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Gay Spiderman

Spideyman!
Gay Spiderman

London Nights-Chapter 1
London Nights

Chapter 1

A dark fog covered the city, which appeared to only be a few small glimmers of light in the darkness that surrounded the dwelling. Houses stuck out of the many neighborhoods, like plants from the earth. Despite the seemingly gloomy atmosphere, one could feel welcome and safe in this place. A bell tolled loudly, echoing through the dense air like a ripple through water.

The moon was barely visible through the developing mist. Various stone bridges spanned channels that laced their way through the simple town and a small castle sat at one end of the cobblestone street that was clearly marked with a tiny, yet visible, street sign. It was one of the few things that stood out in the area, another being the bell, which resided in a tower that was easily a part of the skyline.

On each of the four sides of the tower was a clock face, each now striking midnight. The top of the structure came to a point and seemed to be pointing off into the heavens and beyond. The clock hands were following suit and the city residing below was nearly all asleep, all but one member. A lone light peered anxiously through the window of one man’s house. The man, unlike his fellows, had no desire to sleep. His mind was trying to comprehend something that was far beyond his reach and was teasing him every waking moment.

His name was Pierre, John Pierre Martin Augustine III, to be exact and he was a proud resident of this city. He had short straw-like blonde hair that was cropped at the tip of his shoulders and appeared to have been styled by some sort of wild animal. It was currently tied back with a piece of fabric that was stained with what looked like tea, but no one could ever be sure. The man’s face was easily still young and full, only having seen 33 and a half years of age that held within it a mouth that ran and two jade orbs that were set to take in any surroundings.

A beard barely dotted his proud chin, and appeared to not have been well kept in the past few days. His navy blue tunic’s collar was pulled up past his chin as he worked furiously on the concept that was wracking his mind at the current moment. A worn, dark brown leather vest was draped about his small chest, but easily reached down past his thin waist as he sat thinking and scribbling. The blonde wore a pair of tan leggings that were tucked into the top of his aspen coloured stockings which, in turn, sat comfortably in a pair of broken in shoes with thin, stringy laces that were sloppily tied.

The man shook his head in a frustrating manner again as he reached for the quill that he had just put to rest in a small ink well that was only an arm’s length away from his parchment, which was covered in several lines of wide, arching script. He tapped the feathery tip of the quill against his chin, once again struggling over the matter that was throwing his mind into complete and utter chaos.

The desk he sat at was old and rickety; the room itself seemed to have aged with many owners. The small bed that sat in the corner was merely a pair of long pieces of linen sewn shut with dried tealeaves inside of it. Over the makeshift mattress was a wispy blanket that was near becoming threadbare that depicted the simple design of a piece of parchment. The blanket was uncannily similar to what the floor now looked like. Many sheets of crumpled up parchment sat upon the wooden planks, which could hardly be seen through the litter that was spread about the premises.

Pierre read and reread the sentences that sat in nearly perfect rows on his now soiled parchment. Nothing was clicking, and nothing was presenting itself as a solution to his problem. Several choices scrambled into his defiled thinking process, but just before they swiftly scrambled back out, unused. The man replaced his quill into the ink well and rubbed his palms into his aching eyes. Aggravation crept through every corner of him -he simply wanted to know the answer to his question.

When he removed the callused soles of his hands from his eye sockets, the blonde came face to face with the solution. It hit him as unexpectedly as a slap, but as welcomed as a present at Christmas. He physically did slap himself for not thinking of it sooner. The man reached for the quill again and swiftly guided it across the bottom of the parchment, forming two words. He placed the parchment on the small desk and leaned back in his chair, admiring what he had just written.

Dear Miss Annabel Gofleve,

I am pleased to announce that I have been invited to make an appointment with the Misters Strein and Vogen about an interesting proposition. They are suggesting that they assemble a group of gentlemen, such as myself, to go looking for a fabled artifact. The name of the artifact? That still has yet to be revealed to my fellows and myself. The meeting has been scheduled for the 21st day of October of this year. The details are seemingly going to be revealed then and there, and partners will be set up to search for the item, to make the search go faster. They believe that by putting men against their fellow thinkers is a great way to build up bonds of fellowship and trust, that of which I highly doubt.

Big Ben just rang through the night, as loud as ever, and signified that the hour is late. I do not know why I persist to try and finish my letter to you before the sun rises, for I doubt that I shall even finish this folly-filled article. But, only one reason seems to present itself: because I bloody well can. I guess that I should never doubt instincts and what I believe I can accomplish in due time. That; however, seems to be what has been getting me all these years. When will I learn? To answer my own question, I believe that I never shall and that I will forever be doomed to live with my mind and way of thinking.

The problem that typically shows up with me writing these letters filled with much nonsense is that I never know how to end them. Many ideas have come to me, but none seem to work right. I am afraid that I shall never find sleep until I finish and saw farewell in a gentlemanly manner. I can already hear you laughing at my mention of being a gentleman. It does not surprise either. I am obviously not quite a gentleman, as you have seen before. It will only take a short while until I drive the unfortunate soul who is fated to be my partner in the search insane.

Until our next meeting or letter, please stay healthy and as beautiful as you have always been. I love you and hope that you shall never fade.

Sincerely,
Pierre

The man clapped his hands together. He had finished his letter! The signature, to him, was as perfect as could be. He sighed; however, and let a smile grace his lips. This was a usual thing for him, perfectly normal and as expected as the sun would rise.

Ah yes, this was London… and this was 1902, a year he knew to be a good one and a year of beginnings.



That morn, Pierre awoke to a steady thrum that pulsated through his dank and empty mind. He yawned and stretched his back over the neck of the chair. The sun was producing its a few rays of light that played across the young man at his desk. Clouds; however, covered the few beams in a matter of moments and the sky became a dark, forbidding gray. It scowled at the blonde that had swiftly fallen asleep after celebrating his victory over the impossible, finishing his letter.

Speaking of which, the parchment was slightly damp from what seemed to be drool that had leaked from the young man’s mouth as he had received his few hours of sleep. He slowly stood, making sure not to pull any muscles in his back or neck. The blonde had been leaning over the letter for several days on end. His spine hurt and stomach growled loudly. He grinned and patted his abdomen contentedly.

“Never satisfied,” He murmured to himself in a hushed voice that none could hear.

The blithe man slowly bent over to trace the markings of the wooden planks that were directly under his feet. It felt good to stretch out sore muscles, that is if he had any. He straightened up again and his mind stayed on that thought. He knew he was a rather scrawny male, in comparison to many other Englishmen of this day. But, then again, any other Englishman was sane and did not spend several days writing a letter.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as the thought flitted into his mind. Of course. Any man was sane when compared to him, even those who had been taken to the ‘Mad House.’ The blonde stretched his back again, clasping one wrist tightly in the other and leaning to his right. As he returned to a normal position, his stomach protested again, pleading for him to fill the empty void where food was supposed to be digested.

“Alright then,” Pierre said to his incontent intestines. “How about breakfast?”

That, to him, seemed to be a good idea at the moment. He felt a bit dizzy from having no food and just waking up. A dark mist hung over him, just as the fog had the night before. Smiling, he mentally corrected himself.

Earlier this morning. He thought.

And the fact was true. He had only finished his letter that morning at midnight, Big Ben had told him. The blonde trudged across the small space that sat between him and his cloak. He dug through the parchment that littered the floor and easily found the small, dark, wool cloak that anyone would know to be his. The pockets were filled with scraps of different pieces of paper that he had collected form various signs that hung about the streets of London.

The man slung the cloak over his thin shoulders and wrapped it tightly about him. It was early October and the weather had cooled down tremendously from the comforting warmth that had been present in some of the earlier months of this year. And without a second glance at his mess of a room, he strode to the door that was a very clear entrance to his abode. He placed a hand on the rough door handle and pulled hard. The door didn’t budge. He gripped the handle with both hands and yanked again. There was no change in his progress.

He shook the handle and heard a rattling sound. At first, this surprised him, but then he realized that he had put a knife in the keyhole the night before to keep burglars from entering his house. The man shook his head scornfully. What would the bandit want to steal? Trash? So far, to his knowledge, there had been no trash thefts. But, one could never be too sure.

The blonde pulled the knife from the keyhole and it struck him that he would have to retrieve the iron key from the breast pocket from the tunic that he had worn when he had last left the premises. He gingerly placed the knife on the floor and prayed that he would be able to find it through the catastrophe that was spread across the floor. Stepping over many piles of crumpled and soiled parchment, he reached a narrow area that sat between the meager bed and his dark wall.

He reached down, and once again searched through the incessant rubbish. He felt a soft fabric brush across his fingers and pulled upward. The tunic was upside-down and a loud clink echoed through the nearly silent room. The key had slipped from the pocket. As he had done on many occasions before, he immediately dropped to the floor and spread his fingers apart. He began to scan the wooden planks with his hands, searching for the lost key. A sharp jab to his palm notified him of a splinter entering his now hardened hands.

He leaned back and sat against the wall and glared at the small piece of wood that was now protruding from his right palm. Blood slowly trickled down the heel of his hand and onto the floor. He cursed lightly under his breath and continued to stare at the small piece of Pine that was causing him pain. The man raised left pointer finger and shook it at the small aggravation, scolding it as if it was possibly entirely its fault.

“Bad, bad wood,” He said in a stern voice to the splinter. “You did not behave today!”

If anyone had seen these actions, they would have shipped him off to a foreign country and away from all the normal people. He was acting irrational, but that was to be expected of him. His life was sinking swiftly through a drain and it seemed that the Lord took no pity on him.

Pierre gripped his hand tightly, adjacent to the splinter, and, using his left hand, clamped onto the top of the wood with his fingertips. He counted silently to himself before pulling on the small splinter from its place in his palm. It came free easily, but the wound was bleeding more. He swiftly placed it into the recesses of his cloak and pressed it hard against his already stained tunic.

He swept his left hand across the ground, still in search of the key and felt cold metal against his fingertips. His hand clamped onto the head of the key and pulled it above the several layers of trash. It was a small iron key no bigger than his pinky finger and was nearly completely straight, with the only exception being the jagged base of the miniscule object. He grinned.

“Now,” he said to his stomach, “we go to breakfast.”

The man straightened himself and strode towards the door. This time, he easily pulled it open, but it creaked loudly like it had never been oiled. He made a mental note to do just that, if he could find oil. That was a resource here in London that few had, even the rich had problems finding it. If only someone could discover a significant source of oil, then the entirety of England would rejoice.

He paused his thought process for a few moments and an idea floated into his head. What if the artifact that he and his partner would be finding would be in an area of a great abundance of the treasured resource? He supposed that the idea could be perfectly possible, for light was still to be shed on the details of the search. Could it be? And if so, would he find it? His mind was filled with questions that ran rampant like a stampede of wild animals.

The man shrugged the thought off. Right now, all he needed to worry about was getting down the two flights of stairs to get to breakfast. He stepped outside his door and into the hallway, if you could call it a hallway. It was simply a few feet of wooden floor in either direction, and a steep staircase sat in front of him, taunting the appearance of the hallway. The stairway was actually half-decently finished. A small layer of carpet lined the winding stair that curved out of view after about the first dozen or so steps. Railings followed closely in suit with the stairs and a single window was placed at the top of the carpeted staircase.

The windowpane was a bit frosted over from the chilly temperatures that had arisen over the fortnight and depicted a slightly busy cobblestone street with horse and buggies everywhere. Nothing had changed since the last time he had left his home, and he smiled in knowledge of that. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of his hometown. It pleased him that the London he loved and knew had not left him in the couple of days that he had not gone outside.

Still pleased, he clambered down the staircase, the carpet muffling the sound of his heavy footsteps. After the first dozen steps he never really felt closed in or claustrophobic as the passage got narrower. He was obviously used to trotting down these same stairs everyday. The carpet was beginning to become worn in places that he knew that he probably stepped every single day. He was the only person who lived on the second floor, all the other occupants of the small coffee shop stayed in cleaner and neater rooms on the first floor.

He had been able to pay the shop owner a reasonable amount in pounds for the rent. The upper room that had previously been an attic was now his loving home. Before, it had had drapes and was cluttered with various objects that had no real meaning or had otherwise been broken many years before. One of the objects that had actually been of use to him was the small alcohol burner that he had discovered. When used with a protection of some sort on it, it could be used as a sort of lamp.

Alcohol, on the opposite of oil, was a very easy thing to find. One would just need to walk down to the local pub to find a good amount of it, along with several intoxicated gentlemen and ladies, who of which normally have become so drunk that their name has become one with the mush that was their mind. The blonde tended to generally stay as far away from the pub as possible. Him and ale just did not go well together.

It was only a short matter of time before the man reached the bottom of the staircase. A few moments after he stepped out into the lobby of the coffee shop, he was greeted by a wave of smiles. A smile that stood out in particular to him belonged to a miss with long, dark, graceful curls that barely extended past her lower back. Her crown bore a small bonnet that was tied beneath her chin. She had high and lifted cheekbones that radiated with happiness. Her attire consisted of a large, bushy, dark brown skirt that laid in elegant layers about her, and a navy blue peasant top that graced her beautiful shoulders and was tied a few inches above her bodice with a simple piece of tan yarn.

The lobby’s other contents currently consisted of a few men, probably talking about business, in casual uniforms, the waiters that were all dressed in alike colonial uniforms, and the waitresses who were dressed similarly like the woman that the blonde was watching as she bused a table. Glasses clinked as they were gently placed in a small plastic container that were to be taken back to the washroom for cleaning.

The tables in the small dining room were assembled in a set of three rows of five tables, so only fifteen parties could assemble here at once. It was a small shop, so not much traffic was to be expected. The men were sitting at a table on the far end of the dining room lounging leisurely over the chairs, chatting animatedly over a small handful of papers.

Her attention flitted upon him when she noticed the gaze of Pierre. She smiled warmly at him and moved forward for a hug. He returned the gesture easily and couldn’t help but smile.

“Good Morning Pierre,” She said when they pulled apart, her face alit with joy.

“And to you Miss Annabel,” came the sleepy reply.

“Anna, Pierre.” She corrected simply. “I told you, it’s Anna. Annabel is very colonial appropriate, but we are no longer in the colonial period.”

“Yes,” The blonde said, smirking slightly. “ But this is a colonial coffee shop, am I correct?”

The brunette smirked back and patted him on the shoulder tenderly.

“The shop is the only thing that still stays in the past. But I must ask, why do you continue to dwell in a history that is not ours?”

The man drew her close to him, and there was no objection.

“Because those were more peaceful times,” He murmured in her ear, receiving a giggle as an acknowledgement.

“So that is the reason that you look like one of those, what were they? Moment men?”

“Minutemen,” He corrected sternly. “In America. They were trained to be ready on a minute’s notice if Britain ever launched a surprise attack on them.”

“Yes yes,” Anna replied, waving away his correction. “The moment men are wonderful and all, but you need to stay with your mother country, and her history.”

“Britain has no fascinating past,” came a soft rebuke from somewhere above her, she could not quite tell for she had nestled herself into the folds of his cloak.

She withdrew from him, to look the man in the eye.

“So that is why you continue to write with quills and on old parchment which is now more expensive than paper?” She asked, giving him a strange look.

“Speaking of parchment,” he said swiftly, sliding off topic in hopes of avoiding the question, “I finished your letter last night.”

The reply to this was not good. She cocked one hip and peered at him disdainfully, a scowl touching her lips. The skirt flipped out slightly when she did this, giving her an even more graceful and elegant appearance. The blonde could not avoid her stern sapphire eyes as they glared at him.

“It thought you were sick!” She exclaimed loudly, causing the heads of the men in the shop to turn their heads. “You could have starved, Pierre. You were writing a letter to me? Why don’t you just tell me?!”

“I just…”

“You have another excuse?”

“Well, I…”

“What is it with you Pierre? Or should I say John.”

Pierre cringed visibly at the mention of his first and true name. He had never had a good history with that name and was stubbornly rooted in the idea that if he just told people that his name was Pierre, then they would believe him.

“Don’t call me that,” he retorted rather nastily.

“Why not?” She asked, curious sarcasm etching itself across her face.

“Because for Christ’s sake I tell you not to!”

His face was beginning to turn a dark red from rage and his temper was swiftly becoming closer and closer to being realized. However, he quirked an eyebrow when he saw Anna near fits of laughter. She raised her arms up to cross her chest as she continued to peer at him suspiciously. Her eyes were filled with laughter and it was not long before she began to laugh.

“Did I push you to far, love?” She asked, a smile making one of the corners of her mouth quirk.

“Do you need to ask?” He replied, his mood lightening considerably.

“I take that as a yes,” The brunette replied simply before leaning forward and planting a kiss on his cheek. “I must be getting back to work, and you to your breakfast.”

“Ah yes, breakfast,” He murmured in a low tone. “Nearly forgot.”

“Dear Pierre,” She said squarely. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Let me sit down and have breakfast here?”

“I would be glad to, but I am including the charge of it in this month’s rent.”

“Deal.”

Penguin Poking

Report from Reviewing Office
Heeey! I'm so excited! It's a neeeeew site! I'm so excited!

Elladan: I can tell. u.u

Really? Wow!

Elrohir: I hate being a sub-muse.

Chase: *pops in, fixing his hair*

Elladan: *spots Chase* Prat...

Oh no, not again!

Legolas: *slides in, gelling his hair*

Elladan: Have enough gel yet?

Legolas: Actually, no.

Elrond: *pokes head in* Hey! Where'd my study go?

Elladan: *shrugs* No idea.

Elrond: *glares at the wallpaper sloppily applied over his previous paint*

Elrohir: I'm going to get... er... skittles. *runs off*

Elladan: Ada, go away please!

Please Elrond! We have ...herm... *business* to attend to...