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Miles knows that school is important. If it wasn’t for his old friends’ constant reminders about him attending the very prestigious Visions Academy, or the auditorium presentation every semester about success and good grades, it would probably be his parents. His mamá was always asking him about homework and the future, and his dad was like a broken-record talking about the price of colleges and the revenue of certain careers.
So, yeah, he knows it’s a big deal.
And to have a good run in school, one could argue he’d need good grades, and Miles prides himself in his test scores and homework marks. Hundred percents on pop quizzes, praising teacher notes written in the margins of the projects he hands in, classmates coming to him for help with certain subjects – he’s a pretty good student, if he says so himself. The majority of his grades support that claim!
But there’s one class that has been stressing him out, and it’s the one class that shouldn’t: Spanish class.
It’s silly to think the kid whose mom is Puerto Rican and grew up speaking Spanish would be failing this class, but it’s true, and it’s been killing him. Being Spider-man didn’t really help either. Miles repeatedly found himself skipping classes to stop crimes and leaving the academy to follow wherever his sixth sense took him. His absences, along with his considerable lack of learning for the current lessons, were tanking his grade.
Well, maybe not tanking, but that singular low B annoyed him to no end.
So, yeah, he needed to ace this upcoming speaking test. It was worth half of his grade! He couldn't mess this up! Miles had to nail it no matter what. Even if that meant studying overtime as Spiderman in Spider Society’s Headquarters after completing missions with his team.
Admittedly, it was a little uncomfortable at first sitting in the crowded cafeteria, flipping through his notes and textbook. Some people curiously stared from over his shoulder and some even asked what he was doing, which caused him to sheepishly laugh and explain he was studying.
Highlighting terms, mumbling phrases under his breath, furrowing his brows at each thing that looked so familiar but he couldn't understand – his mind worked in overdrive to consume all the information. The time was ticking down. He only had a week left for this test, and he didn't feel ready.
Seven whole days may have seemed like a lot of time but he still had to finish going through chapter fourteen and sixteen. Then, he had to write out his presentation over his dreams after graduating followed by writing out all the correct translations to put at the end of all the slides. Lastly, he had to memorize all of it.
This sucked. Like, majorly sucked.
Part of him just wanted to accept the shitty grade but the rational part of him knew it wouldn't end well if he purposely blew it all because he didn't want to go through the effort or preparation. He could hear his parents’ incredulous words grating against his ears already.
He hunched over, holding a red pen between his fingers as he feverishly underlined a few conjugations he needed to be mindful of. His head hurt and his face felt dry. He might have wrinkles by the time this was over. The ink bled across the page as he scribbled nonsensically, heaving a heavy sigh that practically rattled his ribs.
“This is so-” a few choice words came to mind but he settled childishly for “-stupid.”
He rubbed at his eyes as he wrote the conjugations down again, hoping desperately to engrave it into his mind. The chatter of a few Spiders caught his attention as one loudly laughed, the smell of food drifting into his nose as they walked by. Maybe he should take a break–
“That’s wrong, Morales.”
Miles startled, twisting around to look up at Miguel, who was looking down at his notebook. His brows were furrowed as he read over the younger’s messy handwriting, broad shoulders a little relaxed compared to how usually tense he was. In his large hands was a tray and if Miles squinted, he could see some steam rolling off of whatever it was the man was eating.
“What?” Miles asked dumbly, more than surprised to see the man here and talking to him in a casual manner – or, as casual as someone as Miguel O’hara could possibly talk. In fact, Miguel typically ignored him, demeanor overwhelmingly grumpy. On the occasions the man did talk to him, it was for assigning him missions or chastising him for something quote-unquote “unbelievably reckless and stupid” he had done on aforementioned missions.
“Those conjugations,” Miguel squinted, “They’re wrong.”
“Oh.”
Miles stares back down at his notes. Looking at them after Miguel’s words, he can kinda tell they’re off now. Just a little bit. Doesn’t make him any less discouraged or exasperated, his red scrawl taunting him from where it spreads across the lined sheets. This… this is bullshit. Utter bullshit.
“In imperfect tense for verbs ending in ‘-ar’, there’s only an accent on the nosotros form,” Miguel starts, “Not the nosotros and vosotros forms.”
“Ah,” Miles feels like he wants to slam his head against the table again and again, “I see.”
A beat of silence passes. Or rather, a beat of silence between them as the rambunctious behavior of the other Spiders rings out loudly in the cafeteria.
“Why are you studying Español in the cafeteria, Morales?” Miguel doesn’t necessarily sound interested, tone gruff and brash, “Shouldn’t you save this for school hours?”
“Uh… yeah, but…” Miles huffs, subtly distressed, “I have a week until this huge Spanish presentation that’s worth, like, half my grade and I have to cram whenever I can. I’ve been doing this since… last Tuesday?”
Miles doesn’t really know why he’s telling the older Spider-man this, but it feels like some of the weight on his shoulders lifts off as he talks about it. His pen makes random doodle-ly lines between his messed up conjugations as he fights the urge to sulk in his seat. He’s probably failing but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s just so tired and worried over this stupid presentation that won’t even last a full five minutes. He pauses slightly when Miguel walks around the table and slides into the seat across from him, tray settling down to the side of Miles’ textbook, two steaming empanadas with crispy edges on a flimsy paper plate that clashes with the bright red plastic.
Miguel’s large hands take the textbook and turn it his way, flipping through it with a stoic face. Miles doesn’t really know what to say in this moment of unexpected interaction, so he just resigns himself to sit rigidly in his chair, hands awkwardly fiddling with the pen.
“Morales,” Miles looks over quickly as Miguel says his surname, “How far are you into chapter fourteen?”
“Uh- pretty far, I think.”
Miguel hums, not even glancing his way, “Okay. I’m going to quiz you.”
Miles blinks, “Wait, what-”
“¿Qué actividad hacías más en el kinder?”
Miles flounders, eyes wide as he frantically searches his head for a suitable answer, “Yo- yo siempre leía... ¿libros pequeños?”
Relentless, eyes studying the book in a strikingly similar way to how Miles’ own dad would look through his math book, Miguel continued, “¿Qué es lo que más te gusta hacer los martes por la tarde?”
The man’s pronunciation is strangely mesmerizing to listen to and Miles feels slightly jealous underneath his panic with his more stunted and stumbling way of speaking, “Lo que más me gusta hacer los martes es visitar la... tienda del barrio.”
The minutes tick by quickly as Miguel asks question after question, the inquiries coming out in a rapid fire fashion and Miles can barely keep it. His tongue feels tied as he forces out a decent (?) answer for each of his questions, clutching his pen between sweaty palms. The man sometimes hums in response to his answers, and twice he looked up from the book with a deadpan face like he couldn’t believe the words Miles had just uttered. Those two times Miles’ face had flushed red as he squeaked out a half-hearted apology, engaging in a strange staring contest before Miguel muttered something that sounded like bad words in Spanish under his breath before continuing. It almost reminded Miles of his mom when she was doing taxes or cut herself when making dinner.
Eventually, Miguel leans back in his seat, nibbling on his second half-eaten empanada. He sets the textbook down, “No está mal, niño."
Miles feels both bashful at the compliment coming from the typically insulting man, but he also feels relieved to be done with his hellish quizzing session. His brain felt like a well-wrung wet towel.
“Still… you should practice your conjugation usage, specifically between imperfect tense and preterite tense. You confused them a little bit at times, but still. Not the worst i’ve heard someone speak Spanish,” Miguel’s words are soft yet brash at the same time, face slightly relaxed compared to his usual pout-ish look.
“Okay, okay… I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” Miles looks at his textbook, brain too tired to actually comprehend the words on the page. Should he say thank you? Or should he ask for more advice? Without warning, Miguel stands up, wiping any empanada remains from his mouth and hands.
Shit! Miles fights the urge to spring up, looking up at the older man with nervous, jittery hands, “Uh- gracias Señor!”
Miguel just grunts in response, picking up his tray. As he turns to leave, he hesitates, rocking on his heels slightly before stating lowly, “I’ll quiz you again tomorrow. Don’t come unprepared.”
Oh… Miles didn’t expect that. In fact, he still didn’t quite get why Miguel helped him. Is it because he was so unimpressed with his Spanish abilities? Or maybe it was because he took pity on him? Or, the least logical option, has the man grown attached and helped out of the kindness of his heart? No, definitely not the last one. Miles almost snorts at the thought but he pushes it down to nod at Miguel, who turns around and walks away with tray in hand.
Huh… Miles looks down at his textbook before back at Miguel’s retreating figure, who approaches the trash cans with bright trays stacked high on their surface.
Miles figures, positively, that at least he has another reason to actually study now.