Archive of Our Own ^beta

• FLORA 

When Myles G. Morales of Earth-42 came banging on Miles and Ganke’s dorm window, before eerily sliding it open and slipping into their room with the audacity of someone who belonged there, Ganke froze where he lay, sneakily pausing his game and trying to regulate his heartbeat at the sight of the intruder. 

Miles, who was doodling with his headphones on, promptly jolted at Ganke’s sudden scream, before turning around to see the lookalike, clad in dark clothes and a poker face to match. Needless to say, his innocent humming stopped immediately. 

Miles instantly swallows, hating how badly his counterpart both unnerves and interests him on a cellular level. He reels internally when he realized he didn't sense his presence. Maybe his body didn't interpret it as danger because it was his variant... still, it was freaky.

“Bruh—” he gasps weakly as the other steps over Ganke’s outstretched legs, “what’re you doing here?”

The boy makes a casual motion, causing his serpentine braids to swing idly behind him, catching the light of the midday sun through the window.

He lifts up his right arm, showing off a dimension-hopping watch on his wrist, with all signs pointing to Hobie as the craftsman.

Of course he kept it.

Of course Hobie let him.

“Your girlfriend gave it to me. The one that looks like Taye Diggs,” he says with a coquettish tone. “Here.”

Like a cartoony magician, seemingly from behind his back—the undefeated ‘hammer space’, obviously—he summons a pair of thick-stemmed sunflowers, holding it out to the teen superhero who was still a bit shocked in his seat.

Disregarding the flowers, he just stares up at the reflection before him, bewildered. Incredulously, he sputters, “Taye Diggs?”

“Yeah,” Myles, the Prowler, answers numbly. “The singer with blonde hair. Suburban shorties love her.”

Ganke chokes on a noise that was in between an awkward cough and a howl.

“That’s Taylor Swift,” Miles corrects. 

“Bruh, what? That’s an actor. A whole man, at that,” Myles objects. “You buggin’. Anyway. These are for you. She said you like sunflowers.”

“Sunflowers?” The Spider repeats hollowly, before snickering to himself once the realization hits. He doesn’t bother explaining that it was a song that was on loop in his mind years ago, instead teasing, “Is this your attempt at apologizing? Squashing our imaginary beef?”

“You gon’ accept it or not?” Myles complains gruffly, and for a second it sounds like the growl of an animal, leading Miles to wonder if this is the tone he used to make demands of his enemies. 

“Uh, y-yeah,” the mutant teen says, taking one of the plants in hand. “Where’d you even find these?”

“When I jumped, I popped up by some florist’s shop,” the other says before turning towards Ganke, who still looked moments away from shitting himself out of pure anxiety. Miles had briefly mentioned dealing with his lookalike before, but actually being in his physical presence was another experience entirely. Something about this version of him read as dangerous, like one wrong word or touch could set him off, much like a wildcat. Even Miles had to tread very lightly with him, considering the hostility in their first meeting. It made Ganke’s stomach churn. It proceeded to fall into his ass when the variant approached him, closing him into the bunkbed. He extends a flower towards him, nearly the size of his head, saying, “You might as well get one too.”

When Miles offers to give him a tour of his New York, Ganke couldn’t be happier, glad to have the whole room to himself as the pair clumsily slip out the window… as if one of them wasn’t one of the most agile creatures on Earth.

+

“42, you like ice-cream?” 

“Yeah,” Myles answers, fiddling with the chain on his pants. “Why do you be callin’ me that?”

“I don’t know,” Miles says awkwardly, before explaining exactly why. “It’s weird to call you by my name. Like, it’s one thing to share a name, but a name and a face is kind of... creepy, you know? It’s weird.”

“So you’d be cool with me calling you ‘16’?”

“I guess,” Miles shrugs before walking up to a street vendor. “What flavor?”

“Gimme a rocket popsicle,” the other boy answers and Miles bites down a laugh at his unexpectedly childish choice.

Circling back to their discussion, Miles jokes, “Is ‘1610’ too much of a mouthful?”

“Hell yeah. Nobody’s worth that many syllables. Especially for a damn nickname,” Myles answers before graciously taking the icy snack. “Thanks.”

42 and 1610 have the same amount of syllables, but Miles lets it slide.

They continue walking in relative silence, absorbing the ambient noises of New York that seemed endless no matter which universe someone was in. Myles marveled at the pinkish sky, the friendly chatter comprised of a dozen languages, the buzz of buskers, and the music thumping from passing cars. This New York was still chaotic as shit—that was something that’d probably never change—but it felt a whole lot safer than his. 

They walked by some brownstone-esque houses, with a grandmother braiding a little girl’s hair as she braided a doll’s, and two neighbors chatting openly about a whole bunch of nothing, with each sentence being punctuated by a smile that faced the sun.

Myles flicked his hoodie onto his head as if it’d shield him from the downpour of unprovoked joviality, appreciating the dark shadow it cast over his eyes, fighting the domineering brightness of this pretty, toon-like dimension.

He looked at Miles out of the corner of his eye, how he had a small smile to greet every stranger with, and a wider, toothier one for every familiar face, opening up to their brightness with his own—and he immediately understands what his Taye Diggs said about him—his Taylor Swift.

He was a sunshine.

He was the sunflower.

Myles cringes at the thought, almost yanking at his drawstring to hide his face out of pure shame for being so corny, even if only mentally.

Coming to 1610 was probably a dumb idea.

“You play ball?” 

“Huh?”

“Basketball,” the young superhero asks, biting down the last piece of his chocolate cone.

Myles clears his throat, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets before declaring, “I’ll cook you in basketball.”

“Now you’re trippin’,” Miles laughs musically, eyes shutting. “I’ll wash you.”

“Is that a bet?”

“If I win, then hell yeah,” Miles says smartly, already bouncing on his feet, creeping closer towards the occupied court.

“We don’t got a ball though.”

“Those dudes are cool. They’ll let us borrow one… and push comes to shove, we can join their game.”

He says it with such certainty that it astounds Myles, and he has no choice but to see it through, cooking the other, as promised.

The personified sunflower takes it with a smile, chuckling as the phrase ‘good game’ pours from his lips.

When he daps him up, his hand is hot, and Myles can only rationalize it as being from intense dribbling—though his corny mind tries to pollute itself with more sunflower metaphors.

He nearly cringes to death.

•• AEROSOLS 

When Miles jumps into Earth-42, getting blended up and spat out by a portal, and tumbling onto the wet cement of a rooftop while gunshots rang off in the distance, he was hit with an instant pang of uncomfortable regret, not wanting to be there any longer.

But his ego also wouldn’t allow him to chicken out. He’s Spider-Man; he’s not afraid of anything. Nothing spooks a spider. 

So he masked up and leapt off the building, swinging to his heart’s desire, following nothing but its direction.

He hovers over the green streets of this New York, held by a thin line of web, bouncing lightly off of car roofs like a rubber ball. He tosses himself higher, spinning through the polluted air as he flips over a bridge. His acrobatics catch the eye of some onlookers, who stare in amazement at the black apparition floating through their dusky sky. He skittered around with a streak of red, much like a black widow, though his free swinging was interrupted by a store robbery that he had to quickly clean up.

“Dude!” Miles gripes, and he instantly groans when his voice cracks. “Why the hell are you robbing a beauty supply store of all places?”

“Man, fuck you! You sound like a little-ass boy!” The guy says, smashing a metal bat towards the locked products. “Mind your business!”

“Who are you talking to?” Came the voice of a masked female accomplice. Her hand confidently combs through the exposed jewelry behind the counter, sliding it all into her bag. “Oh shit!”

Miles webs the both of them up with ease, finding the petty thieves here to be a bit less crafty. But, to be fair, they’d never dealt with a guy like him before.

He binds them together, locking their hands up in a cage of webs.

“What are you two doing?” He asks, with a disappointed tap of his foot.

“The resale value of this stuff will go crazy!” The woman answers.

“Girl, shut up!” Her male partner demands. “Who the hell are you anyway? You ain’t no cop!”

Miles is taken aback by his words, weakly agreeing. “That’s… true. I’m not. I’m just—“

“A goofball in a onesie,” the man insults, spitting near his foot. 

Miles leaps back.

“Yo!” A familiar distorted, grainy voice says with an upset grunt in his tone. “This place got a silent alarm! The hell are y’all doin’?”

“Yo, Prowler! My man!” The captive thief greets.

Myles walks up towards his counterpart, roughly nudging him with the closed fist of his claw, scolding him. 

“What you doing here?”

Miles doesn’t know why he’s surprised this was the welcome he got.

“Tryna help,” he says, somehow feeling guilty.

“No,” the Prowler says flatly, kneeling down to carefully pierce through the gummy layers of webbing, tearing at it like scissors through tape. He unwraps the two  thieves, gifting them their freedom. When they reach for their half-filled bags, he snaps at them, “Get out of here!”

They scurry away without them.

“Uh…” Miles awkwardly thrums his fingers against the back of his neck, not knowing how to feel about Prowler’s claw being able to tear through his webs so easily. He wonders what it was made of… or what sharpened it. 

“You.” Prowler grabs him with his ungloved hand, though Spider-Man still flinches, feeling his forearm being crushed through his skin. “The fuck are you doin’? Meddling in my shit,” he says callously, and somehow Miles swears he can see the disgusted expression through his screen-mask. “This ain’t your turf.”

“I just,” the Spider-Man steals his arm back from the alternate’s iron grip. “I wanted to help. I mean it.”

Myles hears approaching sirens, and yanks Miles’ wrist, leading him through a backdoor.

Myles grabs onto a fire escape ladder that isn’t fully extended, tugging his body up with the one hand that could get a good grip, instructing Spider-Man to follow him.

Miles swings nearby, keeping an eye on him. He notices his skateboard, modified with some sort of homemade tech, giving it an electric boost of power and speed. Something in the back of his mind wriggles with discomfort, knowing the variant of himself was riding that thing with his regular, mortal body. 

When they’re a few blocks away, hidden by the high, jump-proof walls of some building, Miles huffs, amazed.

“You do parkour?”

“I stylishly jump off buildings and manage to live,” Myles says flatly, removing his mask with a sigh. “But don’t change the subject. Why you here?”

Miles jolts defensively. “The same reason you visited my world. Why’re you so tight about it?” 

“Shit ain’t no picnic, you can’t just visit because you want to. Those two are harmless but the police and the gangs shoot to kill out here—especially a scary-ass dude like you doing backflips in a SCUBA suit; lookin’ like a cryptid and shit!”

“What, you think my world is sweet just ‘cause it’s less violent? I can handle danger; I fought a mob boss at thirteen. This suit literally makes it my job,” Miles tugs at the symbol on his chest stubbornly.

“I came to your Earth for a purpose. If you comin’ over here to fuck shit up, it’s better you stay your scrawny ass home,” Myles scowls, folding his arms.

“No way you’re mad at me for stopping a robbery,” Miles says in disbelief. 

“Oh my Gooood,” Myles drawled, irritated. “No estas escuchando.”

“I am,” Miles counters vehemently. “You’re just getting pissed off for nothing!”

“You deadass getting me heated, yo,” Myles warns before saying, “You not hearing me.”

There’s a pause, and then the hero sighs, annoyed.

“42,” he says, judgmental. 

Myles bucks back, answering just as sassily. “16.”

Seeing genuine anger over what seemed so small rendered the superhero speechless, so he rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth, the juvenile urge to have the last say overriding his underlying fear—wariness?—of the other boy. 

A car horn honks from the ground below, and the two see an unmarked black car waiting for them, with the driver smoothly stepping out.

“Yo! Prowler!” He shouts up.

They both recognize the voice immediately.

“Aaron?” Myles mutters, checking his time before groaning. 

Miles exhales, relieved.

+

“Why you bring him here?” Myles cavils petulantly to his uncle, harshly dropping his mask onto the table of their hideout. “That lame-ass n—”

“Aye,” Uncle Aaron says sharply. “Don’t be cussin’ like that in front of me.”

“You cuss all the time!”

“Boy, I’m grown,” Uncle Aaron retorts, poking at the boy’s padded shoulder. “The kid’s interesting. It’s like getting a two-for-one special.”

“He’s hardheaded,” Myles interjects sourly, as if his doppelganger wasn’t right behind them.

“Whatever’s got you so pressed can probably be solved with a talk, Myles. You’re being a baby.”

“I’m not though,” the teenager retorts weakly.

“You are. Be nice to your guest,” Uncle Aaron chuckles to himself, knowing that’d only further irritate his overzealous nephew. He says goodbye with a brief kiss to the boy’s forehead and a squeeze to his shoulder. “I’mma go give this money to your mama. You get whatever this is,” he gestures between the two, “together.”

When the man leaves, forcing them to awkwardly be alone again, Miles’ eyes trail behind him, jealously watching his every living step.

Myles notices.

He says nothing—not knowing where to begin to address that—instead huffing, unstrapping his gloves and loosening his shoelaces.

He kicks open a cooler, asking, “You want a soda?”

Miles perks up at the mention of sugar, much like a puppy. “You got grape?”

“You a stereotype,” the other says in response, though he passes the other teen the cold drink regardless. 

+

Walking atop the gravelly roof, Miles’ breath halts at the bright sight of the mural of his counterpart’s father, Earth-42’s Jefferson Morales.

His chest tightens. 

Myles sits and stares at it and Spider-Man joins him.

“How… How long has it been?” Miles asks, grief coloring his voice over the mere thought of losing his father.

“Seven months,” Myles says, taking a gulp of his drink. “You? Yours was your Aaron, right?”

“Yeah,” the boy answers solemnly. His mind forces him back to that moment, when he was scared out of his mind while being chased by a bloodthirsty Prowler, who stopped solely because he saw his nephew’s face—only to have his heartbeat stolen by the single strike of a bullet. Tears prickle in his eyes and he silently beats himself up about it, not wanting to cry over his still-open wounds while staring at 42’s. He still feels the warm blood spatter on his chest. “It was a little over a year ago.”

A year and seven months, meaning their losses were exactly a year apart—another nasty trick of fate.

After a period of silence—a moment of admiration for the man depicted before them, even despite all of the noise of the city—Miles pipes up, asking, “What was he like?”

Miles looked at him and saw his dad. But, just like the reflection he was staring at right now, there was no guarantee they were exactly the same. 

Still, he knew a good person when he saw it, whether he met them or not. And maybe that’s his bias talking, but he chalks it up to his spider-like intuition.

Myles huffs, fingers tapping along his half-full can. 

“He was idealistic,” he says plainly before elaborating. “He had big dreams for me and for this city. For everyone. He didn’t let the spike in crime scare him away from his mission... because he was always like ‘if I don’t handle it, who will?’ And that’s how he was with everything. All or nothing. Didn’t half-ass shit. I liked his mission. But I liked it the way I like comics. It’s unrealistic.”

“I mean, nothing’s really unrealistic, right? People thought inter-dimensional travel was unrealistic… and yet…”

“Yeah but… I don’t know. He’s in a spot where all he can do is inspire, now. All the change that happens at this point will be because someone saw this and felt pushed to do something. He can’t ever make the push by himself anymore. He’d like it, for sure. But I don’t know if he’d be satisfied,” Myles downs the rest of his soda, carbonation be damned.

“You’re not aiming to be the one to pick up where he left off?” Miles quirks a brow, and when the other gives him a cold look, he raises his hands defensively. “Just asking.”

“Look at me, 16,” Myles says, with a dry chuckle that aged him by at least twenty-five years. “I’m part of the problem. He cleaned up his way. I clean up mine. Only thing I know for sure is that we can’t stay dirty… Speaking of which…”

He gets up suddenly, walking towards a nearby roof vent, picking up a beat-up bag. 

It sounds metallic as he picks it up and Miles thinks he hallucinates the sound of aerosol as the bag moves, but he asks to confirm. 

“What’s that?”

Myles takes out a bottle and shakes it, the familiar clicking of the internal metal pea sounding like music to the other’s ears. He tosses it to Miles who can’t hide the smile that appears on his face, making the apples of his cheeks rise. He hadn’t sprayed a wall in ages, much too busy with grief, loneliness, and wearing his depression like a Gucci belt to even think of doing that.

It was usually a bonding act, familial intimacy between him and his uncle. But now he was sharing the moment with someone else, in a more solemn context.

With… himself. In a different light, different world, different circumstance.

“I was supposed to come retouch this last week but I had to… handle something then and there.”

“Handle what?” Miles inquires, spraying towards the gravel. It paints the rocks a bright cyan. 

The Prowler didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, but still found himself freely divulging information to Miles, boasting, “I hit a major lick that day.”

Miles’ moral compass practically clawed at his insides upon hearing that, though the more curious side of his mind wanted to know how much money the other boy accrued. At the end of the day, it was just as Myles said, this wasn’t his turf—and though he wouldn’t stop meddling—because he’d be damned if he let someone get hurt when he’s around to stop it—he definitely wasn’t trying to step in the way of whatever this variant of himself had going on, no matter how much he disagreed.

“Help me brighten this up,” Myles demands, flipping the can before catching it smoothly, mixing its contents.

Miles absolutely loathes how his eyes track the movement, gaze softening when he sees the distant stare of his variant as he watches the mural. 

He bites the inside of his cheek and shakes his can with a soft nod.

“Sure.”

••• DISRESPECT

Miles had wrangled up four minor baddies before deciding to leap through the portal again, choosing to angle it near the peak of a building so he could tastefully fall off and disappear like a ghost. 

When his padded feet hit the damp concrete of the alternate New York, he feels a smile blooming on his face, despite the merciless smog and starless sky.

Miles hadn’t brought it up, but he noticed how whenever the two of them showed up in each other’s city, their bodies automatically knew where to find their reflection. Miles could walk aimlessly with no plan and still run into the Prowler. And it was the same the other way around. While Myles complained about the oversaturation of colors in Spider-Man’s world, he could still recognize the specific pattern that made up Miles Morales, and could find him without a single clue of where he was. He thought the magnetism was strange, since he actively had to search and dig and investigate to find his other friends—but he tries to justify it as their molecular similarities drawing each other in. After all, they were each other’s alternates. Maybe that made sense, and it wasn’t that red string of fate stuff that Miles once read about in a manga.

He stood upside-down on the ceiling of the uncle-nephew duo’s base of operations, walking overtop Aaron to watch him tweak some measurements on a sketch that he couldn’t quite decipher. 

“What’s that?” He chirps, leaning above the man.

Though Aaron knew he was up there, he was still bothered by the nearly silent steps of the teenager, and jumps a bit. 

“Not my business to tell. Ask your friend.”

“We are not friends,” Myles snaps, before three heavy strikes to the new punching bag echo through the hollow room. 

“So what are we, then?” Miles laughs, dismounting right behind the bag, acting as its support.

The smug grin on his face is the same one he wore when they first fought properly; when he teasingly told the other to ‘watch the hands’ and it flusters the doppelganger a bit, making his rhythm falter as he hits the bag again.

Myles makes a thoughtful noise, before blandly replying. “Acquaintances.” 

“I guess,” Miles concedes, though he wants to argue that saving the multiverse together in a squad of Avengers-style superheroes automatically constituted some type of friendship. 

“You know,” Myles prompts suddenly, squinting at the other in the dim light. “I don’t like how high your shoulders sit. You disrespectful.”

“Huh? Disrespectful, how?” Miles says quizzically, eating a punch that practically shot through the bag and hit him right in the stomach. He silences a choked groan, forgetting that the Myles of this world was as much of a brute force attacker as he was a brainiac. As dangerous as they came.

Myles bites open the straps of his boxing gloves, before tossing them haphazardly towards a lazy pile of workout equipment. He stares at Miles analytically, with the posture of some sort of judge, picking apart at Miles’ stance.

Miles kind of wants to vomit under his strict scrutiny. Somehow it felt like when Peter was training him, adjusting his form with the strictness of a man who’s made the same set of mistakes and paid for them immensely. 

Their subtler differences stood out starkly in moments like this.

“You big as shit,” Myles nudges him. “Just tall and lanky. Very disrespectful.”

Aaron snorts.

Miles fights to find a response.

“What.”

The other teen quickly adds, “It’s probably because you a mutant.”

It was likely to soothe his ego.

“It bothers you that much that I’m taller?” Miles says with an impish grin, eager to pull his overly-serious counterpart’s leg. He rubs extra salt into the wound. “I got like a whole inch on you. Is that why you sometimes wear those chunky-ass boots?”

Aaron fully laughs out loud at that, muttering something about both boys being unintentionally hilarious. 

“I’m not gon’ acknowledge what you just said because it doesn’t even matter—I’m still broader than you,” he flexed his sweaty arm. “All muscle. Don’t play with me.”

“Aye, building muscle was never really my strong suit,” Miles admits with a hand on his chest. “But I’m strong enough to handle my business so who cares about how it looks… As long as I’m not 5’7''.”

A sour look appears on the alternate’s face and Uncle Aaron practically squawks. 

“I’m 5’7''… and a half,” Myles shoves him before petulantly grumbling, “Dickhead.”

“Yo, Myles, come look,” Uncle Aaron beckons him over suddenly, after coming down from his fit of laughter.

It leaves Miles standing awkwardly, after his legs twitched in response to his name, and his mind shut it down because it wasn’t really for him.

Curiosity ate at him but he also didn’t want to intrude. 

The sketch was clearly depicting some sort of apparatus, probably a tool to help him… prowl better.

But Miles needed details and he couldn’t even eavesdrop when the other teen started yammering about physics theoreticals, because Miles only ever cared to learn about applied physics.

The notion of being out of the loop had him feeling like a wet, forgotten rat.

Uncle Aaron unintentionally stops his mental turmoil by telling the boy to slow his rambling. The man wasn’t much of a scientist either, just a victim of Myles’ endless jargon. 

Myles seals his point by flatly telling his uncle he’ll do things his way, though he appreciates the suggestions. Uncle Aaron lets him have it, though he urges the boy to remember that safety is more important than speed in the end.

That catches Miles’ attentions.

Suddenly, an alarm blares and a dead screen flares to life, displaying a location with the word ‘URGENT’ floating on the screen like a news reel.

Aaron skims the details before wordlessly tossing Myles his clawed glove.

The boy catches it effortlessly.

“You should be able to handle this in an hour,” the man informs before furrowing his brows, looking at the accompanying security footage. He corrects himself when he sees the blurry image of two familiar foes—Mister Negative and Electro, an unlikely, but extremely minacious combo. “Maybe two... or three actually.”

Aaron checks his time with an inexplicable bad feeling brewing in the back of his mind.

Usually, villains—people he considered truly evil with no reasoning—were too arrogant to work in collectives, except for the case of the Sinister Six where most of their goals aligned or relied on powers only the other members could provide. But Mister Negative and Electro? Those were two individuals who never needed to cross paths. Aaron worried, but he’d never stop Myles from going after what he wanted, because he was a teenager once too, and an overambitious one at that—he had his fair share of chasing trouble back in his day, as well. If it wasn’t enough to kill him, Aaron would allow Myles to spread his wings, even if it casts a shadow over the entire borough and blinded him in one eye.

“You should join him, hero,” Uncle Aaron suggests, masking it as mere jest, though it was a serious request. The Spider could be his other eye; he could watch his back.

Somehow, seeing the alternate version of his nephew, with actual, tangible superhuman powers and resistance to harm put comfort in his chest—especially knowing he was an ally who had an instinct to protect. It was crazy, in a way, depending on Miles to protect Myles. Watching the two boys interact was like watching two parallel lines suddenly crash into one another—something thought as impossible, suddenly became very real, very quickly, with the empowered teen being a spitting image of what his Myles would’ve been if the spider bit him like it was apparently fated to. 

“That’d be great,” Miles agrees, hyper like a child eager to join an older sibling. “I need to stretch my legs. I wanna see how the villains get down over here.”

“Believe me,” Myles locks into his gear, tossing a jacket over his shoulders before securing his mask. “You don’t.”

“Try me,” Miles answers with a pep in his step, following the other boy to climb out of a window. 

+

When the pair return, Aaron sees the concussion before he could scan it—noticing the battered state of both boys.

Myles limped with what the man could only hope was a mild sprain and one of his fingers on his non-dominant hand was broken. His knuckles were badly bruised and he looked properly messed up. 

The career hero—seemingly unified in all their pursuits—looked equally as pained, gasping with cuts and bruises all along his face and a strange staccato in his breathing.

“I broke something,” he wheezed, palming his chest as he slid down the wall, to the ground. He tilts his head to the side, fatigued, revealing lightning-bolt handprints.

Strangulation and electrocution.

If the boy wasn’t who he was, he would’ve surely died.

Aaron’s stomach churns.

“I told you to watch out,” Myles gripes.

“I didn’t know your world was so fond of jumping! One of them had mind control!” Miles whines before coughing hoarsely. “My bad guys attack one at a time! Usually!”

His next cough draws blood and shakes his whole body.

“Will you heal?” Uncle Aaron inquires, both for the sake of Miles’ health and to soothe his own conscience. 

“Y-Yeah,” the Spider answers weakly but surely, eyes blinking slowly as if he was moments away from passing out. “Yeah. I’ll be fine in like, a day. A little charge like that isn’t stopping shit over here,” he mumbles, still firmly gripping on the precipice of consciousness. “42 almost got hit with his own skateboard.”

“¡Cállate, cabrón!”

The Spider continues, “It was either that or taking a shot from both of them! Those volts would’ve killed you. So, you’re welcome.”

Under normal circumstances, Aaron would scold them for the profanity, but he lets it slide, glad to know that his assumption about Miles was correct; the young man was a protector, even when it wasn’t the entire multiverse at stake—even when it was only one insignificant dude’s nephew.

The man gets the first aid kit to disinfect their open lesions and wrap up their torn flesh. 

He stitches up Myles for the thirtieth time in his life, who hisses in pain at his efforts. Over time, he had gotten quieter during this process; and Aaron loathes the day he’ll say nothing at all while he gets put back together.

This time the man has double the work, and has to witness double the pain, on the same face.

Aaron steels himself as Miles exposed his injured torso, wincing in tandem with the boy at the unforgiving sting of the alcohol. 

When Aaron holds Miles’ small wrist in his hand, as delicately as he could muster, to wrap his arm in bandages, the boy crumbles.

He looks into the adult’s merciful, dark eyes and sheds tears, hiding a frail sob behind his other hand.

Aaron mistakenly chalks it up to the pain finally hitting him, after a wave of mind-numbing adrenaline.

His nephew, though—with a bitter, undecipherable feeling clouding his mind—realizes it’s something else. He sees it for what it really is.

“It’s not fair that you heal in a day,” he decides to blurt out. “It’s disrespectful, really.”

Miles sighs, wiping the watery mix of sweat and tears off his face, dismissively answering. “Yeah. Whatever, man.”

He’s sure he broke a rib. He gasps and feels it shift under his skin.

Same shit, different day.

 •••• GREEN

Despite the hiccup on their first few missions together, Miles had quickly gotten in tune with the rhythm of Earth-42 and its villains; and he came to enjoy the fast pace of a different dimension in comparison to what he dealt with in his home world. Plus, the time spent with Myles meant he had gotten to see his combat style up close, recognizing both his ability and tact, which helped him cool his nerves around the other vigilante; though, the Spider did think he sometimes overdid it with his opponents.

Miles didn’t particularly love fighting, nor did he adore seeing the failures of community leadership in real time, but he’d be lying if he said running amok on Earth-42 didn’t help blow off steam. 

And running around with the Prowler meant that for as many questionable things he did, there was tangible good coming out of it as well, so he presumes it cancels out for the better.

So, in the event that Miles was ever asked by the other Spiders he’d made friends with, or whoever else, if he used the other universe for pure escapism, he’d say ‘yes’ with his full chest.

He would even argue that it was necessary for times like this… when there was literally no one else in the world(s) who understood him.

Miles distantly follows the Prowler as the other boy skates across uneven rooftops, leaping from one roof to the next, moving with the practiced grace of an arborous creature, built to climb and leap. He winces at the many close calls, noting how the other Myles sometimes stuck the landing by sheer luck alone, constantly playing with his life. He sees the faint glow of the accelerators on his board as they use their last bits of energy to propel Myles forward, urged by the inertia of his leg. He finally settles on a building he likes, close enough to see the Hudson and far enough from the urban noise. 

Miles swings towards that building, doubling back to land beside the boy with a clean tumble.

“Your ass just be Spider-Manning all over the place,” Myles gripes, though the other can tell he’s just playing. “You can’t land normally?”

Miles rests on the edge, letting his feet dangle. He releases an exasperated sigh. “I’ll land normally when you do.”

“Hmph,” Myles grumbles, before settling next to him. He stares at him for a moment, forcing him under his hard gaze, again, and the young hero tries not to scramble uncomfortably. “You look… sad. What’s up with you?”

He says it suddenly, sort of rushed, as if to reduce the impact of his genuine concern. Miles knows because he does that too, when he doesn’t want to seem too overbearing, or like he prying for information. Somehow the mirror in their personalities only makes his stomach turn even more in this moment. He meets Myles’ greenish eyes for only a second before looking towards the blank, black sky and shimmering waters, reflecting the city’s multicolored lights. 

“I told my parents I’m Spider-Man.”

Myles makes a small, shocked noise.

“I can’t imagine that went well.”

Miles laughs wryly, kind of proving his point.

“They took it… weird. But... I guess there’s no right way to take it. They stared at me like I grew a second head or something… and my dad went totally silent; no comment, no nothing,” he hugs himself, a chill running through him.

The other teen notices, with a weak frown in response. 

Miles continues to sulk and his counterpart continues to listen, letting him air out all of his woes.

“I ran away as soon as I said it. I couldn’t stand the blank look they gave me. My mom looked like she was tryin’ to find the right words, but every time she opened her mouth, nothing came out, and she had that look in her eyes like she was about to cry. I couldn’t watch that. I had to get away.”

“You know you gon’ have to go back eventually.”

“I know,” the boy agrees reluctantly. “Just not now. They need to… sit with their thoughts… and I need to sit with mine.”

“I got something that could clear your mind,” Myles offers lackadaisically, and the jaded hero raises his eyebrows at the braided boy.

+

Myles takes a smooth drag from the fat blunt between his fingertips, appreciating the slight burn in his throat and the tickle in his nose as the weed travels through his system. 

When he softly exhale, Miles swears he sees his Prowler logo in the smoke.

He watches the other take two more greedy puffs, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as the other boy grins, relaxed. 

From the side, he looks kind of cute, and his braids were getting frizzy, with curly, dark brown hairs straying all over the place.

He finally passed the steaming blunt over to Miles, setting his head on his raised knee, watching the boy.

“You ever smoke before?” He mumbles.

“No,” Miles says candidly, holding it awkwardly.

“It’s hybrid,” Myles replies, as if that explained anything. He giggles a bit at the other’s puzzled look. “Just breathe it in, 16.”

Miles furrowed his brows, hesitant as he stares at the object in his hand. Finally, guided by nothing but the other’s expectant stare, he brings it to his lips and pulls.

Instantly, he chokes, coughing so hard he nearly drops the blunt, and Myles snatches it back with a hearty laugh, leaping to his feet to tease the other.

Miles’ eyes water with how badly his lungs shook in his chest, and by the time his breathing is back to normal, Myles is nearby, barking with laughter, nearly in tears.

“You virgin!” He says, poking fun. “Ain’t you supposed to have lungs of steel and all that? What happened to your,” he puts up finger-quotes, “‘excellent recovery’?”

“Chill,” the Spider says, embarrassed. “Let me try again.”

“You sure?”

The boy frowns. “I’m not a baby, 42.”

The boy clad in purple simply shrugs, passing it over once more. “Try taking shallower puffs this time. Take more only if you can handle it. And don’t drop my shit.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Miles rolls his eyes, though he follows the advice.

They continue passing it back and forth, looking at the dark clouds moving through the sky and hearing the sounds of police sirens and popping flare guns in the distance. The cold ambient air contrasts the fire burning in their chests and Miles finds himself laughing in between strained breaths, still trying to get the hang of things.

“You good?” Myles asks suddenly, hoping his little remedy worked.

“Yeah,” the anomalous one nods. It wasn’t the cannabis flowing through his bloodstream that calmed him, as much as it was the quiet, firm presence of somebody else that did. He leans over, feeling the boy’s puffer jacket graze his shoulder as he asks, “Do you think you’d ever tell your mom about being the Prowler?”

“I mean, you see what I be doin’. Would you?”

“Fair. But… don’t you get tired of lying about it? After a while, it starts feeling like a burden… and it’s one of those types that only get heavier every day.”

“I get that telling your peoples that you’re Spider-Man was important to you, and that’s good, I guess, that you got it off your chest—‘cause you’re the type of dude that needs that—but me,” Myles crinkles his nose, “The shit I hold close to my chest is too important to let loose. Prowler is one of them. Keeping my mama in the dark is the best thing to do. She thinks I’m her little angel. I wanna keep it that way as long as possible.”

“Right,” Miles chuckles. “What am I even saying? You’re gonna do whatever you want regardless.”

“Exactly,” Myles nods sharply with a lazy grin. “I do what I want. If I feel like she needs to know, she’ll know. But for now, we straight. What do you think your parents’ll say when you get back?”

“Nada,” the boy answers flatly. “They were so shaken up, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were in the same spot I left them. You should’ve seen the way their jaws dropped when I crawled on the ceiling.”

Myles cackles. “I mean, it is weird.”

He lowers himself for the sole purpose of blowing smoke in the other’s face, with a coy grin slathered on his. The hero makes a queasy face.

A metal door suddenly slams open just as they were cozying up to one another, forcing them apart as Myles scrambled to hide the shrinking blunt.

“Myles, you ain’t slick. You think I wouldn’t recognize the smell of my stuff? Give it here,” Uncle Aaron says with a paternal glare, holding out his hand. “How you gon’ steal from your OG? C’mon now!”

“My bad,” Myles says unapologetically, taking his last pull from the blunt before sliding a stolen plastic bag full of nugs back into the rightful owner’s hand. 

The other boy’s eyes widened. “You took that much?” 

“Damn, boy!” Uncle Aaron says, with his voice being a mixture of pride and incredulity. “Why are you the thief I gotta watch out for the most?”

“‘Cause I’m him™, for real,” Myles answers arrogantly. Aaron nudges his forehead with his finger, knocking him down a peg. “My bad, unc. But, aye, that’s what nephews are for.”

“You need to let your friend’s good nature rub off on you—“

“Why would I do that?” Myles answers with hands on his hip and a truly perplexed smile, as if it was the wildest suggestion in the world. The other boy blinks, half-offended, but much more entertained by the pair’s banter. “I’d much rather be like you instead.”

Aaron shakes his head, crossing his arms. Although he kept his demeanor playful, his next words held a hard truth that sank into both version’s chests like an anchor. “Hm. And that’s the problem.”

Uncle Aaron laughs and leaves, telling Myles to be back home for dinner on his way back inside. 

Miles watches as the other sinks back to the ground, criss-crossing his legs with a huff. His back leans against a metallic electric box.

“He’s greedy,” he kvetches. “He got way more than that.”

“You’re bad,” the other teases with a shrug, leaning against him. “Shouldn’t have stole his stuff.”

“16, you been around here long enough to notice. What’s mine is mine and what’s his is mine too. That’s how it works.”

“Clearly not.”

“He’s showin’ off because you around.”

“Sounds like you’re jealous,” Miles says, though it’s a deflection, because if anyone was jealous, it was him. The thing he wanted more than anything was to hug Uncle Aaron and tell the man how much he missed him; even though it’d never make sense and wasn’t the same thing. “Should I stop coming around?”

“Mmm, no. You… you aight.”

Miles nearly rolls his eyes at the other’s tone. He was trying to play it off like he didn’t enjoy having him around. It makes the Spider smirk.

“Then it’s cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Myles stares at him, noticing his eyes—which matched his uncle’s and father’s, as well as the sparse freckles dotted along his nose. He hates the fact that he thought it was so… pretty. He swears it’s gotta be some sort of narcissism. “It’s cool.”

The other suddenly stands, blinking harshly. 

“I, um, I should go,” he admits begrudgingly, as if he’d much rather take shelter with Myles. “I gotta finish that conversation.”

Myles nods, understanding. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. Are my eyes red?”

“With them little-ass puffs you took? Nah,” the boy jeers darkly. “You good.”

Miles opens the portal behind him, being brightened by the orange, pink, and blue pulsing bubbles of the slight ripple he made in the fabric of space. He looks at Myles with a gratefulness in his eyes before waving. “Thanks, 42.”

He swallows dryly and nods, fighting off the nervous urge to play with his hair.

 ••••• ISOLATE (IN A BUBBLE)

“Aye, 42, what’s the move tonight? We should totally—”

Miles’ gleeful prattle was cut off by Aaron as he slid through the portal and into their hideout. 

Myles sat atop a skinny truss beam with a hunch in his back, and a screwdriver in his hand, focusing his headlight onto the skateboard in his lap as he added more absurd modifications. 

“You’re not goin’ out tonight,” Uncle Aaron announces sternly. 

For a moment, Miles deflates, thinking he’s being singled out before the man clarifies that he’ll be handling patrols this evening.

“That man’s gettin’ soft,” Myles scoffs, balancing screws between his lips.

Uncle Aaron furrows his brows, daring the boy to repeat himself. “Who’s gettin’ soft?”

He grabs his pistol, tucking it near his hip. 

Miles gulps when he notices a healed scar on his lower oblique, seemingly from a stab wound. 

His Aaron had a similar scar, though his was a gunshot; a nasty predictor of what later killed him.

“Are you sure you wanna go out there, Unc—I mean, um, Aaron? Huh. I—”

“Relax, youngblood. I been in these streets my whole life—”

Miles trembles, literally feeling the electricity in his nerves. His concern flares hotly—a trait stolen from his father—and Aaron hears Jeff in his tone as much as he sees him in his face. 

“That’s what they all say. How long has it been since you were the one patrolling?”

“Years!” Myles supplies. “He’s my guy in the chair now! Tryna be different!”

“It’s fine,” Uncle Aaron shrugs before squeezing Miles’ shoulder. “I’m glad to know you’re worried ‘bout me but I’m good. Tonight, it can be all about you two,” he looks up towards his nephew. “You’re workin’ on your hoverboard—”

“Omni-board!” Myles corrects. “It’ll be omnidirectional by the time I’m done.”

“Right, omni-board. And you can help him,” he says, looking down at Miles. He shakes him a bit, hoping to comfort him. “Do kid shit. Y’all are kids. Have a sleepover or somethin’.”

Miles snorts.

Myles tilts his head, muttering, “I know you fuckin’ lyin’.”

He leaps from his elevated spot on the beam, setting his dismantled board on the desk where the rest of the tools lay.

Uncle Aaron flicks the back of his head. “I heard that.”

“My bad,” Myles hissed, picking up his messy pile of notes and studying them, trying to ignore the nervous tension in the room radiating off of his doppelganger, making him feel overly concerned for his uncle as well. “Be safe, old man.”

Uncle Aaron chuckles smoothly, standing between the two boys. He presses a brief kiss on both of their temples—Miles’ first, because that extra inch in height made him easier to reach—before replying, “I will. Y’all two stay out of trouble.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the boys in the empty, wide space, with nothing but the sound of Myles’ drill whirring.

Miles can’t help the tingly feeling he gets from the sensation, feeling a rush of warmth flow through him as the memories of his uncle flood his mind freely. Somehow he felt like whatever else happened to him in this world was worth it, because he got to have his Uncle Aaron back, even if only for a brief nanosecond, even if only by mistake.

He sighs into a smile, scooting closer towards Myles, who was trying to stick some panels to the bottom of his board.

“So… the omni-board,” he starts shyly, glancing over the haphazardly spread blueprints and plans. “This is the tech you were being so secretive about.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s gonna make it omnidirectional?”

“I’m tryna make it fly.”

“Fly? You wanna make a skateboard fly?”

“Mmhmm,” Myles nods curtly, focused. “Don’t act surprised. Your Green Goblin flies. You practically fly whenever you shoot those nut-ribbons out of your wrists.”

The doppleganger cringes at his phrasing, answering with a squint. “Yeah, I mean… wait, your Goblin doesn’t fly?” He takes a better look at the panels he attached to the bottom of his already incredible, suped-out, futuristic skateboard.  He couldn’t believe his counterpart was trying to turn this thing into an aircraft. “Are these magnets? You plan to make this thing lift with electromagnetism?” 

It was already running on a charger, he wouldn’t be surprised if Myles went that route. They had the same mind, after all.

It’s only confirmed when he nods. “Yup.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t go out then. You would’ve been stuck on foot.”

“Push comes to shove, I would’ve busted out my old skates.”

Miles guffaws. “You used to rollerskate to the opps!”

He screams with laughter. Myles shoves him, but it doesn’t quell the other’s fervent shouts. He practically choked on his amusement.

“Whatever! I bet you didn’t have this suit when you first started; it’s the same thing! That’s why your shit’s too tight at the back—”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s perfectly comfortable!” Miles groans. 

“No te queda bien... y parece que te sangran las axilas,” Myles criticizes, hammering down a new piece that the other couldn’t comprehend.

The mutant groans again, childishly shoving him back. 

“Watching you tinker is pretty boring, not gonna lie. Let’s do something else.”

Kid shit, hopefully.

Myles rolls his eyes, setting down his tools. Each time the anomaly visited, it forced him to be hospitable. Though he didn’t hate it, he didn’t love it either—and what he hated most of all is how readily he could be at the hero’s beck and call.

Like all the times he unconsciously took his advice while they were exploring the city, or fighting some dickhead who was fucking over defenseless poor folks. And it wasn’t just him. Miles’ sunflower persona even had Aaron in a chokehold, ready to claim him as a second nephew just as much as Myles was ready to declare him as something more than a mere acquaintance. 

He takes the headlight off, trying to rub the line out of his forehead. 

He gives the hero—who wore a lopsided smile—a pointed look, before conceding. 

“Fine. I need to wash my hair anyway.”

+

Myles sneaks the boy in through his window, ordering him to sit still and be quiet while he takes a shower.

He tosses him some clothes before disappearing in his New York thin-crust, teeny tiny bathroom. 

Miles notices that it’s casual wear; an old tee and baggy shorts with super long drawstrings. He debates it for a while, but finally decides to shed his suit, sliding into the clothes. They had a particular smell to them, not dirty or rank by any means, but homey in a way he could only chalk up to arrogance. He wonders if this is how he appeared to other people; how he was remembered in other people’s five senses. Myles smelled like mami, with a dash of roughness—like the sensation of your face being smushed against the asphalt. Miles would know, he’s been there. He wonders if he smells good, like the air on a street full of bakeries. He swings through those areas all the time. Maybe he does.

While Myles showers, the other digs through his bookshelf, noticing a bunch of homemade figurines and trinkets, some looking older than others, resembling Legos and Transformers, as well as graphic novels in pristine condition, practically unopened and still smelling of library air. Between two books was a random little flag, tucked securely, in three colors. His eyebrows raise in shock once he recognized the symbol, and a slight grin finds its way upon his face. 

He cracks one of the books open and immediately closes it upon seeing a sketch full of hard lines and delicate strokes, instantly—and regretfully—realizing it’s a sketchbook, the equivalent of an artist’s diary, too intimate to touch so recklessly.

He notices a stack of four and fights off his curiosity, making a mental note to ask about it.

It isn’t too long before he bounces onto the other’s bed, curling in on himself while flipping through some comic art book that he’ll be sure to use as reference material later.

While he’s taking photos of cool poses, saving the images onto his phone, while already envisioning an character in his mind, he hears the sudden noise of a metallic screech cutting through the air, and it takes a moment before he realizes it’s a blow dryer.

Underneath the ungodly noise, he can hear Myles humming to himself, a melodious mix of what could only be described as a blend of R&B and drill. 

It takes another twenty-something minutes before Myles is tumbling out, shirtless, only clad in some black Adidas pants, with one side of his hair perfectly braided, holding the other half-done side with his fingers, determined not to let it unravel.

He finishes the braid, undoing it when he feels a sloppy lump, before adjusting it, and then turns towards his lookalike with a stoic glance.

“You know how to put in beads?” He lifts up an unopened pack of black ones in his left hand.

“Nah,” the other boy answers weakly, biting his lip and closing the book in his hands. He glances at Myles’ chest and shoulders, noting the dips and divots of old wounds and carved-out flesh. “You always do your own hair?”

“Obviously. I’m not gon’ ask my mama to do it. I’m a grown man; I handle myself,” he says conceitedly before very quietly adding, “And she way too heavy-handed anyway. I’d rather eat a jean jacket before lettin’ her on my head again.”

The other boy snickers, wondering if his rants about being nearly an adult sounded this asinine to other people.

“Dang.”

“What about you, 16?” Myles says with a slight pout in his lip, reaching out to fluff the boy’s dark, not-quite-black hair. “You never got your hair done? Braids, locs? You look like the type to have a dreadlock phase; unless you rode the emo heat-damage wave instead—”

“What? Nah, man! I just get my hair cut. I don’t have the patience to sit for hours like that.”

Yet, he had the patience to sit in his alternate’s world for hours, and if it weren’t for the fact that he had actual responsibilities, he could stay for days on end.

“Do you cut your own hair? Does your dad do it?”

“Hell no. You must not like me, suggesting stuff like that,” he shudders. “I have actual PTSD from the line-up he tried to give me in seventh grade. I got flamed so bad.”

“God, I need a picture of that,” the other sneers.

“No, you really don’t.”

Myles grins, cracking open the pack of beads before handing his lookalike a little plastic doohickey that he didn’t recognize.

“Aight, boom, so this is a beader,” he gestures, “So you’ll just slide the beads in, attach it to my hair, and I’ll lock it in.”

The boy looks at the tool and sees the logic, but his hands shake regardless.

He manages to install the beads just fine, with five on each braid, and Myles ties them in, before throwing a two-toned silk durag over his head and sliding into a pullover.

“You hungry?” He asks, just as the other was about to mention his sketchbook.

Right on time, his stomach growls angrily, like he hadn’t been fed in ages, and Myles laughs, only laughing harder when his stomach adds its own demonic roar into the mix.

He slips out of his room and into the kitchen, rummaging through leftovers and grabbing two paper plates, too lazy to even think about washing dishes. 

By the time he’s popped one of them in the microwave, his mother is creeping towards him like a silent ghost, her high voice piercing him suddenly as she interrogates, “Myles, ¿por qué estás calentando dos porciones?”

“¡Ay bendito!” He flinches despite himself, turning to face his petite, adorable, terrifying mother. “Mamíta, ¿de qué estás hablando? Soy un chico en crecimiento.”

She folds her arms, shifts her weight onto one leg, and gives him a pointed stare, silently judging him for saying something so obviously idiotic. It was the same look he gave Uncle Aaron when he said something goofy, like giving him outdated advice for picking up girls.

“Myles, this is like the time you cooked six fucking eggs! It’s nearly 11PM!”

Myles flinches at her sudden use of such harsh profanity, knowing that she rarely spoke like that; and if she did, she’d choose Spanish. This was purely for emphasis, forcing him to remember the verbal lashings he got that day, like they were straight from Dr. Umar himself.

“Ma, do you have to drop an F-bomb every time you bring it up? It sounds weird when you cuss.”

“¡Sí!” She insists, “I mean, really, six fucking eggs—you would think we own Amazon with the way you was eating!”

Miles, who could hear everything, chuckled to himself in the darkness of the boy’s room; and Myles sighs defeatedly at the verbal lashing he’s currently stuck in, knowing for a fact that the Spider hidden in his sheets would use it as ammo to taunt him later.

“Déjalo… slide—just this once. Please?” He says, while actively warming up the other dish, not really waiting for her reply. He makes a sliding motion with his arm, as if that’d help his point.

Newsflash, it does not.

Instead, the woman narrows her eyes at him, the same way she’d stare at stubborn patients to make them behave, or remind them to use their manners when speaking to her.

“You better not have one of your little friends from school in that room,” she warns, before her voice takes an accusatory shape. She practically wails. “At night! Oh, God! Myles Gonzalo Morales, you better not be—”

“Mama, oh my God, no! Lo que creas que estoy haciendo, ¡no es eso!”

“You sure?” She pressed, eyes wide in a Black-mom-giving-you-a-nonverbal-warning manner.

Myles almost wanted to fling himself off of a building. 

“Yes I’m sure. No funny stuff, no ‘little friends’ either!”

No fucking in her house; it was an unspoken rule, and he’d rather it stay unspoken.

By the time that whole thing was over, the Spider was eating the cooking of his mother’s alternate, cheerily coming to the realization that the particular taste he loved so much didn’t deviate between the two worlds; nor did the attitude.

Between bites, he comments, “You know, it’s cool how fluent you are.”

“Me yelling in Spanglish is cool to you?” He replies bitterly. “God, that was embarrassing.”

“Do you do this kind of thing often enough for her to suspect you?” The hero titters.

Myles bristles, cheeks feeling hot. “N-No.”

“I really mean it, though. My speaking isn’t as good as my comprehension. My Latino friends are always on my ass about it—and my cousins.”

“Are you tryna ask me to teach you? Should I speak to you in Spanish? ¿Serás capaz de mantener el ritmo, 16?” 

The Spider shudders at the way his nickname slithers out of his variant’s mouth, decorated by the thick accent that cloaked his voice when he spoke their mother tongue. His throat felt dry.

He changes the subject quickly, desperately.

“When did you start… your… crime thing?”

He mentally slaps himself the moment it escapes him, even though it was sort of true. Fighting crime while simultaneously committing crimes—on the same level or sometimes worse—could only be called a ‘crime thing.’ It wasn’t his fault Myles tried to be Robin Hood by robbing the hood.

“The Prowler gig or the street shit in general?”

“Both.”

“Doce.”

“Twelve? Twelve-years-old?”

“I was in a little street gang back then. Mostly a bunch of us middle schoolers, plus some kids’ big brothers joined the scene too. Taught us a few tricks. How to fight, for real.  We did little petty crimes, mostly boostin’. But I got tired of that. I wanted to touch real money,” he admits with a wry chuckle. “All they did was steal, squabble, and waste time. I wasn’t havin’ it no more. I don’t know why I thought I’d be livin’ lavish in two months though.  I left that group and ran on my own for a while before comin’ to my uncle with the idea. He was doing his thing, gettin’ paid, and I wanted to join in. Gave him the perfect elevator pitch and everything—told him I was young, fit, strong, and smart—a future scientist, like, Nobel level. Plus, he was gettin’ old. Knees don’t last forever. He can’t take no more rough landings. That’s how I came up with the Prowler persona. That was like, what? At thirteen? Fourteen? It’s been my other half ever since, equally part of me… my nighttime self.”

“That’s how you got all those scars.”

“Yessir.”

“You ever been shot?”

“Have you?”

“Yeah, I been shot at; I been grazed. But pierced, no.”

“I have.”

The hero bites his lip. “You ever shot somebody else?”

Myles turns towards him, taking the last forkful off of his plate before replying, “What do you think?”

Miles retaliates, finding that half-answer to be all the evidence he needs.

“You don’t wanna answer me?” 

“I have, 16. Now what.”

“N-Nothing. I’m not gonna do anything to you… or say anything.”

“I didn’t kill them,” he hurriedly interjects.

Them. Multiple. 

The hero exhales. “Okay...”

“Unc was always sayin’ to shoot only if I had to and always aim for nonlethal spots.”

Miles doesn’t know what to say to that, almost wanting to press further but also desperately wanting to drop it, especially if he wanted to keep this picadillo down.

He couldn’t imagine a face that looked like his doing something as obviously malicious as shooting someone point blank; and yet, here he was, looking at one… admiring one.

Myles had such round eyes and curly lashes and beautiful hair—and despite his scathing delivery and bitter tone—he was a kindhearted guy. These weren’t the makings of a killer; yet, he didn’t sound like he was above it, like it was off the table. No. For Myles, it simply hadn’t happened yet, but wasn’t impossible. 

Hopefully, it’d never get that far.

“Can I see your sketchbooks?”

Myles brightened at the more relaxed request. “Uh, yeah. The blue one, though. That’s the most recent. It’s mostly—”

“Very purple,” the boy notes, already eagerly flipping through the filled pages, drawn with purple ink and outlined with a light purple highlighter. The other jokingly asks if he’s not allowed to have a favorite color. The boy continued studying the pages. “A lot of Prowler stuff in here—ooh nice, shoe designs—the skyline. It’s really good. You got skill. Now I know you’re my clone.”

Myles rolls his eyes, sneakily saying, “Yeah, aight. Whatever you say, arañita.”

The Spider looks away, trying to hide the gobsmacked expression on his face as he begs for the devious boy to stop playing, not knowing if he can handle another nickname being thrown at him with this accent that seemed to fall naturally on him while in the comfort of his home.

They both feel their stomachs twist with the sounds of each others’ timid, stifled laughter, feeling utterly boyish despite all the grown-man bullshit they proudly proclaimed.

42’s Rio swears she hears giggling through the walls, but she opts to trust her son.

Miles ends up falling asleep there, and by some stroke of luck, the boy’s mom doesn’t catch them. He wakes up in a cold sweat, two hours later, remembering he was not at home and had to be back.

When he tries to rise, he realizes he’s being held down by his counterpart, who had his strong bicep splayed across his torso, breathing softly against his chest. He slides out of his grasp as gently as he possibly could, watching the other shiver, even while clad in his thick hoodie, before rolling over.

He grabs his suit and decides to just ball it up and hold it in his hand, deciding that he’ll return his clothes later. A wireless earbud falls out of his ear and he picks it up, placing it on Myles’ table, with the memory of falling asleep while listening to his playlist coming back to him in full force, down to the song. A SZA instrumental, because they felt dreamy, like lullabies, and were easy to read to, because he had told Myles to actually read all the books he bought.

With one final glance of appreciation, he slips out of the window, silently disappearing into the night.

+1 • PROSPECTIVE, PERSPECTIVE

It was a Saturday, meaning Miles’ had nothing like school to distract him from being Spider-Man, though, it was awkward, running into his dad while on duty and noticing him flinch and wince every time Miles’ did something risky.

“Do you think you’re Simone Biles? Almost gave me a heart attack,” the man had once said over dinner, dramatically recounting the event to his mother, who gave him a stern look, telling him not to overdo the showmanship. “When did you get so... nimble?” 

It went in one ear and out the other, as it always did, because showmanship was just as integral as the suit; he had to do it.

He didn’t always like the fighting, but he liked the rowdiness, and the reward of rescuing someone and hearing their gratitude—and something about the rush of nearly dying lit a fire in his chest, though it was senseless.

But moments like these were ones he treasured most. 

The silence was almost deafening at this height, but he came to enjoy the lone sounds of speeding crows and gentle winds.

Perched atop the Williamsburg Bank tower, the boy idly swings his legs, letting the view simply take him.

New York was gorgeous like this, when you didn’t hold the magnifying glass too close towards all its problems and individual parts. As a single, massive unit, the entire city was a gift to the eyes, a wonder of human ingenuity, and the perfect playground for someone like him, whose only purpose was to explore and fly and leap.

Up here, he felt like the king of the world, even when he sometimes felt like a background character in his own life.

And in about an hour, the sun would set, and his playpen would darken. Like laser tag, that’s when the real fun began.

He swings his feet some more, looking at the way the shoelaces of his Jordan’s dangle.

He doesn’t know why he wore them today, but he just shrugs, looking at the world under his feet.

His spidey-senses go off and less than a second later he hears the familiar distortion of a portal being pried open, and Myles leaps out, nearly missing the ledge and falling five hundred feet.

He sticks the landing, holding his new and improved omni-board under his arm with a cheeky smile, as if he didn’t just almost fucking die.

Miles gasps, leaning over to create space for the other to sit, not liking how vulnerable he was, standing at this height. “What are you doing here?”

Myles sits down carelessly, swinging his feet alongside the other.

“Wanted a change of scenery.”

Miles sighs, exasperated. “Are you serious?”

“Deadass,” the doppelganger nods with an innocent tilt of his head. His beads click-clack together. Miles’ fingers twitch at the other’s constant movement, watching him carelessly shift his weight. “I wanted to show you somethin’.”

He turns on the board, watching it glow and come alive in his lap.

The hero immediately hates the idea, shouting, “No way, man! Is that how you wanna get down from here? Nah, let me take you down. We’ll go for a shorter building.”

“What? You don’t believe in me?” The other speaks, “You think I’d be this confident when I ain’t already test it? Chill.”

Spider-Man desperately tried to remind his mulish variant that he wasn’t no diva.

“We’re up 500 feet!”

But it was to no avail.

“Should’ve been six. You scared?” Myles stands, walking with the balance of a bird on a powerline, towards the other side of the ledge, wanting to get a running start.

“Very!” 

“If I fall,” the other teen vigilante casually says, strapping his leading leg to the vehicle, “You can catch me. But otherwise, don’t interfere.”

“That’s crazy, 42!”

Myles shrugs before taking off, skating across the ledge before leaping off the edge totally, sinking for a brief moment that had him feeling lighter than air, before his board propels even higher, the lower lights reflecting in the Spider’s eyes as he looks up, watching the boy twirl in the air, like these were average skating tricks, like he didn’t just singlehanded create multi-million dollar tech on a whim in a busted factory.

Miles gawks at him, both extremely perplexed and undoubtedly amazed, heart thumping with adrenaline as if he still subconsciously expected the boy to plummet. He wondered how he could keep his balance on that thing.

Myles wears a satisfied smirk on his face as he crosses his arms, lowering a bit so that he’s eye-to-eye with the Spider seated on the ledge.

“Oh, you real nervous now,” he notes decisively. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Somewhere shorter? Absolutely,” Miles agrees breathlessly, watching in awe as his counterpart descends, circling the building as he winds down, like a spiraling slide on a playground, while the Spider simply tips over the edge and drops, extending his webs like a parachute, grappling onto the wall to better control his fall.

As he zips through the city, the Prowler whizzing right by his size, donning his signature mask and just looking like trouble, Miles can’t help but feel stupidly happy, feeling a surge of pride at the fact that the other boy was able to accomplish something so unthinkable, so quickly. 

When the pair land on a shorter office building, with Myles slowly descending in front of the hero with the most smug expression he’s ever seen, Miles has to fight the urge to reach out and yank him into a hug, instead meeting him with a silly grin and joking about how the board makes him taller.

“That was fun as fuck,” Myles cheers, releasing a breath as he dismounts.

“Don’t be surprised if you end up on the news. ‘Spider-Man and mysterious ally spotted,’” the hero chuckles, using his best news anchor voice before sitting with a sigh. 

He looks up and realizes that the sun would set soon. Since he had company, and this building was much, much shorter at a mere 26 feet, he knew he wouldn’t properly see the sunset, which wasn’t a big deal, since he could always watch the sky change colors instead, finding that to be just as picturesque.

The other boy sits next to him. Seemingly out of thin air, he whips out another blunt, and Miles side-eyes him, knowing the boy would get an earful from his uncle the moment he stepped back into his world.

He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and lets it spark, grinning deviously.

“What time is it on 42?”

He knew their times were flipped, so his days were the other’s nights. It was winter now, so the sun set as early as 5:30.

“It’s, like, 9AM over there,” Myles says with a smokey exhale. “Unc is at his day job. He won’t notice that I took a little somethin’.”

“Knowing you, you probably took a little more than just a little somethin’.”

“You want a hit?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, soaking in the sights of the sky turning into that fiery orange color, with the clouds stained hot pink, and the shifting hues being reflected in the glass panes of all the nearby buildings. The swirling colors in the air and constant chatter of the city calmed him like the sound of rain, allowing him to think clearly, without the strain of other people’s expectations and ideas in his head as well. In his peace, he remembers something. “Um…”

“Yo,” Myles responds, glancing at him.

“Miguel… he invited me back. Into the Spider Society.”

Myles makes a disgusted face. “I hope you told his ass no.”

“I did,” the Spider grimaces. “I told ‘em they needed new management before I could join them. Right now, it’s way too cliquey.”

“And?” The other says expectantly, green eyes prying.

Miles’ brown eyes nearly water, only stopped by his inability to do two things at once. He chooses to speak.

“I feel weird about it. I hate feeling… unsure of myself.”

“Well… what is it that you tryna gain?”

“In what sense?”

“As Spider-Man. If that’s your priority, everything’s gotta align with that.”

“I just wanna help people. It’s basic, it’s naïve, but it’s true, and it’s all I have. I got the ability to help people so that’s what I wanna do. That’s what I should do. Great power, great responsibility.”

“According to?”

“Myself.”

Myles nods. “I like that answer.”

“What about you? What do you gain by being the Prowler? What’re your goals?”

Myles exhales another cloud and gives his counterpart a softened look. 

“Freedom.”

“Freedom…” Miles repeats. “I feel you.”

“Of course you do. Because at the end of the day, even though our methods are different, we both want the same things—our freedom, and to protect the people we can. I guess… if that spider story is real, about our fates bein’ switched and shit… then that means we were both made for this. Just a matter of… Damn, it sounds cheesy as fuck—but it was really just a matter of where the spider swung.”

Miles chortles. “I hate that you’re right. It really is.”

“I would’ve never said it before I really got to know you but… we’re the same, beyond just our names and faces,” Myles admits, looking upwards. “It’s bigger than all of that.”

“Yeah,” Miles agrees, watching the boy as he spoke.

The sky turned pink and the boys turned to each other.

“42?” Spider-Man called.

“16,” Prowler answered, looking at the boy expectantly.

He quietly commands, “Stop looking at me like that.”

Then he scoots closer, moving boy’s occupied hand away from his lips so that all he could focus on was the reflection before him. Miles steels his nerves and goes for it, kissing his alternate just as the sky bleeds into the darkest blue, sprinkled with stars.

Myles kisses him back longingly, tracing his fingers up the boy’s clothed neck, supporting him as they did this long overdue dance. 

When they separated, filled with a newfound energy between them, they can’t help but giggle.

“I don’t know,” Miles starts, timidly licking his lips, “why you thought I wouldn’t peep that look. I give people that look. You like me.”

“Oh, really?” Myles retorts, falling back on sarcasm as if he wasn’t trying to catch his breath and calm the erratic banging of his heart. “Well, you wasn’t that subtle either, 16.”

He yanks him closer, almost like a challenge.

“You really like me!” Miles beams.

“Yeah… and what about it?” Myles says, kissing the other once more. The moonlight shines on them as they pull away, sighing. He purses his lips before declaring, “We’re self-centered as fuck.”

Miles shrugs, pleased with himself. “It is what it is.”

“No, like, for real. On some Narcissus shit, bro. We’re literally ‘would you get with a clone of yourself?’” The Prowler emphasizes, shaking his head. “At this point, I blame the damn spider.”

The boys share another laugh and Miles truly feels like the king of the world, with the best of both.

They get a kick out of making out, and make it a regular occurrence; almost as regular as poking through space-time to be together.