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La noche en Madrid looked like it had been storyboarded for a comic book.
The lights in Puerta del Sol were a sea of golden sparks, phones held high, scarves with flags, glittery hats… and up on the balcony where the New Year’s Eve countdown was broadcast every year, there was something weird. Weird even for the most unshakeable madrileños:
Peter Parker, straightening his tie, earpiece tucked in, and Mary Jane Watson in a red dress that made even the clock of the Real Casa de Correos look like it had stopped to stare.
“You’re still sure this isn’t some Mysterio illusion?” Peter muttered, looking out over the packed square.
“By order of ‘the writer’ of this story, tiger, we’re in Madrid doing the New Year’s countdown,” MJ answered, half laughing. “Be grateful she didn’t throw in radioactive snow or a glitter symbiote.”
Peter let out a nervous laugh. The cameras powered on, the spotlights washed over them in bright white. A tech walked over and handed them a bottle of cold green apple liqueur, condensation sliding down the glass.
“Here you go, for the toast,” he said, disappearing like a production ninja.
MJ lifted the bottle, intrigued.
“Okay, this smells dangerously good.”
“Like you,” Peter blurted, just as the director started counting:
The red light on the camera flicked on. The murmur of the crowd blended with the distant echo of a drum.
MJ smiled at the camera, the kind of smile that stayed with you even if you changed channels.
“Good evening, Spain! And good morning, good afternoon, or good-whatever to everyone watching us from other parts of the world.” She raised a hand, waving at the crowd. “I’m Mary Jane Watson.”
Peter swallowed. He knew how to fight giant supervillains, but a Spanish crowd in the cold, hungry, clutching grapes in one hand? That was another league.
“And I… I’m Peter Parker.” The square broke into applause for no real reason other than pure vibes, and the energy rolled over them. “And yes, we know this is weird. Don’t ask. Multiverse, copyright, a writer with too much imagination… we’ll leave it at that.”
Laughter rippled through the plaza. Someone shouted, “Peter, shoot webs!” Peter waved toward that side, amused.
MJ turned a little toward the international feed camera.
“Before the clock behind us starts doing its thing, we should explain something for those of you who aren’t from Spain”—she lifted an eyebrow, conspiratorial—“the whole ‘campanadas’ thing.”
Peter nodded, sliding into “fun high school teacher” mode.
“Okay, Parker version: here, to enter the New Year, you don’t just say ‘three, two, one’. That would be way too easy.” He pointed at the clock behind them. “This clock has stages. Like a boss fight.”
“First, you get something called el carrillón. It’s a little sequence of chimes, like the clock is clearing its throat. ‘Testing, testing, can everyone in Spain hear me?’”
“Then you get los cuartos, ‘the quarters,’” Peter went on. “Four chimes that are not the official countdown yet, but they’re your warning: ‘Get your grapes ready. If you don’t have them by now, you’re in trouble.’”
MJ held up a clear plastic container with twelve grapes lined up like soldiers.
“And after that, you get the twelve real chimes—the campanadas. With each chime, in Spain you eat one grape. One grape per chime. Twelve chimes, twelve grapes. If you manage it, they say you’ll have good luck all year. If you choke… well, at least you’ll have a story.”
“So if you’re watching from somewhere else,” Peter added, “you can try to follow along with anything you’ve got around: twelve bits of fruit, twelve gummy bears… or twelve choices you want to make this year. Something symbolic.”
The crowd roared with applause and shouts. The minutes were sliding closer to midnight.
MJ glanced sideways at Peter and dropped her voice a little, knowing the mic would still catch it, but with that intimate tone she saved for him.
“You’ve got that face like you want to say something else, tiger.”
Peter took a deep breath. The air was cold, but the weight in his chest burned. He stepped closer to the railing, looking at the camera as if it were just one person.
“Yeah.” His fingers tightened around the mic. “Before the clock starts, I want to talk to someone in particular.”
The square slowly quieted. There was something in his voice that didn’t sound like a script.
“Tonight is noise, lights, laughs, family, friends… but I know some of you are watching this from a hospital room. Some of you are in treatment for cancer. Some of you just got a diagnosis. Or you’re a relative sitting beside a bed, making sure there’s always a smile nearby.”
He paused a second, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“If you’re one of those people… I want you to know you’re not ‘less’ just because you’re not out here in a square like this. You’re not lost, not defeated, not out of the game. You’re fighting one of the hardest battles there is, and that makes you incredibly strong, even if you don’t feel that way.”
MJ watched him, eyes shining.
“You don’t have to smile all the time. You don’t have to be ‘brave’ every single day. Some days, just breathing and getting up is heroism in its purest form.” Peter lifted his eyes to the dark, clear Madrid sky. “You deserve care, patience, and respect. And you deserve the whole world stopping for a second to say: thank you for still being here. Thank you for hanging on. Thank you for not giving up.”
The square burst into spontaneous applause, mixed with a few “¡Bravo!” and a couple of muffled sobs.
“So,” Peter continued, with a small, crooked smile, “if you’re getting chemo, radiotherapy, waiting on results, or holding someone’s hand while they go through this… this new year is yours too. Every day you get through is another page in a story that, trust me, is worth reading.”
MJ cut in, her voice a little raw.
“And if there’s a moment when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, don’t blame yourself. Grab the nearest hand you can reach. Your family’s, your friends’, that nurse who always winks at you, that lady in the next bed who tells terrible jokes. You’re not alone, okay?”
Peter looked into the camera again, softly:
“From Madrid, from this square, and from this wild universe where, for some reason, they let us host New Year’s Eve… we’re sending you strength. As much as you need.”
A beautiful silence held for a couple of seconds. Then the control room faded in some gentle background music, and the clock signaled that midnight was closing in.
MJ took a long breath and pulled herself together, shaking off the melancholy with a theatrical flick of her hand.
“All right, friends… time for the technical part.” She winked at the camera. “Remember: first, the carrillón. Then, the four cuartos. You do not eat the grapes yet. And then, the twelve chimes. That’s when you go for them. One grape per chime. No cheating. Spain is watching you.”
Peter raised his own container of grapes.
“I’ve got my twelve grapes. I can’t promise I won’t choke, but I’m going to try.”
The murmur of the crowd swelled. Madrid was holding its breath.
The first notes of the carrillón rang out, delicate, like someone playing a giant music box inside the clock.
“This is the carrillón,” Peter whispered. “Not the moment yet… this is just the ‘hey, wake up’ part.”
The carrillón ended. A beat of silence. Then, los cuartos.
“Now come the cuartos,” MJ explained as the four chimes sounded. “This is the countdown before the countdown. Like when Marvel drops a teaser for the trailer.”
Nervous laughter, people lifting their grapes. The four cuartos finished. The world seemed to go mute, as if the entire city were breathing in at once.
The first BOOOONG of the big bell rolled through the square.
“One,” Peter counted, popping the first grape into his mouth.
“Two,” MJ said, perfectly timed with the second chime.
The cameras cut from the square to the balcony and back again: grandparents, kids, couples, groups of friends, all with their cheeks full, chewing and swallowing for dear life.
Peter’s cheeks were starting to puff up, friendly neighborhood superhero but with very human digestive limits. MJ, on the other hand, somehow maintained an impossible level of dignity while chewing at high speed.
“Six… seven… eight… nine…”
Nervous laughter exploded between each chime. Someone below them yelled, “I’ve still got three left!”
The last chime landed, round and final, like a giant seal stamping the end of the year.
“Twelve!” they said together.
A roar tore through Puerta del Sol, confetti cannons fired, firecrackers popped, hugs, shouts of “¡Feliz Año!”—Happy New Year ricocheted around the square. Phones filmed everything like it was a miracle.
Peter finally swallowed his last piece of grape, almost choking but ultimately victorious. MJ, not wasting a second, grabbed the bottle of green apple liqueur, popped it open with a perfect pop, and lifted the green neck toward the lights.
“Spain, world, multiverse… Happy New Year!” she toasted to the square.
Peter wrapped his hand around the bottle with her, and they both took a sip, making a face at the same time.
“This is dangerously good,” Peter coughed.
“I know,” MJ said, that spark in her eyes, “just like you.”
The crowd kept celebrating, cameras cutting to fireworks, flags, couples hugging. For a moment, the director forgot to cut back to the balcony.
That second belonged to them.
MJ turned to Peter, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him in. Peter barely had time to let go of the empty container of grapes.
The kiss was cinematic, but the good kind. The kind that sticks in your memory: deep, long, with the sweet-sour taste of apple liqueur, the cold night wrapped around the heat of their mouths.
While she kissed him, MJ’s hands slid down with zero subtlety, and she grabbed his butt with both hands, firmly, like someone claiming what’s hers.
Peter laughed against her lips, eyes closed, half surprised, half delighted.
She broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth, with the roar of the square thundering beneath them:
“Happy New Year, prince.”
Peter rested his forehead against hers, breathing out little gasps of laughter, heart racing.
“Happy New Year, queen,” he whispered back.
The camera cut back to the balcony just as they pulled apart a little, cheeks flushed—no one could tell if it was the cold, the kiss, or the drink.
MJ, instantly back in professional mode, lifted the bottle again toward the viewers.
“Wherever you are,” she said, “from Madrid, with our hearts full: may this year find you alive, fighting, and in good company.”
Peter nodded, looking at the square, but also at all those quiet rooms behind their screens.
“And whatever happens,” he added, “don’t forget this: even in the strangest, hardest, most painful year… there are still seconds you can fill with love.”
The square erupted in applause one more time. The chimes were already just a memory, but the echo of that “Happy New Year, prince” stayed floating over Madrid like a small private spell, invisible to everyone—
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