Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Schpood’s private office glows silver with moonlight, the candles half-burnt out. The fire is nothing more than embers, and the air smells of ink, wax, and sleeplessness. Hundreds of unopened letters lie scattered across the ornate desk, glaring at the emperor and his consul like accusations. Schpood sits propped up on one elbow, head in his hand, the other loosely holding a quill.
Spyder sits diagonally from him, sorting the never-ending documents that need to be signed. Some are trivial—trade agreements, invitations to parties, acknowledgments of petty crimes—but others are in dire need of attention. Namely, the ones that Schpood continuously puts off for days, and even weeks, claiming, “It can wait.”

Schpood snaps the quill in his fingers without looking up, splattering ink across the treaty in front of him. Spyder glares at the man.

“That’s the third quill you’ve broken tonight,” Spyder snaps, his nerves frayed from having to gentle-parent Schpood more than usual the past week.

Schpood doesn’t even look up at him, yawning into his hand instead,
“Then stop counting.”

Spyder bristles, conflicted as to whether he should scold Schpood’s carelessness and give him a futile lecture… or do his best to remain composed in case Schpood is in one of those frequent moods where he feels compelled to spill blood. He grips the papers in his hand so hard they wrinkle as he takes a deep breath. After a moment, he decides to take the safe route, despite his mind screaming at him to reach across the desk and throttle some sense into the emperor.

“You still need to officially sign the marriage arrangement from Tricolor,” Spyder informs him curtly through gritted teeth, sliding the contract from Tricolor across the table until it sits right in front of Schpood.

Schpood exhales and waves his hand, eyes darting around as he looks anywhere but the papers,
“I’ll do it later.”

“You’ve been saying that since the letter arrived nearly a week ago. It cannot wait any longer,” Spyder informs him with a frown, barely keeping his temper under control.

Schpood finally picks his head up so that Spyder can see his face. Dark purple bags hang gaunt under the emperor’s eyes, his mouth imperceptibly turned downwards. Spyder’s stomach drops at just how…well… horrible Schpood looks. He had noticed over the past few days that the man had been more irritable, and certainly more tired, but had simply written it off as Schpood being Schpood. But looking at him closely now, in private, for the first time in days, with only the soft glow of candles to light up his face, it is unmistakable that there’s something deeper going on—something gnawing away at the emperor. His eyes are blank, face colorless, devoid of the wit or joy that usually rest on his features.

Spyder’s stomach drops—he hadn’t realized just how hollow and exhausted Schpood looks. He feels a pang of protective concern well up in his chest as he lays the letters down on the table.
“What’s going on?” Spyder asks gently, surprising even himself with the sincerity of his tone.

Schpood looks away from Spyder, then down to the engagement contract on the table before finally sighing and leaning back into his chair.
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, avoiding Spyder’s stare. “Just tired of all these bloody documents.”

It is incredibly unconvincing. There is no irritation, no anger. Just hollow emptiness. It’s definitely not the Schpood that Spyder knows; the one who is demanding, charming, and vaguely unstable. Spyder leans forward instinctively, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but thinks better of it at the last minute, instead laying his hand awkwardly on the table.

“It’s clearly not nothing. You haven't been yourself for a week now. You barely eat, you don’t sleep, you refuse to go to any political meetings, and you normally go to at least a few…” Spyder trails off as he hears the volume of his voice increase. He takes a deep breath and withdraws, leaning back in his chair to force himself to calm down.

It pains Spyder to see Schpood look something so close to sad; it feels unnatural. The only time he has ever seen Schpood act even remotely similarly to how he has been acting this week is when Owo was assassinated. And as far as Spyder is aware, nobody has died recently. Or at least, nobody Schpood cared about.
He feels incredibly awkward as he observes Schpood. Spyder’s good at a lot of things—orders, duty, negotiations…but he’s horrible at feelings. But he’s also willing to try simply because of how pitiful the emperor looks.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. No false pretenses are necessary. Not a word will leave this chamber. I swear on my life,” Spyder promises, gesturing around the cluttered, albeit empty, room.

Schpood glances up at him briefly before looking away again with a pout. Spyder sighs, tapping his fingers on the table impatiently.

“Schpood. It’s both unhealthy and unwise to refuse to share whatever is causing you to act this way. I am your second-in-command and most trusted advisor. I’ve been here from the very beginning of your reign; you can trust me. I have seen you half-starved and covered in the blood of your enemies. It is all the same to me now. There is absolutely no reason to refrain from sharing what’s bothering you. I mean, for Ish’s sake! Some might even say we’re friends.”

Schpood’s dark eyes finally return Spyder’s gaze, holding it for a moment as if weighing the sincerity behind the words. Then, the corners of Schpood’s mouth twitch, and an abrupt, unrestrained laugh spills out, taking on an almost maniacal edge.

Spyder blinks, caught off guard.“What?” he protests, voice tense.

Schpood’s laughter returns, louder this time, as he wipes away imaginary tears. He straightens in his chair, letting the candlelight catch the glint in his eyes as a wolfish grin tugs at his face.
“Some might say…we’re friends?” he parrots, voice playful but sharp, running a hand through his tousled brown hair.

Spyder’s face heats up. He had half hoped that the Emperor hadn’t really been paying enough attention to realize Spyder had even said that. It had slipped out, the word foreign on his tongue. However true that label may technically be, Spyder avoids using it to describe his relationship with anyone, especially the emperor, who is his superior. Trust, loyalty, companionship, duty: yes. Friend? No. And never out loud.

“Well…we’re not—I mean, you’re…we’re…I’m—” Spyder stammers, flustered, awkwardly waving a hand as if that somehow explains himself, still uncertain as to whether Schpood is displeased or not. He isn’t even sure if friend is the right way to describe the emperor, after all, they had only become close since Owo’s death and primarily spoke about diplomatic matters.

Schpood’s grin widens, amused, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed, studying Spyder like a cat watching a mouse.
“Some might say, hmm? You are my friend, Spyder. You know it, I know it. For Ish’s sake, the entirety of Westhelm knows it! And yet here you are, fumbling like a child.”

Spyder flushes, jaw tight, words failing him.
“I—well…I mean—friends… It’s…it’s not really…it’s not something I…we…” He trails off, cheeks burning as he tries his best to avoid Schpood’s amused gaze.

“Not what? Not something you say? Not something you…feel?” Schpood leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and teasing. “You do realize how ridiculous you sound right now, right? Hesitating to call me your friend?”

Spyder wants to sink into his chair or hide behind the desk.
“I… I just… I—” He can’t finish. The word sticks in his throat, heavy with a type of vulnerability he rarely allows himself to feel these days, one long buried under the cloak of responsibility.

Schpood laughs again, soft this time, more genuine, shaking his head at Spyder with an affectionate grin,
“Ah, yes. My fearsome second-in-command, the man who corrals my chaos and singlehandedly keeps the empire from burning down, is terrified of saying he has a friend.” He leans back, tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully. “I should find that endlessly entertaining. And I do.”

Spyder blinks, uncomfortably aware of the warmth creeping into his chest. He has spent years protecting Schpood from an arm’s distance, keeping the emperor steady, hiding behind the armor of duty. Yet somehow, after all these years, in this dimly lit office, Schpood has managed to make Spyder feel irrevocably, horribly seen. It’s embarrassing.

Schpood leans closer, voice dropping low, intimate, a tender smile on his face as he points a finger at Spyder. “And yet. And yet…it is also somehow endearing. You are somehow endearing.”

Spyder swallows hard as the words reach him, breath catching in his throat. The air between them feels charged with something that Spyder doesn’t dare name as Schpood looks at him in a way that few ever have.

Seeing Spyder’s obvious bashfulness and discomfort, Schpood leans closer, tone vulnerable as he reassures him,
“Spyder, I trust you more than anyone else in this bloody empire. If that isn’t the very definition of a friend, then I don’t know what is.”

Spyder swallows hard. He wants to say something, anything, but the only sound that emerges is a soft, hesitant, barely-there,
“Ok…I mean…I guess…”

Schpood’s grin returns, full and wolfish, and he leans back in his chair with a satisfied hum.
“There. Finally. A friend in words as well as in deeds. It’s been years. Took you long enough. ”

Spyder’s mind races, heat creeping up his neck. He can’t tell if he’s angry, embarrassed, or something else entirely. The whole situation is new territory, yet he feels strangely pleased. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then, without any real malice, finally mutters,
“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” Schpood responds smoothly, eyes glittering with mirth. “Well…maybe just a little,” He grins. Then, he suddenly claps his hands loudly, the sound echoing around the office, making Spyder flinch.

“Ah, thank you! I so desperately needed a laugh. Now, enough of this bore. Let’s have some wine and talk, yes?”

Schpood abruptly pushes himself out of his chair, moving across the room to where several bottles of expensive wine sit on the bookshelf. Schpood hums as selects one before shuffling back to the desk, setting down two glasses. He opens the bottle unceremoniously, pouring one for himself, then one for Spyder, who sits frozen in a state of awe and chagrin. Spyder stares at the overfilled glass of wine skeptically, unsure if he should take it or if it’s proper to drink in the presence the emperor despite the fact they’re…friends.

Schpood plops back down in his chair before proceeding to knock back his entire glass of wine in one gulp then promptly pouring himself another. He looks up at Spyder, who hasn’t even reached for the glass.

“Drink,” he commands with a frown.

Spyder hastily obeys, heart racing as his lips brush the rim of the glass. He hums as he tastes it, pleasantly surprised by how sweet it is.. He cannot even recall the last time he had wine, afraid even the smallest amount might impair him from fulfilling his duties.

Schpood grins at him, raising his eyebrows,
“It’s good, no? I had it imported from Elysium. No matter how annoying and useless that nation is, I have to admit they produce the only tolerable wine on the continent, and trust me, I’ve tried it all.”

Spyder lets a soft smile ghost his lips as he takes another sip of wine, his eyes meeting Schpood’s, who grins back at him. A warm feeling wells up in Spyder’s chest. He can’t place it. Something less like the protectiveness or anxieties he typically feels…and more like a peculiar feeling of comfort.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The second bottle of wine is half-empty by now, or half-full, depending on who’s counting. Most of it ended up in Schpood’s glass, but Spyder still has had more than he has in years. His head is buzzing with ease, or perhaps just alcohol.
The wine is sweet and rich, the kind that stains the tongue and makes laughter seem like second nature. Sometime between the first and second bottle, Spyder and Schpood have somehow migrated away from the desk and to the low couches near the balcony.
The air is warm and honey-thick with humidity this late in the night, the fire long dead in the hearth. Somewhere in the distance, the guards change shift, and below them, Westhelm hums with sleep. The citadel feels more distant than it ever has—the senator’s never-ending concerns fade into the background, as does the constant pressure of expectation and duty.

Schpood is sitting next to Spyder, half-sprawled across the couch, his crown discarded on the floor at his feet, cape covering him like a blanket, one boot dangling from his foot. He runs his hands through his disheveled hair as he laughs loudly and brightly. Not the laughter that he uses in public, or with the senators—the kind intended to charm or persuade. It’s ridiculously unguarded and real.
Spyder has never seen Schpood look so human before. In the past few months, since he has been promoted to second-in-command, he has never actually spent time alone with Schpood. Even before that, the emperor typically did this Owo—not him.
Now, alone with the emperor, in the dead of night, Spyder is finally able to truly see the man that he has pledged his life to. Here, he isn’t the untouchable, immortal ruler he makes himself out to be. He is completely stripped of anything that could signify that he is the same terrifying and eccentric Emperor who demands blood to be spilled in his name.

For the first time ever in Spyder’s eyes, Schpood is just another man. And he enjoys it immensely.

“Look, say what you will about Elysium and that Benji Button,” Schpood rants, sloshing the wine in his cup, “but they really do make a good vintage for being a nation of ‘peace’ or whatever. I’d start a war just to secure the trade routes, honestly.”

“You nearly did,” Spyder reminds him with a grimace, recalling the ridiculous number of meetings he had to hold with the senate about it.

“Nearly,” Schpood echoes with a grin, holding up a finger proudly. “Which means I showed restraint. You should commend me for that.”

Spyder snorts, taking a long sip of wine. “You didn’t show restraint. You got bored.”

“Same thing. I forgot how much paperwork is necessary to start a war,” Schpood waves him off.

“You are aware that I’m the one who does all the paperwork, right? I was half tempted to go throw it all in the volcano people’s ‘holy lava.’”

Schpood laughs lightly, swirling his cup. “That’s at least the third joke you’ve made tonight that wasn’t at the senators’ expense.”

Spyder smirks, pleased with himself, though his heart is beating too fast for it to be considered normal. “Even I have moments of mercy.”

“Ah, mercy,” Schpood says, leaning back into the pillows with a faint, weary smile. “That’s what they call it when you spare someone from your ceaseless wit?”

“When they deserve it,” Spyder replies with an alcohol-emboldened smirk, tipping his cup toward Schpood. “Which you currently do not.”

Schpood snorts into his wine at the jab, nearly spilling it. “You wound me.”

“Not fatally.”

After that, the air in between them lapses into a comfortable silence. The realization settles deep in Spyder’s chest, just how comfortable he is—how easy this is. How much he actually enjoys spending time with Schpood outside of their duties.
Spyder seldom talks like this. Without an audience, without performing, without the weight of duty crushing every word that leaves his mouth into something placating and approved. Tonight, he only has that clumsy honesty formed from too much wine and too little sleep.
It’s strange to let go of titles, even if it’s only for a few hours. He doesn’t have to be the consul, and Schpood isn’t the Emperor. They’re just two people sitting a bit too close, half-drunk on something that feels a little bit like freedom.

Schpood’s gaze drifts toward the window, to the faint glow of the city below, as the silence lapses into thought. His hand lingers on the rim of his glass as his eyes turn glassy and distant. The humor drains slowly from his face until something raw and reflective is mirrored on it. It’s not an expression that he sees the emperor wear often.

Spyder observes the slight change in demeanor and frowns,
“Schpood?” he says softly.

The emperor hums in response, eyes still unfocused as he stares at the night sky. He readjusts himself on the couch, sitting up on the pillows as the glow of the candlelight paints his sharp jawline amber.
There’s a rhythm to Schpood’s typical moods: boldness, humor, deflection. But tonight there’s something twinged underneath all of his normal bravado, a mood that feels a little too close to the truth. Schpood pauses for a moment before turning his gaze to Spyder, eyes lidded with a mixture of exhaustion and drunkenness.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” Schpood asks softly.

“Of what?” Spyder frowns at him.

“The pretending. The smiling. The performance.” Schpood says with a sigh, looking into his mostly empty cup as if it holds the answers.

Spyder blinks, taken aback at the confession, “I wasn’t aware you were performing.”

“Of course I am,” Schpood smirks slightly, though his sadness evident in his eyes doesn’t quite match the practiced expression. “That’s what makes me so good at it.”

The answer slips out much too easily, rehearsed and bitter. The words hang there for a moment, Spyder unsure what to do with this revelation. He’s not quite certain how to process the fact that his notion of the emperor is based on nothing more than a carefully crafted facade.

As soon as his thoughts make their way through the haze of wine and he opens his mouth to offer a response, Schpood waves a hand as if swatting away the comment before it can even be uttered aloud. He glances back at Spyder.

“Don’t look so grim,” Schpood scoffs, reaching for the bottle of wine. He pours them both another drink, successfully emptying the bottle. “This is a party, after all. A very sad, quiet, two-person party, but still a party! And I love a party.” He says with less conviction than he probably intends.

“Is this considered a party?”

“Everything is, if you try hard enough.” He lifts his glass in a mock toast. “To the empire, and to the fools who keep it running.”

Spyder raises his cup, but doesn’t drink, concern laced between his eyebrows. “That includes you.”

“Unfortunately.”

Schpood drinks deeply, the motion sharp and desperate, as he lets out a sudden, harsh bark of laughter. It’s full of something biting, so heavy with spite that it seems to cut through the air. Spyder flinches despite himself, something in his chest twisting with a feeling he’s too drunk and anxious to name.

Instead, he settles for a small, controlled frown. “You’re drunk.”

“And so are you,” Schpood replies, poking Spyder’s shoulder, slurring his words slightly. “Which is probably why you’re significantly more tolerable.”

They both laugh, though Spyder has to force the sound past the lump in his throat. It comes out awkward and choked. His eyes don’t leave Schpood’s face as the silence creeps back in, quieter than before and filled with something tense.

Schpood finishes his glass of wine before setting it down on the low table next to him with an excessive amount of force. Documents scatter, quills rolling onto the floor as his eyes glance back at the desk where documents and treaties lay abandoned. His face sours, lip twitching.

“Jophiel sent another letter,” he says abruptly, voice distant.

Spyder’s head lifts in surprise. “You actually read those?”

“Yes, yes of course. She’s my… fiancée.” He says too quickly, like the very word burns his tongue. His lips twist as if the syllables taste wrong in his mouth. He glares at his glass of wine as he grumbles, “Very proper, very formal. Full of blessings for the union and optimism for the shared future of our nations and all that nonsense. The kind of thing that makes my stomach ache.”

Spyder watches him, the room spinning a little as the words sink in. The realization hits hard, making him feel sick. For all of their discussions about the state of Westhelm, or all of the wine consumed in the past, the emperor has never discussed his feelings on the union before.

“You…” Spyder hesitates. “You don’t want to marry her?”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. I mean, after all, Schpood has never even met the woman, and the marriage wasn’t his idea in the first place. But still. She was pretty, powerful, and extremely wealthy. It would benefit Westhelm, and by extension, Schpood. And he had agreed to it. Schpood, who never did anything he didn’t want to do.

Schpood just shrugs loosely, his lips curling into something between a smile and a wince. He briefly glances over at Spyder, “I don’t want to marry anyone like this—just because the senate and the diplomats decide I should.”

Spyder studies him quietly, wine in his stomach turning sour. Pity makes its way up his throat like bile, stinging his throat. He feels partly responsible. “You aren’t in love.”

“Of course I’m not in love with her.” Schpood lets out a scoff under his breath. “Love’s a luxury I was never promised. When I ascended to the throne, I was warned that love is nothing more than the sin of lesser rulers. That my feelings were second to the Empire.”

There’s no humor in his voice now; tone full of resentment and longing. He doesn’t try to hide his disdain; there is nothing more than a rare, overwhelming weariness stripped of all charm or pretense. There is only the weight of cruel duty, the kind that Spyder knows all too well—though he has never seen Schpood wear it plainly before.

“You should refuse,” Spyder blurts out before he can stop himself. It comes out low and raw, his voice clumsy and childish. As soon as the words slip out, he regrets them. Diplomatically, he is consciously aware that it is an impossible, disastrous suggestion. Emotionally, however…well.

For some strange reason, the idea of Schpood being forced into a future he doesn't want, with someone he doesn’t love, feels utterly unbearable.

“I could refuse, I suppose.” Schpood agrees, looking thoughtful, glancing longingly at Spyder. Then, tilting his head, he looks away as he scoffs: “And then what? Watch trade falter? Face hostility from other nations? Subject the empire to more attempted coups or assassination attempts? It would be my fault.”

Spyder doesn’t answer. His hands are tight around his wine glass, knuckles quickly turning white.

He reasons with himself that Schpood is right, that he is simply being a noble leader. This is how it must be: that duty comes with sacrifice. That it isn’t personal, it isn’t a big deal. It isn’t about him.
And yet, in the quiet of the night, with the candlelight making Schpood look more enchanting than normal and wine clouding his judgment, his pulse refuses to steady.
He scolds himself mentally that this feeling is simply loyalty. It is a dutiful concern. It can’t be anything else. He won’t let it be anything else. But the truth threatens to suffocate him anyway.

Schpood smiles again as if to comfort Spyder—that practiced and precise smile he uses when trying to placate the senate. But Spyder knows Schpood better than anyone, and it’s too slow, too forced. He sees the effort it takes to paint it across his face, the tremor at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s strange, hm?” Schpood muses. “How quickly duty begins to look like sacrifice, and how sacrifice starts to look like an inevitability.”

Spyder frowns, “Are you quoting something?”

“I can’t remember. Perhaps I am. Or maybe I’m simply trying to convince myself this is wisdom and not cowardice.” Schpood’s laugh is small and bitter as he rubs his forehead. “Everyone keeps asking about the engagement. The alliance. The future of Westhelm. And I just tell them what they need to hear.”

He looks up at Spyder then, making eye contact that feels charged the way a storm is right before lightning strikes. For a heartbeat too long for it to be considered casual, they simply look at each other. The room feels small all of a sudden, and Spyder is incredibly conscious of the way that his knee is just inches away from Schpood’s.
His breath catches in his throat before he can stop it. Schpood’s eyes, which are usually sharp and confident, look uncertain and timid in the firelight. The sight of it sends shivers down Spyder’s spine. He hesitates for a brief moment, his heart in a barfight with his brain. He knows he’s not supposed to care like this—so deeply, so personally. He would never ask normally, but the casual intimacy of the night makes him feel reckless enough to dance in the storm.

“And what do you need to hear?” He whispers, finally.

The question lands between them like a confession.

Schpood blinks at the uncharacteristic earnestness from his second-in-command. His lips twitch into a fragile smile, his poise faltering at the genuineness on Spyder’s face. He softens, licking his lips uncomfortably. “That it’s fine,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the word. “That it doesn’t matter. That it’s all for the good of the nation. That love has nothing to do with it. That I cannot follow my heart.”

He closes his eyes, expression pained as he reaches blindly for his empty glass next to him, just to have something to hold. It does not escape Spyder’s attention just how hard Schpood’s fingers are trembling.

“Is that what you believe, though?” Spyder asks, the words coming out tender and slightly too personal. He doesn’t sound like a soldier, or a politician, or even the Consul. He sounds like a friend. Or maybe something else entirely.

Schpood exhales slowly, clenching his fingers reflexively around the empty glass. His gaze lifts once more, finding Spyder’s. His eyes are full of conflict and yearning. “I’m really trying to.”

The silence that follows is unbearably thick, filled with words unspoken. Ones that have the potential to irrevocably change everything. Ones that both men refuse to say. The fire crackles, and someone laughs far in the distance. It all feels far away to Spyder as he studies Schpood.
He looks utterly exhausted. The slouch in his shoulders, the raw vulnerability. For once, he is trusting himself to be truly seen. No placating smile or performance. He is just another man trying to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing. Spyder wonders if he looks the same. The thought makes him feel nauseous and comforted all at once.

“Do you think you could love her eventually?” Spyder asks at last. The question feels fragile as it slips out. But he wants to know. He needs to know.

Schpood’s eyes flick up — startled, sharp, as though the question itself is one that he has never prepared to answer. His expression flickers as he fights an internal battle, biting his lip in thought. But after a moment, they soften as he looks away, avoiding Spyder’s eyes.

“I don’t even know her, Spyder.”

The confession settles somewhere deep in Spyder’s chest, and suddenly, he doesn’t trust his voice enough to respond. He can only watch as Schpood looks away again, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, as if he’s waiting to be condemned for his honesty.
Spyder swallows hard. The air feels heavy, pressing against his ribs, and his heart stutters. He ignores it as he tries to find an acceptable response to the revelation.

“She seems nice,” he says finally, the words flat and unconvincing. The words taste sour on his tongue, yet he manages to spit them out, “I’m sure she’ll make a good Empress.”

Schpood’s mouth twists into something like a grimace. “Perhaps,” he murmurs hollowly, eyes catching Spyder’s once more. “But it won’t be because of love.”

He leans back in his chair at that, resigned, glancing back towards the paperwork on his desk like a man being led towards the gallows. For a moment, he looks like the untouchable emperor again, an eccentric and terrifying man formed from duty and responsibility. But Spyder knows better now. He’s seen the man underneath, the real Schpood—the fragile, conflicted one.

Spyder wants to reach for the emperor. He wants to wrap his arms around the man. But Spyder reminds himself that he cannot—there’s an invisible line drawn by their positions, one that he is ridiculously aware of. It is not one he dares test more than he already has.

Schpood’s smile returns after a moment, faint and uneven, as he turns back to Spyder. His eyes are clouded as he chuckles deprecatingly at himself, holding up his empty wine glass.

“Forgive me, I’m just drunk and melancholic. A terrible combination for an emperor.”

Spyder manages a small, timid smile. “Could be worse, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Could be drunk and honest.”

Schpood laughs ruefully despite himself, observing Spyder with a thoughtful look. It makes something twist pleasantly in Spyder’s gut.

Schpood responds after a moment, the words whispered so softly that Spyder almost misses it,
“I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”

The honesty hangs between them, suspended in the stillness of the night as they search each other’s eyes, not fully daring to cross that line.
Spyder feels a lump in his throat as the words rush through him. He tells himself the feeling is nothing more than loyalty. He doesn’t want to ask if it’s more.

He doesn’t dare name the feeling love.