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Visiting the cemetery downtown at this time of year always hit him with a strange kind of nostalgia– one that left him yearning for things never real in the first place. The air was cool and dewy from the light shower this morning; something that helped to settle his nerves. While the weather was certainly warming up day by day, it was still chilly enough for Miles to hide a spider suit under his favorite hoodie and some loose jeans. Seeing the graveyard blanketed in newly sprung grass, the occasional wildflower providing a spot of color, and couplets of butterflies fluttering around headstones veered his thoughts towards a philosophical direction; how life and death seemed so intimately intertwined. You could never have one without the other– as one falls, another rises. As one Spiderman dies, a new one is born.
If he wasn't holding a small bouquet of flowers, Miles would probably be fidgeting with the sleeve of his suit. He walked slowly and deliberately through the graveyard; past headstones and crosses, trying his best to delay the inevitable twist of guilt and grief in his chest. His feet walked on their own; the location of Peter Parker's grave ingrained in his psyche. How could he forget, when it was the very beginning of his story?
Miles' breath caught in his throat as he rounded the last corner. Lo and behold, just a few feet in front of him was a headstone that read in bold lettering: PETER PARKER 1991-2018. Before tackling the growing lump in his throat, Miles decided to appreciate the little things first. Like how well kept the headstone was ( not a speck of dirt to be found! ), or how pretty the wildflowers growing around it were, or the cute little ladybug crawling around the first "E." The gravekeeper seemed to be doing a stellar job. He'd have to hand them a tip later.
Self awareness washed over him like a bucket of ice water. He was being silly, he knew, it was just… awfully hard. So terribly difficult to stare at Peter Parker's grave dead on without feeling the blame gnaw at his insides. Without seeing his startlingly blue eyes under a ragged mask, or feeling Kingpin's thundering blows shake the earth beneath him. It was especially hard now, because he was used to having the mask to hide behind whenever he dropped by. He wonders why he’s never visited as himself before. The answer comes to him as a burning feeling behind his eyes.
Miles took a deep breath, shaking the lead out of his shoes so that he could close the gap between himself and the grave. A couple blades of grass stuck stubbornly to his sole; a habit he thought he'd grown out of. There were already a couple of other bouquets lying there, bundles of carnations, roses, and lilies among other flora. Some Spiderman merch too, though there were much less than the first night he died. He nestled his own bouquet between a couple of violets and a beat up Spiderman figurine before stepping back. The irony of it was not lost on him, unfortunately.
"Uh… hey…" Miles started, voice thick from disuse, and something else maybe. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "It's been a while, huh? A couple months… yep.." 6 months, his brain supplied helpfully, 6 months since he died . God, it all felt so awkward and vulnerable. This was going pretty awfully for his first time visiting without the suit on.
"It's been going well, uh… New York's still New Yorking, yknow? Um…” Words lodged in his throat, a dam of wrongness blocking their way. His feelings built against that dam, higher and higher, but he didn’t allow any of it through. Did Miles even have the right to be grieving Peter like this? He barely knew the guy– talked to him for maybe 10 minutes in total. And sure, he had carried out his dying wish, and shouldered the responsibilities of Spiderman when he could no longer carry them, but that all felt separate. Something that Spiderman had the right to mourn, from a successor to their predecessor.
What did Miles have the right to mourn?
Was it okay for him to spend some nights tossing, unable to sleep with the picture of strong blue eyes and blonde hair on an obituary? To ache for an alternate timeline, where he really did get the mentorship he was promised? To see icons of the old Spiderman floating around and turn away, unable to face the chokehold it had on his heart?
He didn’t know. Miles didn’t know, and yet he does it all anyway, and all of his unwarranted sorrow sat outcast in his chest like stones; unable to let go, and unable to be accepted. It felt so different from his grief for Uncle Aaron– he just didn’t know what to do with it.
“I- I should go,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling exposed and out of place. He probably just looked like some other crazed fan– and maybe he was– in one of those weird parasocial relationships with Spiderman. Getting emotional over nothing– nothing at all.
( His breaths felt ragged in his throat– all the debris had kicked up an unfathomable amount of dust; it felt like that was all he was breathing in. Reality felt far, so very far away when he found Spiderman lying on the ground. Get up, get up please, he remembers thinking, hands hovering frantically over his battered body. His eyes were striking– startlingly blue– and even in these conditions they were filled with nothing but kindness and sympathy, but now they had hardened with a certain kind of resignation. He wanted to wail. Still clinging onto naivety, he listened to his words, clamoring away. Staring at Kingpin’s back, feeling the big, thundering vibrations, no longer hearing Spiderman’s stuttering heartbeat– something he wouldn’t have heard the day before. Miles felt so, so small.)
Yeah, he should go. He didn’t really have anything to say, anyway. Stumbling a bit– damn it, his feet were still sticking to the ground– Miles turned around, far more interested in the grass than the world around him. He’d barely taken a step before bumping into someone. Internally, he cursed.
“Sorry, sorry– I was just about to get going…” Miles laughed, breathless and without humor, and looked up to face whoever it was. His eyes widened. Recognition struck him like lightning, and he remembers being pressed up in a crowd, mask stuffy and loose, listening attentively to the woman at the podium.
Who, coincidentally, was now right in front of him.
“Mary Jane Parker?” Miles blurted out before he could think twice, then promptly slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I just– I saw you do your whole speech thing a couple months ago– very inspirational by the way– and y’know– it’s uh, hard to forget a face like that! Not that! There’s anything wrong with it! You just have, uh, very red hair– and… very, very blue eyes…”
God, please just shut up, Miles mentally berated himself. He gulped. His grin was wobbly.
Mary seemed startled at first, but grew amused as Miles finished his rambling. Better than disgust, at least?
“Don’t worry, I get that a lot.” She laughed politely, looking back at him. Miles stiffened. He tried his best not to focus on how blue her eyes were.
Now I’m in her way. Great. Some random kid, ruining her time with her late husband.
“Well Ms. Parker, it was nice seeing you! I’ll just… be on my way now.” Resisting the urge to bolt, he shuffled past her awkwardly.
“Oh! Well, if you have the time, why don’t you stay? You know how the cemetery gets,” Mary laughs wryly, “I don’t mind the company.”
Miles hesitates, eyes flickering from Mary to the gate. He searches her face, entirely sincere and welcoming. He could just say no. He should say no. He wants to. But something’s tugging at his chest, inexplicable and urging. It’s like he’s been possessed. Miles can’t bring himself to say anything but: “Sure, I don’t have any plans after this.”
Mary smiles at that. Miles only notices she’s carrying something when she puts it down– a picnic basket– and takes out a neatly folded blanket. She lays it out in front of Parker’s grave, practiced, like she’s done this a million times before. She sits on one end and pats the other, inviting Miles to sit down.
It’s just enough space for two people, he realizes with a pang, as he accepts her invitation with a polite smile. The silence was a bit awkward as they stared at the headstone in front of them. Miles sits cross-legged stiffly, unsure of what to do with his hands other than let them flop limp in his lap. The calm breeze did little to settle his still churning mind.
He jumps a little when Mary suddenly breaks the silence.
“Sorry if this is a surprise. You just kind of looked like you had a lot on your mind. A lot to say.”
Miles huffed, “Nah, I barely knew the guy.” The sentence tastes like ash on his tongue. He’s too ashamed of his presence to face her.
Mary hummed, “You knew his line of work, though, didn’t you?”
His brows furrowed as he looked up at her. His breath hitched at the knowing look in her eyes; he couldn't look at it for more than a few seconds before focusing on her scattered freckles instead.
“My Aunt May told me some things over tea a while back– about a boy and some others, looking for a way home. Told me about the fight in her house, the goober, a multidimensional supercollider under the city, stuff like that. Told me she hopes that boy is doing well now.”
Mary blinks at Miles’ alarmed expression. “Oh, Don’t worry! She didn’t tell me who you were. I just saw you by Peter’s grave earlier and put the pieces together pretty quickly. I guess you could say I have an eye for Spidermen,” she quickly amends, laughing lightly.
“Oh,” Miles laughs along with her as his beating heart settles. “Sounds like an intense topic for tea time, don’t you think?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, tell Aunt May she’s always welcome at my place.” A soft smile tugs at his lips as his fingers brush the webshooters under his jacket. He’d be forever grateful for her help.
“Sure,” Mary hums.
They fall into silence again, but this time it’s easier to settle into. Even so, Miles can’t ward off the prickling under his skin. The air is warm now, and the pigeons coo softly, but there are still stones in his stomach, and they feel heavier with each glance he spares at that grave. Again, he gets that feeling of alienation. Perhaps he’s overstayed his welcome–
“Something on your mind?” Mary prompts gently, nipping his overthinking in the bud. Miles flashes her a bashful smile, neither confirming nor denying. Noncommittal. He thinks it might be weird of him to open up to a near stranger. And yet, there’s that pull on his chest again, tugging and tugging away, and Miles is embarrassed to admit he’s considering spilling his heart out. He tamps the feeling down though, before it can overwhelm him.
“No, sorry Ms. Parker.” He shakes his head, and gives her what’s hopefully a reassuring look.
“Please, just call me MJ. Peter always hated formalities.”
“Right. Sorry, uh.. MJ.” Miles internally cringed; he could already hear his mom’s lecture about disrespect in the back of his mind.
“It’s alright, uh…”
“Miles,” he supplies for her.
“Yeah. It’s alright, Miles.”
He thinks that statement is charged with something else, but Miles doesn’t want to look too deep into it. Here’s that awful silence again, leaving space for his mind to run rampant. He’s starting to hate it now, hate the burning it brings, and he scrambles for the first thing he can say.
“I was… I was there when it happened.” his voice crackles. Terrible, terrible, choice of words, Miles. Way to go. Out of all the things you could’ve said!
MJ needs no further elaboration. “Peter knew what he was getting himself into, being Spiderman.” It’s uncanny how similar her reaction was to Aunt May’s. “To some degree, I did too. There wasn’t a single day that I wasn’t worried for his well being. But,” she sighed wearily, “He loved being Spiderman. Really did. All I could do was help pick him up when he needed it. There was no way to talk him out of heroing; it was just who he was.”
This was probably the most vulnerable he’s ever seen MJ. She had always looked so strong– so put together– through all the speeches, interviews, commemorations, and wakes. And even now, she does not cry. She just seemed… tired.
“I miss him a lot,” She smiles ruefully, “Do you?”
Miles tensed as the ball was suddenly passed to him. Does he miss him? The question is far more loaded than Miles liked. There was already a lump forming in his throat. He focuses on the delicate petal of an anemone flower, peeking out from the rest.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispers fragilely, the words slipping from his tongue before he could help it. His chest constricts painfully.
“Why not?” MJ asks, equally as delicate, and it nearly breaks him.
“I don’t know why I just– I–” Miles presses his lips into a thin, upset line. He builds that dam again, higher and higher, refuses to release the ocean of remorse in him because isn’t that just weird? To be so distraught over the death of a man you never knew?
“Miles,” MJ says gently, “Look at me.”
He does; looks at the stray strands of ginger hair, her freckles, her light makeup, strong eyebrows. Anything but her eyes.
“You were there, right?”
He nods, once. Couldn’t afford to trust his voice.
“ Anyone would be upset after seeing something like that. It's a terrible thing to witness. It’s okay to grieve. It’s not a crime to feel sad over someone’s death. Over Peter’s death. I know him, and I know he wouldn’t want anyone feeling like this. He’d never blame you.”
The dam is cracking, he knows. He can feel his lip quivering.
“You’ve been carrying every aspect of his death since the moment he died, Miles. His name… his legacy… your grief … it’s okay to put it down, now. It’s okay.”
Something tugs at him again, hard, and he musters up all his courage to finally look her in the eyes. They’re soft, and kind, and sympathetic, and understanding, and so very similar to another set of blue eyes in his nightmares– yet these ones are alive , and they’re here with him now; it felt like permission, soft and steady. That fact alone was enough to crush his dam to pieces.
“He told me he’d teach me the ropes. How to be Spiderman.” Miles' voice is thick with unshed tears. He grieves what he could'e had just as much as the man himself
There’s rocks lining his organs, constricting, suffocating. “And then he…. I didn’t– I didn’t think–” He heaved for air. "Sometimes I- I think– it should've been me. Oh, it should've been me. "
His face was contorted, now wet with tears. Before Miles could even think about being embarrassed for crying in front of her, MJ already had her arms around him, tucking him against her body.
All of his sorrow, his grief, his guilt and regret came bubbling out of him– pushing all of the wrong, wrong wrong with it as well– in wails and whines and quiet sobbing. Each breath burned. His mind buzzed with the force of his mourning, overwhelmed into silence.
“I could’ve– I could’ve done something– I don’t know– I was just… Just so–” Miles’ incoherent crying was shushed quickly. He felt just like his nightmares: so, so small.
“Oh, child, It’s not your fault. It was never your fault,” MJ soothed quietly, making small circles in his back. Her voice wavered as well, ever so slightly.
Miles cried until he couldn’t anymore. Until his throat felt like sandpaper, until his face was a mess, eyes puffy and cheeks cold from teartracks. In the wake of his crying, he puts a name to that strange tugging feeling, now recognizing it in its absence.
It was loneliness. And subsequently, yearning for a kindred spirit. Someone who understood.
MJ would understand, he thinks, already does.
And wasn’t that the truth.
He sniffles one last time before pulling away from her embrace, rubbing at his eyes. “Thank you,” Miles says hoarsely, hoping it could convey his sincerity, the ocean of gratitude he held for her.
“Of course,” MJ smiles softly, “It’s the least I could do for the boy who saved the world.”
Miles huffs with a crooked grin, “I never really thought about it like that.”
They both turn their attention to Peter’s headstone solemnly. “I think he’d be proud,” MJ says quietly, letting the words hang in the air. Miles feels a sharp pang of heartache, but this time he soaks it in. Lets the feeling crawl up his body until it fades into ashes, peacefully. The silence envelops the two, like a blanket. The breeze brushes past. The pigeons coo.
When MJ invites him out to eat, Miles is already pulling out his phone to let his parents know where he’s going.
The following week, he’s now included in MJ and Aunt May’s tea time, every weekend. And after he’s helped the latter move down the coast to Florida, they still continue the tradition, although less frequently– Mary Jane is an awfully busy woman.
The next time Miles visits Peter’s grave he’s a lot more chatty and less flighty; out of place. Then the time after that, he’s leaning up against the headstone, eating cupcakes in the image of Spiderman– both old and new– and offering insights on how New York’s going. He disregards a lot of useless etiquette and moping around; Peter never liked formalities anyway. Sometimes he runs into MJ, and sometimes he just comes alone.
And when the nightmares leave him alight with panic, or heavy with grief, Miles comes to the cemetery and allows his feelings to rest quietly at Peter Parker’s grave.