web shooter!best friend cameron cade . . . wished he could muster up the courage to tell you how he truly feels. after tonight though, he thinks he’s up some points on your boyfriend (who isn’t your boyfriend).
with one final glance in the mirror and an exaggerated swipe of his palm over his jagged, light chocolate-brown hair, cameron cade was ready to get back out there. he went for the mint-tin his aunt melina kept in the cabinet; third row. he was lucky, there were four pieces left. he tipped the can and those four pieces dropped onto his tongue, and crackled like pop-rocks. to himself and whatever greater being listening, he mouthed a mini prayer. instinctively, cameron popped his neck to release that tension and stiffness. as he’s closing the bathroom door behind him, he’s sighing, “don’t make it weird, man . . . keep it cool, keep it together, make her laugh- you can make her laugh.”
because sitting in his living room with you, and no aunt mel breathing down his neck, was something he was definitely chill about. he totally didn’t fret over his boring pajama set; a nerdy graphic tee and wrinkled checkered print pants, mix match cartoon socks and black slides. he certainly didn’t have to rid scenarios from his head that consisted of you and him having sweet sex, because that was weird. like, so weird. you were his best friend, and you didn’t see him like that. you couldn’t, you have a boyfriend. or, not. you called it complex. complicated. an entanglement, really. it was confusing for cameron as well. one morning, you’d be whining about how that dude’s so inconsiderate and then, by 6pm, you’re squealing about some flowers he’s mailed over.
“about time- you wipe good?” cameron held back a laugh and crouched down onto the floor beside you. opposite the stacks and discarded pages of homework were legos on the coffee table. avenger superhero legos . . . to be more specific. a spiderman set. nothing too extravagant- no more than $20 for a two story apartment building with flame stickers. on the actual box, it had been a creative replica of the scene from the hero’s most recent save, taken by some senior journalist.
“what happened to waiting? i was only five minutes.” he reached for the lego set guide, you were about ten pages ahead from where he last remembered. you apologised, “i tried, ‘kay? i did. this movie was getting ehhh ‘nd i had to do something with myself.” cameron clutched a hand over his left peck in mock betrayal. he shock his head in disbelief, “how dare you?” this movie had gotten cameron out of the worst academic depression slump. since that freshmen year, he’s watched this movie about a hundred times, every friday and saturday night. he could recite the entire script if you asked him to, with the dramatics needed.
“it’s not a bad movie- jus’ old,” out of the hundred watches, you were on this floor eating aunt mel’s candied popcorn for fifty. you too could recite this movie if you cared to. “remember that one i was telling you about?” there were a lot of ones. you stopped constructing and grabbed the remote to exit out, licking your fingers clean of sour patch sugar. “it’s that new one . . . with dave franco- “ your favorite franco brother. nerve (2016), is the movie you’re thinking about and trying to find. it wasn’t new new, only a few months old as of tonight’s date.
and as you’re switching through the movie catalogue, cameron’s toying with the mini-figurine. standing roughly four bricks high, it was him. cameron cade. or, cameron cade in his gear. no mask: tan skin, detailed red and blue suit, reversible head, claw-like hands. he studied the small guy . . . didn’t think he resembled it, but how close could it possibly get? cameron, no- spiderman was rarely without his mask and this was a toy. for children.
you: “i bet he’s cute.” like, really cute. cameron stared up, keeping the figurine in his hand, thumb dragging along its pointy body parts. “hmm?” he hummed, cutely. you turned away from the television screen and with the remote, gestured toward the spiderman lego. him? . . . oh, him! cameron was him! . . . not him, to you. but yes him! wow, he’s extremely flattered. but would you take that back if you knew it were your best friend, who you didn’t like like that, behind the mask? “pssh- or ugly,” he chuckled to himself and stopped short, noticing you didn’t find that amusing.
“i’m serious, cam.” you re-angled yourself, tucking an arm up onto the couch cushion, letting it take your weight. “he saved me once, y’know.” cameron knew that. duh. but you didn’t know he knew that, for the obvious reason. cameron opened his mouth, in a weak attempt to play shocked. “so, like . . . you’re . . . crushing? on spiderman?” on cameron. but not cameron. but still your cameron. “don’t you, like- hav’a boyfriend, or somethin’? this’ basically cheating, no?”
you blinked, giving that some thought. but then, “he’s not my boyfriend.” and cameron’s eyes seemed to gloss over. joy. true joy. just you saying those four words has saved a family of clown fish out there in the deep blue ocean. “. . . what is he then?” it’s complicated, you at.
“but like- what does complicated even mean?”
you couldn’t answer that. it was silly, and disrespectful to keep putting yourself through the same never-ending bullshit. cameron had got you there. he saw the wiggle of your lips, how you were avoiding his eye contact. “he’s cool.” and you looked over, brow lifting. cameron waved the figurine, “spiderman. he saved you, so . . . that makes him the coolest guy ever.” and as you close your eyes, reminiscing and fantasising about what he could potentially look like, cameron’s blood pressure SPIKES!
panicked: “. . . i’ve actually met him . . . once.” confident and not yet realising the severity of his statement. he lowered his toy-self onto the table surface, “yep. chill dude. solid character. nice voice.” that’s when regret washed over his features and shame scratched at his throat, upon seeing you glow. seriously glow. like the sun’s exploded- fuck. why? whhyyy would he tell you that?
he’s quick to correct his mistake: “but only in passing tho’,” he’s scratching the side of his face and the top of his messy hair. “swinging- across from- you know how he does. always in a rush. couldn’t get a good look at his face- cause’a th’ mask-“ and you gasp, playfully swatting at his chest, “why didn’t you take any pictures?!” cameron rubbed at the muscle you slapped . . . not that it throbbed with pain, but because it was a touch from you. simply, you.
“whaatttt iffffffff i have?” oh? he didn’t sound too confident. of course. that was because he didn’t! he was lucky you didn’t ask for any photo evidence. honestly, if you’d gone through this camera roll now, he wouldn’t know what you’d see. there were a bunch of forgotten memes and good luck chainmail and homework reminders and off-guard photos of the friend group and screenshots of your instagram stories. “i don’t- i was jus’ joking.”
you weren’t laughing. cameron gave a low, sheepish grin, before averting his gaze . . . thinking, loser. you’re a loser, man. such a loser. he was hard on himself in general, but even harsher in regards to you. it was embarrassing how his every feeling was controlled by the look on your face. “aunt mel has’a new bag of that popcorn you love so much.” would that make you smile? he had to try.
cameron pushed up from where he was lounging and made for the kitchen area, slippers whacking against the floor boards, mentally cursing himself out. you stare at the back of his head and then away, to the television screen . . . then down to his glowing phone. wire-headphones plugged into the port, practically calling your name. you check on cameron once more before snatching the device from its spot, quick to tap his password in: his aunt’s birthday . . . which also happens to be your birthday too.
his camera roll was as geeky as you expected it to be: wipe-boards doodled with equations in his poor handwriting, his two closest and only other friends posing before a cardboard cutout of spiderman in their comic book store, another of them doing a money-spread with superhero comic books. photos of you and the girls doing cartwheels in a grassy lawn. then, there’d been a chunk of red and blue . . .
about twenty photos of spiderman. taking a selfie . . . with cameron’s phone? you tapped a random one. the man in red and blue was perched on a ledge like it was nothing. back curved, shoulders relaxed, one hand braced behind him while the other held the phone at just the right height. and his mask; pushed up to reveal the lower half of his face . . . and you know those lips. “cam- ?” rising from the floor.
“. . . why are you dressed like spiderman?” cameron mumbled a low response, not taking you seriously. were you looking at him? he was in wrinkly pajamas? cameron twisted from the pantry . . . and his breath hitched, “that, is- was when . . . halloween morning- trust.” why didn’t he just say that this photo was a screenshot? he dropped his chin in defeat. you scoff and tap the phone, really waving it in his face. cameron groans and squints through the brightness, “halloween’s in march now?”
“look- “ cameron placed the empty bowl and bag of candied popcorn aside and followed you around the living area, explaining just above a whisper “- i’ve wanted to tell you, believe me. but i couldn’t. i didn’t know how, seriously. it all jus’ happened, ‘nd shit kept goin’ down- one big bad after the other, my limbs were literally tied.” cameron crossed his wrists together, mimicking the zip-tie stance he’d been in just weeks ago. “shit was awful- i’m still recovering emotionally,” almost squeaking that last bit.
when you stopped circling the coffee table, cameron stopped chasing after. you spun on your heels, fuzzy kitten socks giving that perfect glide. “i wanna see it.” with no follow-up. you wanna see it? it? what it? his it? cameron shot a speedy look down at himself and then into your eyes, worriedly. no. well, yes. he was down. more than down. he wanted more than anything to have his very first time with you. the girl he swore he’d wait decades for. but right now? with his aunt mel home? that was . . . it was too risky. “urhmm- i don’t- i don’t know. melli, she’s like, in the next room over- “
he ceased his bit when he sees your head tilting to the side and brows crinkling in confusion, mouth opening, “what are you even saying?” cameron shrugged mindlessly, sweat beading at his forehead, “what are you saying?” that you could go for some froyo. or a strawberry-sprinkled donut. or a cheeseburger from wendy’s. whatever. you just wanted to swing. that was all. and he could do that. he would. anything for you, “that’s . . . what i meant,” cameron huffed.
now he has his hand feathering over the small of your backside. he can feel your heartbeat, how it seems to skip every fourth step. he can hear it too. he thinks that even if his senses weren’t tuned up to ten-bajillion, he would still be able to hear your beautiful heart. you stand with the tops of your shoes peeking over the ledge of aunt mel’s apartment . . . “you make it look so cool.” cameron leaned his head in and over your shoulder, cocky, like he couldn’t hear you, ‘m sorry? “it’s cool . . . what you do.”
if only you could hear his heart. it was painful being so in love with you sometimes. when you look up at him, with those eyes- like diamonds, his face grew all itchy and puffy, pins and needles traveled from the bottoms of his big feet to his thighs, and his fat cock twitched. “so, uhm, ready?” he asked. cameron dropped his hand from your back and he waddled spaces away. you’re nodding and redoing the knot of your sweatpants. “wait, i have a question- ?”
broke off into a very loud, bloodcurdling scream; cameron pushed you. not with malicious intent, but because after months of hurling himself through the air, starting with a dive had become the smoother, more natural choice for his young adult joints. cameron waited a few more moments before tossing himself, not a tinge of fear or doubt coursing through his being . . . he knew he’d get you.
the rain-slicked concrete below was racing toward your face at what any onlooker could assume was a trillion miles an hour. it was silly, how you tried to grab for something, when all there’d been was air. cool air and pea-sized droplets of water.
opposite the symphony of emergency sirens, pedestrian conversations, traffic honking, late construction drilling, your screeching and the violent wind-snapping of his nerdy tee shirt, was the rapid thump of his heart.
cameron angled his body and snapped his right arm forward. with a grunt torn straight from the pits of hell: thin, glossy-white silk exploded from his wrist and anchored to the face of any ol’ building, yanking him and you before the toe tip of your converse could even touch-down.
your half-painted nails are clawing at his backside, legs locked and snug around his (somehow) slim waist. you forbade yourself from looking downward. you couldn’t. no. no way. not a chance. and he’s laughing. like this was hysterical. but you can’t argue, your throat’s closed. the contents of your stomach swish and you’re thinking of all the mean things to say as soon as you land. how dare he not talk you out of this?
and you bury your face into his cheek, wind knocking your braids from their up-do. “i’ve got’ya. i’ve got’ya.” the reassurance wasn’t good enough. not at all enough. “you are fineeee. relaxxxx.” relax? oh relax. relax, he says, while soaring over a news media building. the only thing comforting here was the grip he had on your middle. there’d been no doubt about him accidentally releasing. he wouldn’t. an internal understanding from both ends.
cameron settled for the alley between ram’s bake shop and polly’s pets. it takes a moment for you to detach yourself from his body, but when you do, it still feels like you’re in the air. like your trembling legs aren’t your own just yet. “that was a lot- i know.” cameron muttered, plucking bent-over and knotted braids into their respective places. “we can walk back.”
please.
