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“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, let alone showed you.” Miguel spits out aggressively, shoving medicinal supplies into his pack.
“Try me,” the teen barks out before being shushed by the older man. His head turning just enough to look at the boy behind him.
“Watch your tone, Morales. It’ll get you killed out here.”
Before Miles can even utter another word of protest, the man is on his feet, bag slung over a broad shoulder. It’s a fool’s mistake to be loud in a hostile environment with enemies that prey on those which utter the softest sounds. Miles knows better, Miguel taught him that much. But when following someone’s footsteps, he figured by now, O’Hara would have at least been honest with him.
Time had passed, a great deal of it. The Spider-Society is no longer the safe haven it once was. Nueva York, Earth-928, was no longer the futuristic hub of pristine bliss that it used to be. Decayed, like the people within it. At first it was one or two Spider people– a festering wound that sprouted via dimensional travels and burned worse than a jellyfish’s sting. The rapid fire of death and zombification came and crashed as brutally quick as the disintegration of dimensions unraveling. The society’s medics stood no chance. Nueva York’s finest doctors did not stand a chance. Earth-928, did not stand a chance…
O’Hara watched his work, his livelihood, die again, and again, and again. The cost of being selfish in life got thousands– millions killed. Interdimensional travel ceased, space travel overcrowded and shut down, even everyday transportation across the globe began to halt. Miguel had never seen so many displaced Spiders in one hull. So many desperate people outside their doors pleading for salvation– he denied them all. Ground Zero was no place for those without powers, they were better off fending for themselves while Miguel took on the Spider-Society’s problem on his own. It was better this way, he’d presume.
A huff passed between pink lips, velvet irises of a far deeper red than the coagulated blood surrounding them scour over the slender figure he now faces. Miguel’s jaw slacks with hesitancy before tensing back up, closing that maw of his. He shakes his head solemnly, feet scratching against the ground just before the warmth hits and fills him whole. The older man’s muscles tense and he freezes his movements. It’s a gentle warmth, one that he remembers feeling long before this mess, but rather upon his first. Eyes darting down to the hand wrapped around his wrist, the source of this gentle warmth. Gaze meeting the emotionally conflicted Miles Morales’ whose fingers are now running down to his own digits.
“I know he bit you.” Umber irises glued to the entangling fingers of the two men. “I know you bashed his head in.” The larger hand stiffens at the physical connection and Miles pauses to find his words. “And I know you should be dead,” their eyes meet and Miguel O’Hara feels the feverish sting of the bite wound on his shoulder blade grow irritated. He feels that irritation sprout from the webs of his hand, through his palms and up his arm. If the infection doesn’t kill him, this stubborn Spider-Man just might.
O’Hara closes his eyes as the venom of adoration surges through his body. Reminding him of the electricity Morales accumulates in his palms or unintentionally exudes during a climax. The sheer memory separating his lips with a chuckle. The delicacy of sweetness echoing out as a symphony for the younger man’s ears.
“What makes you so certain I’m bit?”
“Well you never take your damn shirt off around me. Or even when we–” Miguel motions with his free hand to stop talking and Miles can’t help but laugh. A sound that fades out slowly with a dying echo.
“Miles,” the Spider mutters, “I don’t know if this is true immunity or if God has plans for me, but I need you to know something here and now.” He stands closer to the teenager, the faint scent of dried blood, dirt, and old clothing permeates the man’s nostrils. The layers of clothing on him are brittle from the wear and tear of time and the violent struggle of survival. He gently readjusts Morales’ coats– a fatherly gesture. Placing the palm of his hand onto his chest, allowing the warmth to soak into his calloused hand just as it had moments prior. “I could die tomorrow from this,” O’Hara’s other hand cups Miles’ cheek. “You need to be ready for that, mijo,” his thumb caresses over the flushed skin. “No hesitation…”
A conflict of interest brews and burrows its way into their chests. The heavy feeling satiated among the muffled chirps of birds and creaking metal. Broken glass tinks at their shuffling feet and the ruined world is still upon the soft lip lock that occurs. Miguel notices the resurgence of that venomous feeling as it pushes its way through the curled locks on the nape of his neck and just beneath the hem of his shirt. O’Hara knows that venom will never truly leave his body. No matter the tests he does on himself, the help he seeks, or even when his body finally succumbs to this wasting disease. He’ll make sure it never leaves him– not like Gabriella. Not like Peter.
“One bullet, two targets. Comprende?”
Selfish.