Work Text:
Precariously balancing a greasy cardboard box in one hand and his phone in the other, Pete drags a cheesepull off a slice of pizza. Obviously thrilled, his eyes snap towards Miles – he says something, roundly muffled in bread and sauce – and then his eyes roll back, in exaggerated bliss. Miles smiles.
He doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t think about why he doesn’t. Because normal people – of course, he isn’t normal people, but normal Spidermen, don’t hurt all over when they pull all those good laughing muscles and just...don’t. He can’t. Which is weird, since Spidermen are a laughy kind, but he hasn’t, since —
Miles wants to tell him.
Point being.
Miles really wants to tell him.
He can’t tell Ganke. Because Ganke will want to tell someone else, someone who’ll need more information, or, even worse, someone who’ll laugh him back home because he’s some kid. How’d he even end up held captive by Roxxon, anyhow? What’d he do? How’d he deserve it? No, Ganke’ll decide he can never...let Miles do his spider-thing without watching, and it’s not Ganke’s fault he wasn’t watching, so he can’t. He won’t. He can’t tell Ganke. He doesn’t even want to.
If he’s really honest with himself, looking on with a mild, wan smile sitting plastic on his face while Pete says a succinct, “huh m ”, pressing his phone in Miles’ palm so he can throw himself back and bask in the chill, early Spring air. Miles doesn’t wanna tell anyone.
But Pete's been Spiderman longer than him. He's older, too. He watches Pete lift his hand high above his head and airplane the pizza down to his mouth. Okay.
Not that much older.
But still older.
More experienced.
Maybe he's gone through something...something like this. Maybe he can help him, like he’s always helped him. Maybe he’ll glance over him, mildly, and sling off some amazing, magical, fix-all way for Miles to shower unhaunted. Or, maybe he'll know some amazing, fix-all way for Miles to take less showers. He slams awake, clinging, shuddering and invisible, to his ceiling, feeling like it happened again, and he needs to shower. He needs to scrub his mouth until his gums bleed, which is reassuring, because that's all him, all his germs. He needs to compulsively update Twitter, or the Danikast. He needs to know Simon Krieger is still in jail.
He needs Phin.
She wouldn't know what to do, but he knows she'd hold him, and she wouldn’t care how wrong he is, wouldn’t mind how dirty. She wouldn’t know what to do, but she’d make him feel like she did. And that'd be enough.
"Miles? You’re kinda crushing my phone."
Miles looks. Pete’s holding his palm up, awaiting the phone he’s slowly splitting the rear of.
“Oh—“ Miles tosses it into his hand, mentally kicking himself, “My bad.”
And then, because Pete’s popping the two halves back together and Miles feels bad for zoning out, “Got enough for a whole photo album in there.”
"You okay?”
No.
“You seem...I don't know. Off."
Good way to put it, Miles guesses, glancing away and sniffing and shrugging deeper in his jacket, like he’s pausing because he’s cold. Just bundling up before he answers. Buying precious seconds, peering closer at the picture Pete was showing him.
It’s nice. Not a landscape, or mindbending architecture, but a selfie. Pete and MJ. They’re crammed together in frame, MJ’s lips squished against Pete’s cheek, strands of her red frizz in his eyes, lipstick already smudged there that says this isn't the first time they tried taking the picture. Still, he’s all smiles, mouth open in laughing protest Miles can nearly hear.
“Yea,” Miles says, thinly, more to himself than Pete, and then, firmly, “Yea.”
“Just glad you’re back, man. I am in some serious sleep-debt.”
He can't tell him, is what he's realizing, staring at this disgustingly cute picture. He can't ruin their vacay. If he'd gone, run off to some incredible other place with Phin — not Phin — Ganke, and something had happened to Pete. If something like this had happened to Pete, salt in his mouth — oh, no — a strong hand holding his nose closed — stop — blonde hairs stuck in his teeth — please, not now — if there'd been guards watching on, impassively, the whole time —
Miles strikes, snatching Pete’s pizza and tearing away a large, obnoxious bite.
The chewing evens his breathing, and his feet fade back in . He doesn’t think Pete noticed, the whole going invisible thing. Which is good, because h e’d feel horrible. He’d never forgive himself. And it’s not Pete’s fault. It’s not Ganke’s, it’s not Phin’s.
Miles wants to say it's Krieger's. Or the guards who watched him hack and shiver and sob like they were watching tv. But if he's being really honest?
It seems easier to blame himself. He can be more careful, next time, do it right, do it safe, if he blames himself.
He feels a little, wearily proud of himself for the thoughtprocess. Maybe he's more mature than he's giving himself credit for.