Chapter Text
Swinging in the rain wasn’t as bad as walking in the rain, Miles supposed. His suit was insulated, so he wasn’t cold. And its lenses kept the water from getting in his eyes, so he could still see, for the most part. But it still sucked. The water weighed him down as it soaked into his suit, and it made the feeling of flying Miles usually got from swinging feel more like falling. Besides, the slickness of his webs took tricks out of the picture, which was usually the best part.
Miles pushed past the discomfort. On every fall, he plummeted in a dive, nearing the ground at terminal velocity until the very last possible second, before pulling harder than normal on his webs for his upswing. He swung until his arms ached and his hands were sore, until his chest was heaving with labored breath. As he landed on a nearby rooftop, he realized he’d completely forgotten to keep an eye out for crime and swore under his breath. So much for patrol.
Miles perched on the ledge of the building, surveying the city below. He pulled off his mask— his curls were already soaked through at this point, what did it matter— and immediately had to wipe water out of his eyes. He told himself it was rainwater, but he knew. Rainwater wasn’t supposed to be warm.
He was higher up than he’d thought, which was probably for the best. No one would see his face up here. Or how red rimmed his eyes were. That being said, it made spotting anyone who might need his help a little difficult. Well, on a clear day it would have been difficult. With the rain, it was downright impossible. Which made it hard to pretend that was why he was out here at all.
Miles crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face into his elbows. The spandex of his suit was slick with rain, and it clung to his face when he moved even slightly, but he didn’t really care. His shoulders trembled with the effort of holding back tears, his breathing shuddered in a way that couldn’t be explained away by exertion. He couldn’t think of a good reason not to give into the tears this high up, though, and the first sob tore through him like a bullet.
It wasn’t the wet, ugly kind of cry Miles had certainly done his fair share of. Tears of grief that seemed to stream so constantly from your eyes that they clogged up your nose and throat and made it impossible to breathe. This was different. It was sparse and sharp, each gasp ripped itself from his throat like sandpaper. Miles grit his teeth as hot tears pooled in his eyes, scrunching the fabric of his suit in balled fists, his hands shaking with the force of his own white-knuckled grip.
He was angry.
A scream broke through the sobs, resonating low in his chest like more of a growl than anything. Miles stood from his perch and paced along the roof’s edge. He could hear Peter’s words reverberating in his head over and over and over again, each time more infuriating than the last. But loudest of all were his own. The memory of the shit he’d said, the insults he’d hurled. Some truly vile shit that he never thought he’d say to anyone, let alone Peter.
Fuck that! the angry, scared devil on his shoulder shouted. Pete started it! You didn’t say anything that he didn’t need to hear. You have every right to be angry.
And fuck, if that wasn’t the truth. Just thinking about the conversation set Miles’ teeth on edge. Well, ‘conversation’ might have been too kind a word for it. ‘Screaming match’ was perhaps more adequate.
Go on, the devil whispered. You know you have more to say. Leave him a voice note, or something. Send him a giant text he can’t deflect or interrupt.
That seemed like a bad idea, even to Miles’ rage-addled brain. But he pulled out his phone anyway, navigating to the voice app and pressing record.
“And another thing,” he spat, still out of breath. “I don’t care how much older or more experienced than me you think you are. It doesn’t give you any fucking right to talk down to me like that! I’m not a kid anymore, asshole. I’m almost twenty fucking years old!” He pressed the share button and navigated to Pete’s contact (the profile picture for which was a usually endearing— but currently aggravating— snapshot of the man trying to ice skate at Rockefeller), his finger hovering over the send button.
He didn’t press it.
But recording it felt good. Really good. So he did it again.
“And, you know what, Pete? Fuck. You. Too.”
+++
Peter didn’t think he’d ever been this angry in this life.
Well, that was blatantly untrue. In fact, Peter had been so aggressively angry for so long, that an alien from space had taken over his body and used all his pent up rage to fuel its crazy, world-conquering evil plan.
But still, it had been a long time since he’s been this completely furious.
It was pouring rain outside, and had been when Miles left, too. A distinct sense of schadenfreude settled in the back of Peter’s mind as he paced angrily around the house, listening to the patter of water against the windows.
Serves him right, that old, fiery voice crooned. I hope he’s cold and wet and miserable. He fuckin’ deserves it.
The feeling didn’t last long though, because eventually May’s house became too small for Peter’s anger, and he was forced to take his pacing outside. He didn’t bother with an umbrella or his suit. He just pulled on a flimsy old raincoat that had been Ben’s once and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him. He didn’t even care if his cracked the frame again, he just needed to get out.
The cold did little to cool Peter’s temper as he stomped down the sidewalk. He was the only person crazy enough to be outside in weather like this, though, so at least he was alone for his little tantrum. Not that his neighbors hadn’t seen their fair share of Peter-outbursts over the years. He had been living in that house since he was a kid.
As he walked, he replayed the conversation in his head. Over and over and over. As someone who’d become very familiar with the sensation, this was his least favorite part of being angry: it felt good. He replayed Miles’ words in his mind, letting them rile him up even more as his speed-walking became a brisk jog, and then even further until he was running, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him.
After not very long at all, being Spider-Man and all, Peter came to the water. It was gray and turbulent— as turbulent as the Sound could be, anyway— and so dark it looked opaque. And so loud that when Peter screamed into it, it swallowed up every last word.
“FUCK!” he yelled. “God, fuck, you! I can’t believe you’d fucking say that to me you stupid little shit!” The Sound said nothing. Peter kept going. “And another thing: I’m reckless? Me? First of all, that’s fucking rich as shit coming from you, and second! Second, yeah, no fucking shit, Sherlock. Of course I’m reckless! I was doing this shit. On. My. Own!”
At some point, hot tears had mixed with the cold rain pouring down Peter’s face. He wasn’t usually and angry crier, and he decided not to examine it further.
“God, you’re so— so ungrateful! It’s makes my fucking blood boil the way you act like you know anything! You don’t know jack, I’m the one! Me! I’m the one who figured it all out! All you had to do was take fucking notes!” Peter scrabbled for something to throw and came upon a rock. So he picked it up and hurled it as far as he could (which was pretty damn far, even with the wind). It felt good, so he did it again. Then again. Then again and again until he’d depleted the ground in his vicinity of rocks and resorted to throwing handfuls of grass. They didn’t travel as far. He gave up when a handful blew back into his face.
I hope you freeze out there, the voice spat sharply. I hope you slip and fall and get a concussion so bad you can’t walk, and then you need me. I hope you need my help so I can say no. Asshole. Fuck you.
“Fuck!” Peter rasped, his voice hoarse. He leaned against the railing over the water, letting his head fall between his shoulders. He could feel the rain hitting the now exposed nape of his neck. The anger didn’t ease as he stood there, breathing. It sat on his chest like a stubborn elephant, refusing to move so he could breathe a little easier. It just sat there and stewed. And Peter let it.
He let himself go over all the vile shit Miles had said to him. He didn’t let himself think about the crap he’d hurled back. It played like a looped recording in his mind, and he gripped the railing so hard he felt it bend beneath his fingers.
I hope he dies.
“No, I don’t,” Peter spat. He’d been here a million times, agonized over his thoughts a million ways to Sunday. But it was normal— at least, that’s what the internet and three different shrinks had said.
Just imagine it though, said the voice.
“No.”
He’s out there right now, swinging, probably too angry to be thinking straight. Maybe he slips off a line, or mistimes his downswing. Maybe, since he’s so perfect at everything, and he doesn’t need you, he can get himself out of a fatal injury.
“Shut up, no one’s dying.”
But maybe getting really, really hurt.
“No.”
He can handle it. He’s Spider-Man.
Peter didn’t argue with that one.
He tried so hard to focus on his anger. It felt good, so much better than everything else swirling just beneath it, and he didn’t want to let it go. He didn’t want to deal with anything yet. He just wanted to feel righteous and right and justified. He wanted Miles to be the bad guy, just this once. He wanted Miles to be the one who fucked everything up.
But the stray tears became sobs, and Peter let his head fall onto his crossed arms. His hips ached at the position so he let himself slide clumsily down the railing, not caring for the way the water soaked into his jeans (they were already a lost cause, anyway.) He was still angry, he promised himself. Furious. Enraged. But the tears were still coming, and Peter couldn’t deny their origin anymore.
He was hurt.
Some of the things Miles had said to him… god. They weren’t just hurtful or mean, they had been targeted. He’d taken things, things Peter had trusted him with, and thrown them back in his face just to see him balk. All the familiarity and closeness Peter had come to see as a safety net over the past few years had been used against him. Like it meant nothing.
And he’d fired them right back. He’d dug his fingers into Miles’ open wounds, the ones he knew might never heal, or maybe the ones that only just had, to find ammunition for his own attacks. He’d screamed until his throat was raw, and then some more when Miles matched his volume.
He’d promised, never again. He was never going to hurt that kid again, he had promised. It had been the worst guilt he’d ever experienced, knowing he’d almost killed him. That he’d tried. And the things he said, the things he thought, that the symbiote had dredged up from his unconscious mind and made into fully formed beliefs. He could still remember that anger, the way it felt. It was powerful, and rooted in real feelings. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t his. It wasn’t real, it was fantastical, almost. Inconceivable in its grandeur. The manipulations of a lunatic space alien.
But this… this was all him. This was shit he didn’t know if he could forgive. From himself. From Miles. He’d never been tempted to hurt someone he cared about before, but all he’d wanted for a minute in that house had been to sock Miles in the jaw.
“You get her name out of your fucking mouth!”
“What? Is that a sore spot, Peter? Are you still upset that the wise, experienced, elder Spider-Man couldn’t save—,”
“Don’t.”
“May. Parker.”
A sob tore its way out of Peter’s chest as it hit him all over again. How dare he? Miles had been the one to comfort Peter, to assure him that May’s death wasn’t his fault. He had been the only person around who really understood what it felt like to lose a loved one to a terrorist attack. So suddenly, and so violently. And he’s used it. Dug deep into Peter’s ribcage, torn the guilt from his heart and slapped him across the face with it.
And Peter had been so… so offended. Betrayed. He’d responded with the only thing he could think of that would do the same damage.
“At least I actually had the guts to put May’s killer behind bars.”
The shock on Miles’ face hadn’t been worth it, even then. But they were both too far gone. Too angry. Too hurt. Too desperate. They attacked and attacked until they had nothing left to use. At least, that’s what Peter had thought.
+++
When all had been said, every last bullet fired, every last sword back in its sheath, they were both out of breath. It wasn’t a break in the storm, nothing ever settled. But there was a moment. A split second where Peter thought, if he held it tight enough, he just might be able to reel this back in. Fix it. Fix them. Save Miles from the damage they’d wrought on themselves.
He tried, kind of. His voice was still too loud, his tone too harsh, his stance too aggressive. But he ran his fingers through his hair and told Miles that they should take a deep breath.
Big mistake. And part of him knew it too. But he said it anyway.
It set Miles off again, which set Peter off too. At some point in the whole blurry ordeal, Miles picked up a vase MJ bought for the house two Christmases ago and hurled it at Peter’s head. Obviously, Peter dodged it, but it shattered against the wall behind him and into a million pieces that cut little nicks into the back of Peter’s neck.
“Oh, yeah, really fuckin’ mature,” Peter snapped. “That wasn’t even mine, it was MJ’s, and you’d better fuckin’ clean it up before she gets home.”
Miles rolled his eyes with a final aggravated growl and headed for the door. His footfalls were heavy, only a few degrees away from actual stomping, and he opened the door hard enough that Peter heard the hinges creak.
“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Miles stopped, but didn’t turn. His shoulders tensed, and if Peter had been paying any real attention to him at that point, he might’ve thought he was hesitating.
“Just because you killed my dad,” Miles spat over his shoulder, "doesn’t mean you get to be him.”
And then he was gone.
+++
When Miles was finally spent, there were thirty five new recordings in his phone, all at least two minutes long, and he was out of breath.
He collapsed back onto the ledge, letting his feet dangle over the city as he caught his breath. He could feel his pulse in his toes as the blood his heart was rapidly pumping rushed to his feet. It was a weird feeling, especially in the confined, spandex boots that came with the suit. But not uncomfortable, necessarily, so Miles didn’t bother changing position.
The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had let up a little. Now, instead of a torrential downpour, it was just regular levels of New York drearyness. The sky was still grey and overcast, but a few brave souls had decided to venture into the outdoors. Probably for work, or school. Miles didn’t think crime would really be a big problem for the next few hours, though. The roads were slick, and any unlucky crooks would have a hard time making a get away without the cover of bustling NYC streets.
Miles preoccupied himself with thoughts like these for another ten minutes or so, the last of the adrenaline ebbing from his body in sad, tired waves. He could feel himself slump with exhaustion, his eyes drooping. What time was it? How long had he been out? His mom was probably worried sick, he thought, thinking anything and everything he possibly could before he was forced to think back on the night's events with any sort of clarity.
They’d hurt too much.
He found his Mom’s name in his phone, noting with a wince that it was 4AM, and pressed call. The phone didn’t even ring once.
“Miles,” his mother said, in that tone that very specifically meant explain now or I kill you.
“Hi, Mom,” he squeaked, clearing his throat. He didn’t know what else to say, so he didn’t. Not the right call, as it turned out.
“Miles,” she hissed. “Jesuchristo, where have you been? I’ve been up all night waiting for you to come home! ¿Tienes idea de qué hora es? You told me patrol would be done before two, tonight, so dónde estabas, hm? I called Peter but heaven knows I haven’t heard back from him yet—,”
Miles’ breath hitched. Just like that, everything he’d been trying not to feel came rumbling to the surface like a tsunami, each spilling over the other in an effort to reach his cerebral cortex first. He didn’t know what was going to win until his heart skipped a beat.
“Mom—,” he tried, but his voice broke. He clutched the red spider over his heart with a shaking hand, as if he could steady his breath just by holding it fast in his lungs.
“¿Mijo?” his mom asked, her tone adopting a layer of concern. “You’re breathing kind of fast, ¿estás bien?”
Miles shook his head, even though he knew his mother couldn't see him. He leaned down until his chest was flush with his lap, pained sounds escaping him on every exhale.
“Miles, are you hurt?!” she asked, frantic now. Miles shook his head again and felt like an idiot, but he truly didn’t know if he could speak. “Miles?”
“Mom—,” he managed again, his voice thick with tears. “Pete and I—,” he choked on his own lack of air and gave up in the middle of the sentence, sobbing loudly into his knees. It reminded him of throwing a tantrum as a child, actually. That feeling of complete overwhelm when you’re feeling a million feelings you don’t understand, all at the same time. Miles thought that was an experience he’d left behind in childhood. He guessed not.
“¿Qué sucedió?” his mother asked, softer now. Calming. Like a rancher talking to a spooked horse. Miles ignored how frustrating he’d found that tone of voice only a few hours ago.
“We fought,” he rasped. “Bad. Like— Daddy and Uncle Aaron, bad.” Miles hadn’t called his dad ‘daddy’ since he was five years old. But when you feel like a child you act like a child.
“Aye, dios, Miles…” his mom crooned. “It’ll be okay. You've had disagreements before—,”
“He mocked Dad,” Miles sobbed, the pain stabbing through his chest like a knife. A dull one, doing more ripping than cutting.
“He what,” his mom asked, her tone deadly. No one fucked with Dad and got away with it. At least Miles felt a little more reasonable in his reaction, now.
“He told me—,” he coughed—, “he told me I was too much of a coward to bring Li to justice. He told me… God, Ma, he said so many things.” Miles could hear his mom shushing him as he cried. “Why would he say that? He said so much, Mom. He told me I was useless. Why—?”
“Why would he say those things, Miles?” his Mom asked. Her tone was hard again, and he knew it was directed at Peter. Not at him. But she knew, just like she always did, that Miles wasn’t giving her the whole story. Wasn’t telling her the full, horrible truth.
Miles tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t even manage a regular one. The prospect of facing what he’d done, admitting it to someone else, was terrifying. It felt like ripping himself open and bearing the darkest, meanest parts of himself to the entire world.
“I told him May was his fault,” Miles cried. The guilt came rushing out of him, the winner of the race to the top, along with a million confessions. The things he’d said, the vase he’d thrown, the things he’d called him, Jesus. Things he’d never even said to Li, his worst enemy. Never would say. And he’d thrown them at his best friend— his brother— like they were nothing.
“I hurt him, Ma,” Miles whimpered after the tears had slowed. His breathing slowed with them, and now all that was left was remorse. Gut wrenching, soul crushing guilt that nestled into his mind and heart and did its best to convince him that he was a monster.
If you’re a monster, the devil whispered, then so is that son of a—
Stop, Miles thought, tired. Anger feels good, for a while. When you feel righteous and powerful and on top of the world. Like nothing can ever touch you again if you just stay angry. But when all is said and done, anger isn’t an emotion. It’s a reaction. And reactions ebb. They leave. They can’t be sustained indefinitely. And the longer you try, the more it leaves you exhausted when it’s finally gone. Empty.
Miles was too tired to let the devil on his shoulder egg him on anymore. He wanted to, a little. It would’ve been easier. But the fuel on the fire was depleted. The flame which had once been a bonfire was now more like a big camp fire. And Miles remembered that he didn’t want anyone to talk about Peter like that. With malice. Especially not if it was him.
“Miles,” his mother said. Firmly, but not unkindly. “Come home.”
“But—,”
“Ah ah ah ah ah! No, Miles. Ven a casa. ¿Entiendes?” Miles cracked a smile for the first time in nearly five hours, thankful for his Mom’s tough love. It couldn’t even really be called tough, but it was just enough. Just enough to pull Miles out of his own head, where he could focus on the task in front of him: going home.
“Sí, Mami. Estaré allí pronto,” he promised. And he’d make sure he made good on it, this time.
“Okay. Te quiero mucho, baby.”
“Tú también. Bye, Ma.”
And then he hung up the phone. Once he did, he could see the thirty five voice recordings staring back at him. Taunting him. Itching to be sent or listened to or deleted. Something. Do something, they jeered.
So Miles closed the app and put the phone back in his pocket. The rain still hadn’t cleared, but as he swung uptown, he could’ve sworn that he saw a tiny bit of sun poking through the clouds.
+++
When Peter finally made it back to May’s house, it felt like arriving at a crime scene. There were no sirens, no body, no (obvious) structural damage. But there was a feeling that hung in the air like the rain, the kind he didn’t need his spider sense to feel. Like sins committed, lines crossed, a tainted space. He hated that he could think of May’s house that way.
He was too tired to stop himself from hating Miles for it too.
He hadn’t locked the door when he left, which was a good thing, because he hadn’t bothered to bring his keys. But when he finally trudged up the slippery steps— and nearly brained himself on the porch, by the way— he found that the door had, in fact, been locked. He was confused for a second, checking his pockets for the house keys, before he finally landed on the only logical conclusion:
MJ was home.
Peter groaned, letting his head fall forward onto the door and his eyes slip shut for a moment. He loved MJ, with all of his heart. She was his everything. But if there was one thing he didn’t need right now, it was MJ’s righteous sense of justice coming to butt in where it didn’t belong. Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t know who’s side she’d be on.
God, he thought. I never thought I’d be on the opposite side of anything from Miles.
After a few seconds to compose himself, Peter rapped his knuckles against the splintered frame of the door (and tried very, very hard not to stare at the crack in May’s stained glass). He only had to wait a few seconds before it was pulled away from his forehead, almost causing him to go tumbling into the house, only to be met with a frantic looking MJ on the other side.
At least she didn’t look angry. Yet.
“You’re soaked,” she said, and Peter managed a mirthless chuckle. Barely audible over the sound of the rain. MJ just turned around and walked back into the house, leaving the door open for Peter to follow. He stepped onto the rubber welcome mat at his feet— the one that May had bought that said ‘There’s No Place Like Home’ and had a vine of poppies around the border— and closed the door behind him. Gently, this time.
“Where have you been?” MJ asked, her tone light and obviously forced. Peter winced.
“Out,” he said. It sounded out of character even to his own ears, but it made MJ whip around to face him so fast that her red hair smacked her in the face. It might’ve been funny on any other day. Right now it was just kind of intimidating.
“Out?” she spat. “Out. That’s all you have to say? Out?”
“What do you want me to say, Em?” Peter asked, pulling his coat off and hanging it carefully on the coat rack on the left wall. It was so heavy with water he was a little afraid it would rip the flimsily applied hooks right off the wall. “That’s where I was. I went for a walk.”
“He went for a walk,” she said, incredulous, and Christ, Peter hated it when she did that. Repeat what he said back to him in second person. She always denied it, but Peter always thought she did it when she wanted him to feel stupid. Well, he didn’t need any help on that front, at the moment. “Well, while you were on your walk, I was coming home to an empty house. An empty house with a shattered door, pieces of my favorite vase all over the floor, a dent in the wall, and that I was told would have two people in it when I got back from work!”
Peter’s eyes darted to the wall over MJ’s shoulder and she was right. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a fist shaped— or possibly vase shaped— dent in the drywall. Had Miles done that? Or had it been Peter?
Either way, it reminded him of another hole in the wall upstairs. One with dry erase-marker eyes and angry, cartoonish eyebrows, hidden behind an old corkboard.
“Balance is a process. Not a destination.”
Tears welled up in Peter’s eyes again and he swore, sick and tired of all of the crying he’d done in the past few hours. He turned away from MJ, rubbing his hand over his face as if he could stop himself from crying again by wiping it all away.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was? I didn’t know if you were okay, or if Miles was okay, or where you were! You didn’t even— Pete?” Peter inhaled roughly through his nose, the exhale loud and rough enough that he felt himself shudder with it. He cleared his throat and wiped his nose, forcing his nervous system into a hard reset. He could do this. He was an adult. He was fucking Spider-Man. “Peter, you’re really scaring me, now. What happened?” Peter flinched when he felt a hand fall onto his shoulder, and turned to meet MJ’s gaze. Her green eyes shown with worry and love, and suddenly he was terrified of seeing her expression shift into horror and disgust when he told her the truth.
“Miles and I fought,” he gasped, going for nonchalant. A bit of a tall order when he was actively fighting back tears, but he tried nonetheless. “It was— it was just some stupid argument. I-I don’t even remember what started it, anymore— no, it was uh…” Peter swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. He did something stupid and reckless—,” the venom in his voice had long since died, but Peter tried to conjure it anyway–, “and we argued about it.”
MJ frowned, brushing some of Peter’s hair out of his face. He leaned into the warmth of her hand. He hadn’t realized how chilled he was from the rain. “That doesn’t sound… too out of the ordinary.” And she was right. Miles and Peter didn’t fight often, rarely at all, actually. But when they did, it was usually over Miles’ self sacrificing tendencies. Or Peter’s. If they were ever going to fight about anything, that was usually it.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, hard. But he couldn’t stop the tears that fell when he finally confessed.
“It got heated,” he choked. His voice was quiet now, but not in the gentle way it often was. It was timid. Ashamed. As his anger cooled, all that was left in its wake was humiliation at his own egregious actions. “I never thought— I’ve never spoken to him that way before. Never been spoken to like that, not by him.” ‘Spoken’ was too gentle a word for what they’d done, and Peter knew it.
“We… It was a screaming match, MJ. I just— he said…” How to sum it all up? How to explain to her what it felt like? Could he even?
“It’s your fault I’m in all this danger in the first place.”
“I wish I’d never met you!”
“You’re a hypocrite and a coward, you know that?”
“Why should I listen to you? You don’t know the first thing about protecting the people you care about!”
“Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him.”
Peter choked. “I brought up Jeff.” MJ gasped and, just as Peter had expected, withdrew her hand from his face. He couldn’t even bring himself to miss the warmth, too preoccupied with the torrent of words flowing from him now. Once he acknowledged it, put words to it, he couldn’t stop. “I threw his death in Miles’ face. I called him— god, I called him a coward for not bringing Li in. It’s the thing I admire him for most in the world and I used it like it was something he should be ashamed of!”
MJ took a step back, her eyes wide. She put her hands out in front of her, like she was trying to calm a frightened animal. Peter couldn’t be calmed. Not yet. He had too much to say.
“He— he brought up May, first,” he said, his voice cracking on her name. He knew it was a cheap shot at defending his actions, but it felt pertinent. He wasn’t a terrible person, he wasn’t, he loved Miles. He didn’t want to hurt him, not anymore. “He said her death was my fault, he— he used everything I trusted him with. The, the pain and the insecurity that I let him see and he just twisted the knife. So I twisted back.”
MJ had stepped back into Peter’s personal space, her hands cradling either side of his face. He gripped her wrists like lifelines as she wiped tears off his cheeks with her thumbs. With every stream she cleared, though, a new one took its place. Peter’s frame was wracked with sobs now.
“I’m sorry about your vase,” he half laughed, half cried. It was a stupid thing to focus on, but he remembered watching it come flying across the room so vividly. His spider sense hadn’t warned him because Miles had never been a threat. Not before that moment. “He threw it at me. He threw the fucking vase at me. And I— I told him he had to clean it up before you got home and he told me…”
Peter cried. MJ pulled him down until his head rested in the crook of her shoulder, rubbing her hands up and down his back in soothing motions, her fingers running through his hair, fingernails scritching lightly at his scalp. He cried and cried as what had once been anger and was now guilt became stone cold fear. What if this was it? What if Miles couldn’t forgive him? What if he couldn’t forgive Miles? What if they never spoke to each other again after tonight? Miles had been right when he said he didn’t need Peter anymore. If anything, over the past few years, it had been Peter who had needed saving the most often. From Marko, then Kraven, then himself with the symbiote. What if this was it, the end of their friendship? What if Peter lost the only family he had left?
What if he already had?
“He told me ‘Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him,’” Peter gurgled, his throat clogged with tears. MJ sighed, squeezing him tighter.
“Peter…” she breathed. She didn’t say anything else, just led him over to the couch and sat him down on the cushions, worn down to their last dregs by decades of use. He was sopping wet, and still hadn’t taken off his shoes, but MJ shushed him when he tried to protest. She knelt down in front of him and pulled off his soaked shoes and socks, leaving them in a little pile next to the coffee table. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such tenderness from her in that moment, but he didn’t argue when she brought him a glass of water or handed him a pillow to hold. He swallowed down the water like a man in the desert, parched from hours of screaming and crying, and placed the empty glass on one of the end tables as she sat next to him on the couch. She turned to face him head on, crossing her legs. She let them sit in silence for a while, let Peter finish catching his breath, before she spoke again.
“That was a really, really awful thing to do, Peter,” she said. Her voice was gentle but firm. She wasn’t saying anything to hurt him, but she wasn’t about to let him play the victim. He appreciated the straightforwardness of it, it was one of the things about her he loved the most.
“I know,” he said. “I feel awful.”
“I know you do, but that’s not the point.” Peter nodded, looking down at the pillow in his lap as he pulled at a frayed thread. He took a shuddering breath. “Why did you say it?”
“He said—,"
“I know what he said, Peter. But he didn’t make you say anything.” She was right, as usual. “Why’d you say it?” Peter thought long and hard, struggling to make logical sense of a reaction so driven by instinct. But she didn’t rush him. She let him think. She refilled his water, but he didn’t touch it after she set it down.
“I don’t know if there was a good reason,” Peter said at last. “I just felt… I felt betrayed. No, no ‘betrayed' is the wrong word. I mean, it isn’t. He broke my trust and that, that hurt. But it wasn’t just that it was…” Peter winced, completely aware of how little sense he was making.
“Don’t worry about making sense,” MJ told him. “Just talk. We’ll parse through it all together.”
What on Earth had Peter done to deserve this woman?
“It felt… like he was being unfaithful,” Peter said. MJ raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt. “I-I don’t know, that’s the best word I can think of to describe it. Like, like he was being disloyal to… to me, I guess. I just—,” Peter looked up at the ceiling to stop a fresh wave of tears from falling, but his voice still wavered when he continued. “I’ve given so much for that kid. So much of myself. I went through so much figuring all this— this Spider-Man shit out on my own, so he wouldn’t have too. And that’s the thanks I get? A slap in the face and, and…”
“Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him.”
“Rejection,” MJ finished. Peter nodded. It wasn’t like he thought of himself as a replacement for Jeff, or even a father figure to Miles. He’d always seen him as more of a little brother. Someone to be protected, sure, but a peer more than a ward. But the way Miles had said it, spat it out like something rotten. It hit something deep and personal to Peter. Maybe there was a part of him that felt some kind of parental responsibility towards Miles.
“I don’t want to replace Jeff,” Peter said, and it was true. There wasn’t a single piece of him that would ever expect that, much less want it. “But I thought… that kid is like my family, Em—,” his voice broke on the word family, so he cleared his throat. “I care about him like family and he… he doesn’t want it.”
MJ was silent for a minute or two, just studying Peter. Somehow, when she did that, it didn’t make him uncomfortable. He never felt the need to squirm under her gaze. He felt safe there, like a weighted blanket.
“Peter,” MJ started. “I know you didn’t grow up with a lot of family.” Peter opened his mouth but MJ shut him down with a hard stare, so he hugged his pillow a little tighter. “You didn’t grow up with your parents, or siblings. And your relationship with May and Ben was… well, a bit abnormal.” Peter scoffed. “You’d better tame that attitude right now, Peter, I’m trying to help you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said, trying to add some levity to his words. Anyone else might not have realized it, but MJ knew it was his way of complying. She continued.
“But, family? They fight. And I don’t mean arguments, and I don’t mean disagreements. I mean heated, full, blown out, screaming matches.” She grabbed Peter’s glass of water and took a sip, putting it down on the coffee table between them when she was done, so it was within both of their reach. “I mean, hell. The worst fights I’ve ever had were with my dad and brothers.”
“You don’t talk to your dad or brothers,” Peter pointed out. MJ rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, but that’s not why. Pete, when you spend as much time with someone as you do with Miles, when you get as familiar with them as you two have, parts of you are going to start grating on each other.”
“It can’t always be all sunshine and rainbows. You’ll never like all of a person, even if you love it all. Parts of them will annoy you, anger you, hurt you. And the more time you spend together the more all of that will wear down the good until…” she made an explosion noise with her mouth and an accompanying movement with her hands, which Peter couldn’t help but smile at. “And no one knows that more than family."
“What, so, this is just inevitable?” Pete asked, an edge returning to his words as fear settled back into his chest. “Some inescapable cycle that comes with the territory?”
“It definitely doesn’t have to get this bad,” MJ said, her tone challenging. “But, essentially, yes. If you communicate regularly, the fights die down. They become fewer and farther between. Less damaging when they do happen. What really, really makes you family? More than the time or the love or the sacrifice? Is how hard you work to fix it.”
They sat in silence again, both watching the glass of water condensate on the coffee table. After the fourth drop had finished its descent from the lip of the glass to the table, MJ looked back at Peter, her eyes knowing.
“Do you want to work to fix it?”
Peter sighed and fell back against the arm of the couch, letting his eyes fall closed. He was so, so tired. And part of him didn’t want to do it anymore. He was too exhausted, to hurt, to put any more effort into this relationship.
“I’ve done so much for him,” he said, eyes still closed.
“That’s true.”
“And he doesn’t even care.”
“That’s not true.”
Peter opened his eyes, but didn’t sit up to face MJ. He just stared at the ceiling as she talked.
“Ignore the fight for a second, Peter. Has Miles ever, ever, been anything but grateful to you? For anything?” Peter didn’t even have to think about the answer.
“No,” he croaked. He sat up again to drink some more water, and finally he felt the dryness of his throat beginning to ease. When he put the glass down, MJ was watching him. She hadn’t stopped this entire time.
“So why did this feel that way?” she asked, and it wasn't leading. She was curious. She wanted to understand him, what he was feeling. She wasn’t trying to get him to any specific point. Just listening. Peter swallowed.
“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I just… he blamed me for things. He told me I was the cause of his problems.”
“Are you not?” MJ asked, and the question genuinely startled him. He gawked at her, scoffing when all she could manage in response was a shrug of the shoulders.
“I-I don’t—,” Peter groaned. “I don’t know? Yes. Yes, I am the cause of problems in Miles’ life. But so fucking what? I’m the one who—,”
“Watch it,” MJ interrupted when his volume started to climb. Peter sighed.
“Sorry,” he murmured. He hated this. He hated having to be held back like this, like a rabid dog that would bite anyone if it got free. Even the people it was supposed to protect. “I just… he has no idea what I went through so things could be… this…”
“You have no idea what your Aunt and I have gone through so things can be this easy for you. And you have the gall to complain? Not to me, boy.”
“... This..?” MJ prompted, but Peter was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice. Ben. Ben used to say the same exact thing to him when he was a kid. He’d always thought it was unfair, knew it was unfair. He’d always thought he’d do better, if he had the opportunity. That he wouldn’t fall into the trap of expecting something in return for sacrifices he chose to make.
And yet, here they were.
“Ben,” Peter said. MJ balked, but only barely. “Ben used to say… exactly what I almost just said. That he’d sacrificed everything so I could have the life I did. That I didn’t have a right to complain.”
MJ nodded. It wasn’t surprising to her, Peter supposed. Peter always knew he’d internalized the belief from the perspective of the child. Always desperate to repay old favors, show gratitude for deeds he was assured didn’t need it, refuse help lest it come back in the form of some debt to be paid off later.
But here he was, harboring his late Uncle’s old fashioned beliefs about parenting. Or, protecting. Or whatever he was to Miles at this point.
“Is it crazy to say I’m becoming my father when I never knew him?” Peter attempted to joke. MJ chuckled pitifully, more of a curt exhale through the nose than anything, but Peter appreciated it nonetheless. He groaned and buried his face in his hand, and despite his abject embarrassment, he could feel some of the weight sloughing off his shoulders. Some of the tension bleeding from his muscles. At least some of what had happened made sense, now, from his perspective anyway. “God, this is dumb. This is so stupid,” he said, laughing wetly. No new tears, just the remnants of old ones. MJ really did laugh at that.
“Yeah, it is,” she agreed. “But nothing makes us dumber than love. Especially you.”
Peter laughed, and when he felt MJ scooch closer to him on the couch, he took the opportunity to lean into her side. He rested his head on her shoulder, sighing as she played with the still damp strands of his hair. “I’m getting you all wet,” he said. MJ shrugged.
“I was gonna shower anyway,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “Your hair gets all curly when it’s wet.”
They sat like that for a long time, listening to the rain outside. It seemed to have lightened up a little bit, and it was late enough (early enough?) that the sun had started to peak through the clouds. Peter was just about to drift into unconsciousness when MJ spoke again.
“So?” she asked. “What are you gonna do, Pete?” As if she didn’t already know. Peter inhaled deeply, puffing out his cheeks when he exhaled. At least he was finally able to take deep breaths again.
“He’s family,” he said, and MJ seemed to accept that as her answer. She didn’t let him fall asleep on the couch, unfortunately. She dragged him up to their room and helped him get changed (which she always did when he was tired, and he always secretly loved, even if he denied it). He nearly fell asleep at the sink brushing his teeth, but MJ was at his back, keeping him upright. And when they finally climbed into bed, she was there. Holding his hand like it had never hurt a soul.
“You’ve cleaned up worse messes,” she whispered into the space between them. “You can fix this one.” Peter sighed. He hoped she was right. But even if she wasn’t.
He was going to try.
+++
Just as he’d expected, Miles’ Mom had been waiting up for him when he got home. She was sitting at the island with the kitchen light on, a plate of warm, buttery arepas in front of her. And two glasses of water, thank God, because Miles was parched.
He had changed on the roof, so he just tossed his backpack down in the entry hallway. His mom watched it hit the floor with a wet splat, a look of distaste on her face, but she said nothing. Miles expected she’d make him do something about the wet suit before he went to bed, but he wasn’t in any mood to deal with it right then.
He sat at the island across from her and reached for the water without any prompting. He guzzled it down so quickly that his Mom just pushed her glass toward him when he was finished, which he bashfully thanked her for.
After he’d drunk about half the glass, he pulled out his phone. He opened it wordlessly and navigated to the voice notes app, before placing it on the table between them, facing his mom. She looked down at the phone, and then up at him questioningly.
“¿Qué es esto?” she asked. Miles swallowed nervously.
“Recordings,” he said. “Stuff I wanted to say to Pete but, didn’t…” His Mom nodded and took an arepa from the plate between them. She didn’t eat any, just pulled it apart mindlessly.
“And why are you showing them to me?” Miles winced.
Because I’m scared, he thought. Because I don’t know how to explain what happened. Because I’m afraid you’ll see me differently if I try. Because if I have to tell you the truth you might tell me I was in the wrong.
“I just thought it’d be easier to… show you how I was feeling,” he murmured. Not a complete lie, but not the whole truth either. His mother seemed to know this, but she reached out and pressed play on the first recording anyway.
“And another thing,” recording Miles growled. “I don’t care how much older or more experienced than me you think you are. It doesn’t give you any fucking right to talk down to me like that!” Miles winced at the swear, but his mother didn’t seem to react. Or, if she did, it was subtle enough to evade him. “I’m not a kid anymore, asshole. I’m almost twenty fucking years old!”
Wordlessly, his Mom pressed play on the next recording.
“And, you know what, Pete? Fuck. You. Too.”
And then the next.
“And you don’t even talk to me about that shit! You just expect me to come to you like you’ve earned the right, somehow? Fucking— that’s not how it works, asshole!”
And the next.
“— wish I’d never been bit by that stupid fucking spider—,”
And again.
“— not some trophy you can just, just… okay? I’m not your goddamn legacy—,”
And again.
And again.
Until they’d come to the very last one.
“And you know what, Pete? You know what? You don’t get to act like my dad— like family. You don’t get to tell me what’s best for me, or try to protect me from the dark, cruel world. Not when you’re the fucking reason it’s so dark in the first place.” Miles and his mom both tensed, but neither stopped the recording. “If he had never helped you, if you had been faster at city hall, he would still be here. And there wouldn’t be a gap to fill in the first place.” Recording Miles wasn’t yelling anymore. His voice was hard and cold, like stone. “So, no, you don’t get to try and fill it. You can’t carve out a place for yourself in my life like that you selfish fucking— FUCK!”
The recording ended.
Miles hung his head. He examined the smooth granite of the countertop, counting all the imperfections under his hand. He could sense tiny nicks and bumps regular people couldn’t, so there was plenty to keep him distracted while he waited for his Mom to say something.
“Miles,” she said eventually. He made a noncommittal noise. “No, Miles. Mírame.” Miles looked up, and he could see the hurt in her face. It made rage flare in his gut all over again. Rage that Peter would throw his Dad’s death in his face like that— their faces— when he knew there was another person on the other side of that attack. When he knew it’d hurt her too. “I don’t appreciate the way your father’s name was used today.” Miles grunted in agreement. “From either of you.”
Wait. What?
“What?” Miles asked. He stared at his mother incredulously, watching as she finally took a bite of her ripped up arepa. He took a sip from the half empty glass in front of Miles, her hands shaking.
“Peter used your father’s death to hurt you. You trusted him with that pain. I trusted him with it, and he betrayed that trust. And he’s going to face the consequences of that, juro por Dios.” Okay, Miles was with her so far. “But you did the same thing.”
“Mom—,” he started, ready to argue, but she held up her hand. Miles closed his mouth.
“I know that you don’t believe Peter is responsible for your father’s death,” she said, softly. She reached across the table to take Miles’ hand in her own, and caressed his knuckles with her thumb. Reflexively, he squeezed. “And I don’t know the ins and outs of your relationship, Miles, but I know you like him exactly where he is.” Miles gritted his teeth to stop himself from interrupting.
“Which means,” his Mom continued, “that you lied. You tried to use your father’s death to hurt Peter. And that is a disrespect that he did not— does not— deserve.”
Miles opened his mouth but nothing came out. He just sat there with that stupid look on his face like a fish out of water because she was right. He had used his Dad’s memory— distorted it— for his own petty ends. And not only that, but to hurt Peter, someone his Dad had admired. Even if he hadn’t known it was Peter at the time.
“Mami, I am so sorry,” Miles said, the apology leaving him in a gasp. He hadn’t even realized, hadn’t thought. “I never meant to— I never would have—,” except that he did. “I’m so sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have stooped to… just to…”
“Gracias, mijo,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I know how it is when you’re angry. You say things you don’t mean, things you wish you could take back. What matters is what you do afterwards.”
Miles sighed. He’d already been struggling to hold back the tidal wave of guilt about all the things he’d said to Peter. This, on top of everything? Disrespecting his own father’s memory? He was too tired to hold his head up anymore, so he buried it in his curled arm over the counter, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.
“¿Qué pasó, mijo?” his Mom asked eventually, when it was clear he wasn’t going to start the conversation himself. He lifted his head, only enough to rest his chin on his arm, instead of hiding his whole face, so he could see his mother’s expression. It was warm and full of forgiveness, more than Miles deserved. The same expression she used to wear when Miles did something he knew he shouldn’t have. The look that said, “Come, mijo, tell me what happened.” The familiarity of that expression, the safety in it, made tears spring to his eyes again.
“I think I really messed up, Ma,” he whispered, his lip quivering. His Mom’s free hand moved to his hair, where she worked her fingers between his curls, scratching gently at the crown of his head. “I just— Pete was being so, he was hovering, and it was so… frustrating! He was treating me like a kid, which— I mean, sure, when we started. But I’m almost twenty now. I’m in college! And he still won’t let me go out on patrol without telling him first.”
His Mom hummed as she listened, just letting him get all his jumbled thoughts off his chest. Miles leaned into her touch, more grateful than ever that he had a Mom like her to turn too.
“And then… I don’t even know what happened. We started yelling, like— really, really yelling. And he was saying all these things, I-I don’t know why he got so angry so fast but… I just, I was…” Miles had been a million things. Angry. Hurt. Frustrated. Desperate. But all of that was stuff he’d felt with Pete before, even if not often. What could possibly explain the way he’d flown off the handle? What made it all make sense? Did any of it?
“What was it that made you so angry?” his Mom asked. Miles gave her an unimpressed look, and she chuckled at herself. “Right, I know. He was treating you like a baby, got it. But Miles, honey, there’s a difference between being angry and being rageful. What happened that made you want to… say what you said to him?”
“Are you still upset that the wise, experienced, elder Spider-Man couldn’t save May Parker?”
Miles flinched at the reminder. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to let it and all the other horrible things he’d said float away into the recesses mind, where he knew they’d never truly be forgotten, no matter how hard he tried. But his Mom was watching him, squeezing his hand reassuringly and running a calming hand through his hair. He could do this, he could. He took a deep breath, and he remembered.
+++
“Oh, Jesus Christ, kiddo. You really don’t know jack shit, do you?”
“Don’t call me kiddo!”
It had been an hour, already, of the fighting. It was worse than any argument they’d ever had before, somehow. Miles didn’t quite know where the threshold was, but this was meaner. Sharper. They weren’t pulling their punches the way they normally would, trying to find a resolution and failing amidst the chaos. Somewhere along the way, someone had set the other off, and any kind of solution had been left far behind. This was a dog fight, and they were in it to do damage.
“I think I have a right to call people who make stupid, childish mistakes, kiddo,” Peter snapped, turning his back on Miles when he headed into the kitchen. Miles followed him, watching Peter fumble around with the cabinets and achieve absolutely nothing with a petty sense of pleasure.
“Uh, hello? I didn’t make a mistake, Pete. I actually got the job done! And I did it without tearing up any buildings.” Peter scoffed and pulled a bottled water out of the fridge, casting Miles a look like he was being the idiot while he made his way back into the living room. Miles stayed in the kitchen, afraid he might actually punch Peter if he was anywhere within five feet of him right now. “God, you’re so overprotective. It’s fucking annoying!”
“What’s fucking annoying,” Peter mocked, the petty dig making Miles sneer in disbelief, “is when you throw yourself into danger like you’re trying to prove something. What are you trying to prove, Miles? That you’re the most stupidly self-sacrificing Spider-Man? Congrats, you have me beat by a fucking mile!”
Miles fumed. He could feel venom crackling over his palms and hid his hands behind the counter. He didn’t want to give Peter any more ammunition. He crossed his arms, his gaze hard as he spat, “You’re a hypocrite and a coward, you know that?"
Peter scoffed, nearly choking on his sip of water. “Me? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Yes, you! All you ever talk about is how reckless I’m being and how much danger I’m in. But, it’s your fault I’m in all this danger in the first place!” Peter stammered idiotically, speechless, and Miles felt angry pride ballooning in his chest. It felt good, so he kept going. “You gave me the job at F.E.A.S.T. You trained me after the spider bit me. You taught me to throw myself in front of danger if it meant saving someone else! You taught me that! And now I’m the reckless one? Hypocrite. I’d have been better off without you.”
Miles knew it was too far the second he said it, but it was too late to take it back. He watched Peter’s face cycle through a range of emotions: shock, disgust, hurt, and then, finally, it landed on anger. Anger like Miles had never seen on Peter’s face before. Something personal. He geared up for a long night. There was no way he was losing this.
“You heard me,” he snarled. “I wish I never met you.”
Peter seethed. His grip on his water bottle was so tight, liquid was being squeezed out the top of it.
“You’re just a stupid, fuckin’, kid,” he barked, and Miles felt knocked back by the force of it. He’d never heard so much animosity from Peter in his life, not outside of the symbiote. But it was there. Mean and jaded and coming from Peter Parker. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know what kind of danger I’ve protected you from all these years—,”
“All these years? Motherfucker, it’s been like five years!”
“Don’t swear at me!”
“There you go again!” Miles screamed, unable to keep the incredulous laughter out of his voice. “I’m not a goddamn kid, Peter! I can swear if I fuckin’ want to!”
“You are a kid, Miles,” Peter growled. “You’re young, and you’re stupid, and you’re an ungrateful little shit. And somewhere down the line, I got saddled with the job of making sure you don’t get your ass handed to you by some two-bit criminal!”
Miles felt the words pierce his heart like arrows, each striking a piece of himself he’d trusted Peter to protect. He ripped them out, felt something unrecoverable bleed out between them as he turned Peter’s ammo on him. “If you hate looking after me so much, why do you obsess over me like a fucking lunatic?”
“Because if you fuck up out there people get hurt. Or they die. And you— you’ll have been responsible for that. Then you’ll be begging me to clean up your mess, as usual.”
“As usual?” Miles threw his water bottle, watching the water splash harmlessly over Peter, mostly missing him. “You haven’t been able to do anything by yourself in years! If anyone should be lecturing anyone on not fucking up, it should be me! I’ve saved your ass, and this city, more times in the past five years that you could count on two hands!”
“Right, sure, that’s what you were doing. Not obsessively hunting down Li or trying to save your friend from herself, or desperately trying to prove yourself.” Miles flinched at that. “You’re selfish Miles. The only reason this city ever gets saved is because your personal vendettas happen to line up with its needs. It’s a joke!”
“You’re such a fucking— augh!” Miles screamed. His hands flew up to pull at his hair, the thrumming pain the only thing keeping him from completely losing his mind. “You just can’t stand it! You can’t stand that I don’t need you! You’re such a jealous, whiny, pathetic— GOD! And, why should I listen to you, anyway?” Miles could feel the words building in his throat. Part of him knew he should stop. Knew this was a line they couldn’t uncross. But he didn’t. “You clearly don’t know the first thing about protecting the people you care about.”
Peter’s eyes widened. He choked on something, maybe his own breath, and Miles watched his fists clench at his sides. His eyes were hard, his expression ruthless and scared.
Good, Miles thought.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Peter growled. It was intimidating. Miles hated it.
“People like May.”
That was it. It was over. Miles could see it snap between them like a tether. He had stretched them to their limits, they both had. And that name, that jab, it was the scissor that cut the line.
“You get her name out of your fucking mouth!” Peter yelled. It hurt Miles to say. He liked May, she’d been good to him. Offered him a place to belong after his Dad passed. But it felt too good to pass up, making Peter hurt like this. Like he hurt Miles when he decided being safe wasn’t as important as being right.
“What? Is that a sore spot, Peter?” Miles jeered. He felt his lips curl back, like some ugly, rabid thing. He felt ugly as he forced the words past his lips. “Are you still upset that the wise, experienced, elder Spider-Man couldn’t save—,”
“Don’t.”
“May. Parker.”
“You little bitch,” Peter snarled. Miles had never heard Peter use the word bitch before, let alone directed at him. It felt like a slap in the face, and the triumphant expression on Miles’ face fell immediately as he saw Peter stalk towards him.
He got right up in Miles’ face, so they were nearly nose to nose. For a second, Miles thought Peter was going to push him. But instead, he did something worse. He spat, with as much venom and vitriol as he could muster:
“At least I actually had the guts to put May’s killer behind bars.”
Peter’s expression had melted into one of regret almost instantly. But it was too late. They were both too far gone. Too angry. Too hurt. Too desperate. They attacked and attacked until they had nothing left to use, and Miles had been left with his last ditch attempt. One grasping claw, looking to hook itself as deeply in Peter’s chest as it could manage, dragging him down into whatever pit Miles had been falling into for the past two hours. An attack he hadn’t been sure would land.
He hoped beyond hope that it didn’t.
+++
Of course, everything made perfect sense in hindsight. If he really thought about it, Miles could pinpoint the exact moment he’d gone from angry to… triggered.
Despite what he’d said in the heat of the moment, Peter really was like family to Miles. Ever since his Dad died, he’d been a safe space for the feelings Miles didn’t feel like he could share with anyone else, especially after May. Miles didn’t know anyone else who lost a parent in the terror attacks on New York. They’d shared in their grief, their pain, their loneliness. It had all felt a little more manageable because Peter was there.
And then, that night, they’d been fighting, and at some point… Miles wasn’t sure when, exactly. But at some point, Peter stopped feeling safe. He’s started using the experiences they’d shared with each other against him, digging into his insecurities to gain the upper hand in an argument Miles hadn’t been prepared to have. He didn’t know why. But it felt like the rug had been ripped out from under him, and Miles had responded to the shift with fight, flight, or freeze.
Clearly, he chose fight.
The realization struck a chord buried deep beneath his anguish, one that told him this was actually kind of ironic, if he thought about it. He’d told Peter he didn’t want him to be a part of his family because he felt that he already was. Because he had done… something, to betray the role Miles had already willingly offered him.
“Honey?” his Mom asked tentatively, when he still hadn’t spoken. Miles didn’t know how long he’d been thinking, and he hummed as his Mom’s prodding.
“I told him I didn’t want him to be my dad,” Miles blurted, avoiding his mother’s eyes. He didn’t know how to broach this topic with her. Wasn’t sure whether or not he should be walking on eggshells. “And I don’t. I don’t— no one could ever replace Dad, for me. Not in a million years.”
“Miles…” Miles met her eyes, and he saw nothing but the most genuine understanding. It was so plainly written across her face, he felt his entire body relax slightly at the sight of it. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, cariño. What you and Peter have, it’s special. It’s unique. Un hermandad.” Miles nodded, biting his lip in an effort to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay. God, he was sick of crying. “When you called me this morning, you told me that you and Peter fought like Dad and Tío Aaron. So you remember that?”
“Uh…” Miles sniffed and sat up in his chair, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Yeah. I mean, bits and pieces. But I remember a few times when I was little. Why?” His Mom nodded and pushed the plate of arepas towards him. They had long since gone cold, but Miles took one anyway. He hadn’t eaten since he left Peter’s house the day before, and his stomach felt like it was digesting itself. His Mom sighed.
“It got really bad, towards the end. Before they stopped talking,” she said. Her eyes had a far away look in them, like she was remembering something ancient instead of something that had happened a decade ago. “Some of the things they said to each other in anger, in fear. It sounded a lot like the things you and Peter said to each other.”
“Yeah, and they stopped talking and literally never saw each other again,” Miles snapped, a shiver running down his back as anxiety gripped his spinal cord like a vice. His Mom shot him a look and he winced. “Sorry,” he murmured. He took a bite of his arepa. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, your Dad and Tío never spoke again, Miles. They never spoke again because both of them were too prideful to man up and apologize first.” Miles cringed at the idea. “Both of them thought that they deserved an apology more than the other, or that the other owed them one more than they did. But Miles, apologies are not deserved or owed.”
“Then what are they?” His Mom smiled, squeezing his hand once more before she stood to bring their glasses to the sink.
“A decision,” she said. “When you apologize, you’re letting the other person know that you want to make amends. Move forward. It’s not about who deserves it more. It’s about accountability. It’s about love.”
She turned back to Miles, leaning her hip against the sink as she dried off her hands with a dish towel. He looked him up and down, but Miles didn’t get the impression he was being studied. More… looked over.
“So, it doesn’t have to be today. Or tomorrow. Or this week,” she said. “But, what do you think, Miles? Do you love him? Is he family? Do you want to make it work?”
Miles thought for a moment, maybe longer than a good person should have had to think. He was still so angry, and so hurt. He was afraid that he’d never feel the same safety around Peter that he had before that night. And he was exhausted; exhausted from fighting, from screaming, from hashing out his feelings. Exhausted by the prospect of doing all of this again, someday, somewhere down the road.
Because at the end of the day, Peter was family. And family fought.
Miles looked his Mom in the eyes, and his answer must’ve been showing on his face, because she met his gaze with a proud, affectionate smile.
“Yes,” he said.
He was damn well going to try.