[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
"Come here," she repeated, her tone brokering no argument.
He sighed heavily, pushing off the sink and walking over to her. He stood between her knees, looking down at her like a man facing a firing squad.
"Close your eyes," she instructed, picking up the dropper bottle.
"If this burns, I am filing a medical malpractice suit," he warned, squeezing his eyes shut.
Wanda laughed, unscrewing the cap. She squeezed three drops of hyaluronic acid directly onto her palms, rubbing them together to warm the serum.
She reached up, pressing her palms flat against his cheeks.
Aryan let out a sharp breath at the cool contact.
She massaged the serum into his skin, using sweeping motions. She rubbed it into his forehead, smoothing out the lines. She pressed it into his jawline.
"Okay, that actually feels amazing," he murmured, his face relaxing completely into her hands. "What is that? Witchcraft?"
"It is science," she corrected, reaching for a small jar of white moisturizer. "Now, the cream."
She scooped a generous amount onto her fingers. She applied it in white streaks across his face.
"You look like a ghost," she giggled, looking at the white war paint she had drawn on his cheeks.
"I feel like a glazed donut," he complained, keeping his eyes firmly shut. "Am I supposed to be this shiny?"
"Yes," she said, rubbing the cream in until it disappeared into his skin, leaving it plump and glowing. "It locks in the moisture."
She finished the routine with a light tap on his nose.
"Done. You may open your eyes."
Aryan opened his eyes, blinking against the bright vanity lights. He turned his head to look at himself in the massive mirror on the wall.
He touched his cheek, looking genuinely surprised. "Wow. Okay. I look... illuminated."
He turned back to look down at her. He placed his hands on the arms of the vanity stool, trapping her between them. He leaned in close, a playful smirk playing on his shiny lips.
"Well, Doctor Witch?" he asked, his voice dropping low. "Am I looking handsome?"
Wanda looked up at him. She looked at his dark eyes, his messy hair, his perfectly smooth skin.
"Yes," she whispered, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Definitely very handsome."
"Good," he smiled, pressing a firm kiss to her lips. "Now. Let's go put clothes on. Venice is waiting and I need an espresso before I collapse."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
Getting dressed was a much faster affair. We had a city to conquer.
I pulled on a pair of fitted chinos and a light blue button down shirt. I rolled the sleeves up to the elbows… a styling tip I had permanently adopted from my personal fashion dictator.
Wanda opted for a knee length red skirt and a fitted white top, a wide brimmed straw hat resting perfectly on her auburn hair. She looked like she belonged on a vintage postcard.
We grabbed the room key, leaving the hotel and stepping out onto the bustling Riva degli Schiavoni.
The heat of the Italian sun hit us instantly, a glorious warmth that felt completely different from the humid air of New Jersey. The smell of saltwater, baking bread and strong coffee hung thick in the air.
"Alright," I said, offering her my arm. She looped her hand through it instantly. "We are avoiding the gondolas for now… too cliché for daylight… and heading straight into the maze."
Venice isn't a city you walk through, it's a city you get lost in.
We wandered down winding calli, the cobblestones uneven beneath our feet. We crossed tiny stone bridges that spanned dark green canals.
"Are you sure you know where we are going?" Wanda asked, looking up at a crumbling brick wall adorned with a faded street sign.
"Absolutely," I lied cheerfully.
We stopped at a tiny hole in the wall café. I ordered two espressos in terrible Italian. We stood at the marble counter, throwing back the incredibly strong shots of coffee like medicine.
"That will wake the dead," I gasped, my eyes watering slightly.
"It is very strong," Wanda agreed, coughing lightly into her fist.
We continued our trek, the caffeine surging through our veins. We emerged from a narrow alleyway into the magnificent expanse of Piazza San Marco.
The square was packed. Tourists, locals and an absolute army of pigeons covered the ancient stones. The towering bulk of St. Mark's Basilica loomed at the far end, its gold mosaics glittering in the sun.
"Look at the birds," Wanda laughed, pointing at a man who was entirely covered in pigeons, holding breadcrumbs in his outstretched hands.
"Those aren't birds, Wanda," I said, pulling her slightly away from the flock. "Those are rats with wings. They are waiting for a moment of weakness to steal my wallet. Maintain eye contact and do not show fear."
She giggled, resting her head against my shoulder as we walked through the center of the piazza.
"The architecture," she breathed, looking up at the towering Campanile bell tower. "It is so old and beautiful. It makes you feel very small."
"It makes me feel hungry," I countered. "I see a gelato stand."
We bought two massive cones of stracciatella gelato, eating them quickly before the Italian sun could melt them over our hands.
"Okay," I said, wiping a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. "Next stop. The Rialto."
We navigated the throngs of tourists, following the yellow signs painted on the sides of buildings that pointed the way to Rialto.
The noise level increased as we approached the Grand Canal. The iconic stone bridge rose ahead of us, packed shoulder to shoulder with people taking photographs and pointing at the boats below.
"Hold my hand," I instructed, gripping her fingers tightly. "If we get separated in this crowd, I will have to send up a flare."
We pushed our way onto the bridge, weaving through the mass of humanity. We finally reached the apex, squeezing into a small gap against the stone balustrade.
We looked out over the Grand Canal. It was breathtaking.
Vaporettos, water taxis and gondolas crisscrossed the wide expanse of water, the grand palazzos lining the banks in a riot of faded pinks, yellows and whites.
"It is perfect," Wanda whispered, leaning against the stone, the wind catching the brim of her hat.
"It's not bad," I agreed, wrapping my arm around her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
I looked casually down the length of the bridge, scanning the crowd of tourists snapping selfies with selfie sticks.
And then, my eyes locked onto a face.
About twenty feet away, standing near the edge of the balustrade, was a teenager. He had messy brown hair, a slightly panicked expression and he was currently fumbling with a small velvet box in his hands.
Standing next to him was a girl with curly dark hair, wearing a wry expression as she looked at a map in her hands.
Peter Parker. And MJ.
I stared at the kid. He was wearing a touristy t-shirt. He looked exactly like he did in the movies.
He looked like a kid trying very, very hard to work up the courage to give a girl a piece of jewelry.
I looked frantically at the water of the Grand Canal below. I looked at the clear blue sky.
If Peter is here, that means a CGI Water Elemental is about to burst out of that canal and destroy this bridge in approximately... five minutes.
I looked back at Peter. He was sweating. He was looking around nervously.
His Peter Tingle is probably going off, I realized. Or maybe he's just terrified of MJ.
"Aryan?" Wanda asked, turning her head slightly to look at me. "You are very tense. Did you see a pigeon?"
"No," I said quickly. "No pigeons."
I looked back over at Peter Parker.
He was still fumbling with the box. He looked up at MJ. He opened his mouth, clearly trying to speak, but he looked like a deer caught in headlights. He looked so incredibly awkward it physically pained me.
"Look at those two," I whispered, pointing subtly toward Peter and MJ.
Wanda followed my gaze.
"They are very young," she noted.
"He looks like he's trying to defuse a bomb, not talk to a girl," I laughed, shaking my head. "I give it a ten percent chance he actually manages to hand her whatever is in that box without dropping it in the canal."
"He is nervous," Wanda said sympathetically. "It is sweet."
"It's a meme waiting to happen," I corrected. "I remember being that awkward. It's a terrible phase of life."
"You? Awkward?" Wanda teased, turning around to face me, resting her hands on my chest. "The man who demanded to brush my teeth this morning?"
"I have evolved," I said, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close, entirely ignoring the crowd of tourists pushing past us. "I am a highly confident adult now."
"Is that so?" she challenged, her eyes sparkling under the brim of her straw hat.
"Yes," I promised, leaning down until our noses brushed. "And to prove it, I am going to kiss you in the middle of the most crowded bridge in Italy."
"You wouldn't dare," she whispered.
I kissed her right there, surrounded by a thousand strangers, the Grand Canal flowing beneath us and a very confused Spider Man fumbling his romance twenty feet away.