blankets before falling into a nervous sleep.
🕸️
“Ilya,” Shane swallowed around a growing lump in his throat, “I need to tell you something.”
Ilya’s Boston apartment was a beautiful, serene thing. Floor to ceiling windows, tasteful accents, and subtle indoor lighting. The two of them were now in Ilya’s kitchen. Shane sat on a tall stool across the island table as Ilya reached for a ginger ale in his fridge.
Ilya looked at him, a growing concern clouding his eyes at Shane’s serious tone. He closed the fridge, placing the ginger ale on the table quietly in a silent go on.
Shane continued, “I was meaning to tell you for a while. But I’ve been– I don’t know. I’ve been scared, I guess. But I know that you would understand. Or maybe you’ve already figured it out.”
Shane chuckled a bit pathetically.
“Oh Shane,” Ilya’s voice was gentle, always so careful when Shane became vulnerable.
“I don’t like lying to you, Ilya. I need you to know that I wasn’t avoiding you on purpose. I’ve just been dealing with a lot recently, and this has been weighing on my mind. And I think–” Shane swallowed thickly. How on Earth was he supposed to say this?
Ilya peered into Shane’s glassy eyes, and Shane felt a sudden tug from deep in his chest. “Shane. You are panicking too much. Is just me, you do not have to be so scared.”
Ilya made his way around the table to stand in front of Shane. He placed a hand on Shane’s cheek, brushing his thumb ever so carefully over the constellations of freckles.
“Yeah,” Shane squeezed his eyes shut. Now that he was on the verge of telling Ilya, it felt like he was standing on the edge of a skyscraper, wobbling before his doom. Ilya looked at Shane with infinite understanding in his eyes, waiting patiently for Shane to open up.
“Is it about that night?” Ilya asked tentatively.
At the same time Shane said, “It’s about that night I left you.”
Ilya looked at Shane with so much sorrow and grief in his eyes, it felt like someone had wedged a knife into Shane’s chest, puncturing his lungs.
Shane continued, “It’s been something for a while. And I didn’t want to tell you because– because… I don’t know. I guess I thought I would end up hurting you. But I realized that me not telling you is hurting you more. And I hate lying to you Ilya. I really do.”
Ilya took a shuddering breath. Small tears were beginning to pool in his eyes.
When Shane hadn’t made any indication of saying more, Ilya said quietly, as if the words had the power to rip apart the space between them if spoken too loudly:
“You think maybe we were a mistake?”
“I’m Spiderman.”
“What?” Ilya barked in Russian.
“What?” Shane choked.
Ilya’s hand froze on Shane’s cheek. He waited for a glint in Shane’s eye, a smirk, any telltale sign that Shane was telling another one of his sarcastic jokes. Nothing.
At Ilya’s frozen body, Shane repeated, “No, no! Ilya. I’m Spiderman. The superhero… the red and blue guy?”
“You are fucking spider guy?!” Ilya exclaimed. It was a mix of relief and bewilderment and an inkling of fear.
No, not fucking him. I am him. Shane wanted to say, but ultimately decided that was an inside thought.
“Yes,” Shane said instead, “Spiderman. I’m Spiderman. That’s why I left so abruptly the last time. And those handful of other times I left in such a hurry. And then I was fucking up all my games, and I wasn’t talking to you, and– I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I made you feel like I was running away from you, or avoiding you. I never want you to feel like that.” Shane started to run out of breath as he began spilling his entire life story as Spiderman in careful detail.
When Shane was done, Ilya, inexplicably, and yet also in true Ilya fashion, began to laugh.
It started as a low chuckle but quickly erupted into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Ilya’s hand left Shane’s cheek and instead went to slap at Shane’s shoulder as he doubled over.
Shane tried to fight his own smile but ultimately failed, “What?” He breathed, “Do you think I’m pranking you?”
Shane himself couldn’t deny the absurdity of the situation laid before him.
“No,” Ilya heaved. “I would think it was a prank if it was anyone but you.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. I was worried, my Shane. But it turns out you are just– Just the spider guy that swings around fucking Montreal!” Ilya said in complete bewilderment. He slowly began to sober up from his fit of laughter, but the joyous grin never left his face.
“So that night after our game, and I was talking to Spiderman,” Ilya swallowed, “I was actually talking to you.”
Shane turned bright red at the memory.
“Uh– Yeah,” he said eloquently.
“Oh, Shane,” Ilya laughed in disbelief. He leaned over and smothered Shane in a giant hug before moving to press kisses along every square centimeter of Shane’s face. Shane felt the weight on his shoulders lighten significantly and he couldn’t help but smile at Ilya’s open affection.
Shane always felt a stupid amount of bravery when he was with Ilya. Suddenly, nothing felt too big to conquer.
“Does anyone else know?” Ilya asked, lips brushing along Shane’s cheek.
“No. You’re the only one who knows.”
Ilya nodded and heaved out a long breath as he slowly pulled away to look at Shane’s face. “Shane Hollander. Being the best Canadian Hockey player is not good enough for you? Also need to be the famous superhero fighting bad guys every night?”
Shane couldn’t help but grin, “Best hockey player?”
“I said Canadian hockey player.” Ilya emphasized.
“Oh, and am I the best Canadian superhero too?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling now.
“Yes. Best and most boring. Probably the only Canadian superhero ever.”
“You don’t think Terry Fox is a superhero?”
“Woah. No way. Terry Fox!?” Ilya exclaimed in mock surprise, “What is a fucking Terry Fox. Is that Canada’s national animal?”
Shane’s cheeks were seriously cramping from smiling too much. “No! He’s a Canadian legend. He ran across the country for cancer research. He’s like Canada’s national hero.”
Ilya nodded, his face saying ‘not bad’. Shane almost thought Ilya was going to be serious until he said, “So does spider guy raise money for cancer?”
Shane let out a startled laugh. “You’re an asshole.”
“What? Nothing is asshole about asking about spider-guy’s charity work!”
“Spiderman.” Shane corrected.
“Ah, yes sorry. You are a man, not just some guy. Spiderman… Spider-Shane… Shaney-spider…Shaney-Man.”
“You’re workshopping names now?”
“Yes Shane. Only you could be a cool superhero and think of such a boring name.” Ilya paused, and then suddenly lit up, as if he realized something monumental. “So you have powers then?”
Shane smiled. Wordlessly, he struck out his hand to release a web onto the ginger ale sitting on the edge of the table. In one effortless swoop, the web stuck to the can and was dragged into Shane’s receiving hand in an instant.
Ilya gaped at him, completely awestruck, like a little boy’s superhero dreams come true.
“Shane Hollander is Spiderman,” Ilya said disbelievingly, grinning as he leaned down to kiss across Shane’s face. “You are not fucking real.”
Shane kissed him back, slowly and carefully, willing the act to eradicate any doubt that Ilya ever had about Shane not loving him, of doubting their connection, of thinking Ilya was– it physically pained Shane to even think the word– a mistake.
“You are the best thing to ever happen in my life,” Shane breathed.
“No, you are the best thing to ever happen in anybody’s life. Fucking Spiderman,” Ilya huffed.
Shane laughed, and it felt like he was injecting pure sunshine into his veins.
“So last time,” Ilya said, eyes glinting mischievously, “You left me halfway because there was some crime you needed to fight?”
“Yeah, actually, there was a robbery a few blocks down.”
“Woah. And you stopped them?”
“Obviously, I’m Spiderman.”
Shane took this perfect opportunity to unzip his sweater and reveal the spider-suit he wore underneath. Ilya laughed like Shane was the lamest, most endearing, most endlessly wonderful person in the world.
🕸️
“Holy fucking shit– Shane!”
Ilya buried his face into Shane’s neck. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“You’re doing great Ilya, just hold on,” Shane murmured sweetly.
Shane’s voice was so deep and handsome and if popular magazine articles calling Shane a heartthrob held any truth, which they very much did, Ilya would consider his heart thoroughly throbbed. Shane’s body was warm and firm beneath him, strong muscles flexing at every movement.
“Shane,” Ilya whined, “Please, Shane.”
Ilya was going to die.
“Oh my god– Oh my god– !”
Shane sucked in a pained breath as Ilya’s nails dug into his skin, his fingers squeezing too tight at a muscle behind Shane’s neck.
“Fuck, Shane. Shane— Shane!”
Ilya was clinging on to Shane for dear life. Literally.
The two of them were suspended several meters above ground, hanging only by a measly thread of webbing that Shane swore was “Very strong, Ilya, so don’t worry”.
“This is not funny, Shane!”
Shane must have decided it was, in fact, very funny and scoffed lightheartedly into Ilya’s hair as he detached the string of web from the building. Shane allowed them to free fall for a few seconds, brought forward by their swinging momentum, before shooting out a new web to another building and continuing to propel the two of them forward. Ilya’s face was resolutely tucked into the crook underneath Shane’s jaw and securely above his collarbone. His arms were wrapped firmly around Shane’s neck and his legs were hooked around his torso as he clung to Shane while they swung between buildings. If anything, Ilya felt more like a spider-man as all of his limbs were driven by the single purpose of clinging onto Shane with as much resolve as humanly possible.
“You’re so scared,” Shane said. His voice was equal parts teasing and in awe, as if seeing Ilya so shaken was a rare treat he wanted to indulge in.
“Yes! I am fucking scared Shane! I’m scared of throwing up all over your stupid fucking superhero suit! ” Ilya quickly squeezed his eyes shut and squished his face even further into Shane’s neck as they maneuvered a particularly dizzying swing.
“You don’t trust me?” Shane asked in that dry sarcastic tone of his.
Shane’s endearing voice was almost, almost, enough to make Ilya’s heart forget that he was flying several speeds too high in the air. “I trust you, I trust you, I trust–”
Another heart-dropping swing shook through Ilya’s body and he was beginning to think Shane was doing this on purpose.
“Fucking shit! Fuck!” Ilya yelped a long string of expletives in Russian.
Shane was full on laughing now. His chest vibrating under Ilya. The Boston night breeze was cool past Ilya’s clammy body, and he wished he could get over his nausea quickly so he could just enjoy the view as much as Shane seemed to love it. A breath later, Shane perched himself on the roof of a tall building overlooking the entirety of downtown Boston. Only after Shane gave Ilya a few soft pats on the back, did Ilya notice that Shane was standing on solid ground and belatedly realized that he could let go of his duct tape-like grip on Shane’s body.
Ilya stumbled to take a seat on the rooftop, trying to get the ground to stop feeling so wobbly beneath his feet. Shane crouched down elegantly to sit right next to him, their shoulders bumping and sides pressed close together. The two of them sat in silence for a while as Ilya rediscovered his centre of gravity and stopped feeling like he was seconds away from emptying his dinner onto the ground in front of him. Boston’s beautiful nighttime cityscape laid bare before them several meters below.
“Whew!” Ilya exclaimed. “What a fucking spin.”
Shane laughed unabashedly, always so easy to smile around Ilya’s antics. He tore off his Spiderman mask and ran his hand through his hair. Ilya’s heart performed a mini Olympic-level gymnastics routine on the bones of his ribcage and he instinctively went to clutch at his chest in response.
“Fucking heartthrob,” Ilya sighed, referencing the countless magazine articles he had so wholeheartedly agreed with in his mind earlier.
“What?” Shane mused, “Jealous?”
He flashed Ilya a ridiculously attractive smile that made Ilya’s heart nearly stop then and there.
“Yes. Super jealous of the guy that gets to fuck–”
“Yeah, let’s not ruin the vibe,” Shane interrupted pointedly, turning his head to purposefully gaze out at the cityscape, as if to jokingly say: Seriously, Ilya? In front of this gorgeous view?
“You are a hypocrite!” Ilya cried dramatically, jabbing a finger at Shane’s chest, “You ‘ruined the vibe’ a long time ago when you tried to jump down my pants after your beautiful heartfelt confession.” Ilya then switched to his awful Shane impression, “Hi Ilya, I was hiding a very big scary secret from you for a long time and now I’m opening up my heart to tell you. Now please let me suck you off, any questions?”
Shane barked out a laugh and shoved Ilya with the side of his shoulder.
Ilya shoved back in response, “What, you wanted to see my reaction after the reveal? Like I would be so amazed because now I know Spiderman also gives great head?”
“Fuck you,” Shane said, his ultimate response to almost any strange combination of words that Ilya conjured up.
“Ah, no but it would ruin the vibe!” Ilya cried mockingly.
“I’m not blowing you on the rooftop of some building.”
“Never fucking suggested that. You are thinking too dirty now,” Ilya said. He wagged a finger and shook his head in mock disapproval.
Shane laughed, then assumed a pretend grieving expression, “Okay, so I guess that’s off the table forever then.”
Ilya looked at Shane, stunned, overjoyed, and disbelieving like he was an overworked salaryman that just got offered a major pay upgrade and three months of paid vacation.
“Shane Hollander would allow for that to happen?”
Shane shrugged, “Maybe Spiderman would? Who knows?”
“You are Spiderman. You would know.”
“I’m not sucking your fucking dick right now, Ilya,” Shane dryly deadpanned.
Ilya groaned dramatically and laid down on his back, propping his hands behind his head as if he were lounging on a beach. A moment of comfortable silence passed between them as Ilya grieved the loss of the opportunity.
“You aren’t afraid people will find out Spiderman is in Boston?” Ilya asked, his voice a lot calmer now.
“Never doubt Spiderman’s stealth abilities,” Shane responded and honest-to-God winked at Ilya.
Shane might as well have planted an explosive into Ilya’s heart. It felt like his heart was going to burst and he went to clutch at his chest to mitigate the very-real ache that began to fester.
“You are going to kill me, Hollander,” Ilya said. And he wasn’t even being dramatic.
Shane laughed softly and reached over to run his hands through Ilya’s curls.
“Feeling better now?” Shane asked, referring to Ilya’s nauseous state from earlier.
Ilya sighed, feeling so much more at ease on solid ground, “Yes. Let’s go for another swing. Right now.”
Shane laughed so loud that his entire chest fully heaved in the process.
He reached over to knock lightly at Ilya’s skull, “Hello? Is Rozanov in there? This guy says he wants to go for another swing.”
Ilya couldn’t fight the painfully large grin on his face at Shane’s stupid joke and batted away Shane’s arm. It led to the two of them wrestling back and forth for a while as Shane continued to swat at Ilya’s head and Ilya insisted to swat back at Shane’s. The two of them gave up after a few minutes, seemingly both running out of energy at the same time, and Ilya leaned back on his forearms to look at the gorgeous view of Boston’s metropolitan nightlife.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Shane asked.
Yes. It was mindblowingly beautiful.
Boston’s streets lit up with tiny lights like hundreds of fireflies dancing in the dark. Everything looked so small, yet came together to form something so completely whole; it was like if even one component of the scene was missing, it would feel off. Every car on the road, every restaurant light open, every glowing apartment window, they all told a story that stitched together to form the beautiful quilt that was Boston. From their vantage point, Ilya could see the city from a perspective he had never seen before, a gorgeous culmination of people and their little lights.
Ilya looked to his right, at the man who changed his perspective on life as a whole. Shane’s hair was mused and slightly sweaty, a careful breeze ruffling through the strands. Ilya reached over to run his hands through the softness. Shane’s eyes were shiny and reflected the infinite stars strewn across the Boston cityscape, and Ilya thought he could stare into them for hours to count each light that flickered in their reflection.
Mindblowingly beautiful.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said, feeling terribly awestruck, because it was all he could think to say at the moment. He felt an overwhelming current in his chest that threatened to overflow, and he had to convey even a fraction of how he felt to the man by his side.
Shane turned to face Ilya, freckles moving along with his cheekbones as his mouth curved into a breathtaking smile. Those beautiful doe-like brown eyes gazed imploringly back at Ilya.
“I love you too.”