Chapter Text
Miles slowly made his way through the crowded gallery. There were way more people than he had been expecting, all tight and dressed up and nodding thoughtfully at the art pieces.
It was nice, but it wasn’t really his crowd. Lots of money in the room.
He wasn’t opposed to being rich one day, I mean fuck, it would’ve been nice.
When he was still in undergrad, he racked up a pretty big bill while living in his first apartment. The semester got harder and harder, he lost his job, and it all became too much to keep up with.
His parents would help him out every once in a while, but he was much too embarrassed to let anyone in his family know how much shit he was actually in.
One day, he’d pay it off. For now, he’s just grateful he had the money to pay his graduation fees.
He watched the snobby rub elbows in front of an abstract sculpture. This event was supposed to be huge for him- his work shown in an art gallery, access to industry people, and a chance to win a contest.
But, no one in his family could really make it there. His parents had been to a few of these events, but the excitement wears off after a while. Miles didn’t even invite them to every single one, but he had said something about this one.
Neither of his parents could take off work, which was fine. He wanted to make a bigger deal out of it, make them feel bad for not being there, but… it was fine.
He didn’t think he was going to win the contest anyway.
He had a creeping feeling about it as soon as he walked under the fluorescent lights in the building. It’s not his place, or his time.
He was surrounded by abstract art pieces and weird sculptures. He feels lucky that his painting was even accepted among the rest.
Which, was another thing.
Miles painted this giant mural that took him about thirty cans of spray paint. It was one of those things where once he started, he couldn’t really stop. He knew this contest was coming up and that he’d have a chance to exhibit an art piece, so, he put his heart into it.
At the end, he realized it was a slight replica of something he once tagged as a kid with his Uncle Aaron. His uncle had always encouraged him to go for his art, be himself, and live his truth.
Miles felt mortified at the thought of submitting it then- it felt too personal for anything he’d ever shown another person. Even in undergrad, he kept elevating his skills as an artist, a painter- but there was a side to him he never wanted anyone to see.
Not even Gwen.
She would have seen it, had she been able to come tonight. But, her band had a gig and it seemed important so, Miles just let it go.
He’s been doing that a lot lately.
His eyes drift back over to his mural. It was the biggest, brightest thing in the room, but everyone seemed to walk past it.
Perhaps it demanded too much attention.
Perhaps he didn’t give a fuck.
Miles just wanted this night to be over. He was ready to grab a champagne flute and start devolving his professionalism- when he saw him.
A tall, broad-shouldered man. Almost the size of his mural. Stood right in front of it. Taking the time to examine every inch.
Miles almost couldn’t believe it. He felt compelled to say something, do something to take advantage of the moment.
Maybe a good connection could be made out of it.
He approached, carefully, almost as if not to scare the man away. Then, he spent a moment deciding what to even say.
He didn’t want to come off corny for hyping up his own art, or creepy for just watching the man observe it.
After a while, he just decided to observe the painting as well.
Hoping maybe a comment would come to him, even though he’d done nothing but stare at this thing for weeks.
It pained him even to come up with a description to submit. He kept it short, described the materials mainly.
Titled it “King’s Crown.”
His neck craned up towards the top where the spray-painted crown glimmers in the light.
As a boy, he had to stand on the shoulders of his Uncle Aaron to reach that high.
Now, as a man, he’d been expected to do it on his own. Find a ladder or a chair- make it happen. That’s what men were supposed to do. That’s the life Miles signed up for.
Uncle Aaron never made him feel like that, though. Standing on his shoulders, Miles always felt tall. Enough to touch the sky. Whose shoulders can he stand on now?
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Miles could hardly register the voice speaking. He blinked himself out of the memory- a tear rolled down his cheek. “Yeah.” His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat, “Yeah.” He repeated.
The man side-eyed him from his peripheral, “Yeah.”
Miles didn’t know what else to say. He came over ready to network or even just chat about his art- and now he’s crying.
He didn’t want anyone to look at him or the painting anymore. Why the hell did he submit this damn painting?
“It inspired by anything?” The man asked, voice rumbling softly.
Miles lets out a small exhale. “Yeah.”
The man side-eyes him again.
Miles straightens, “Yeah, I mean-” He inhales deeply. “I made something like this with my Uncle when I was a kid. I guess it’s inspired by that, by him.”
The man didn’t say anything, only nodded his head.
Miles took a moment to actually look at him. Clearer through dried eyes, he had dark olive skin and thick, dark hair. It was slicked back a bit, but still full, like his arched eyebrows.
“It makes me sad.” The man muttered.
Miles swallowed, “Me too.”
“Almost in a good way,” He glanced over, “Makes me want to call my mom.”
Miles’s chest suddenly felt very tight. He didn’t want to think about calling his mom. He didn’t want to think about any of his family. And yet, it’s the only thing running through his mind, again and again.
Uncle Aaron, Uncle Aaron, Uncle Aaron. “He died.” Miles blurted. “My uncle.”
The man turned to him then, finally. Brows furrowed in concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was a while ago but, I guess I still- I don’t know.”
“He still inspires you.” The man offered warmth in his brown eyes.
Miles felt the tightness in his chest begin to unravel. “Yeah.”
The man nodded, then extended a hand. “Miguel O’ Hara.”
Miles took it, “Miles Morales. I’m the artist- uh, obviously.”
A small smile stretched at the man’s- Miguel’s lips. “I know who you are, Miles.”
Miles felt warm again.
The man looked down at his watch, “I have to go, but good luck out there.”
He nodded his head toward the sea of fancy art people, some of whom would be deciding Miles’s fate later.
“Thank you.” Miles said, but by the time he spoke, Miguel was already walking away. It was strange how quick and quiet he moved for such a big guy.
Why did that name seem so familiar? Miguel O’Hara.
Miles was just grateful he hadn’t been weird about him crying. He had been better than weird, actually; he made him feel better.
Which wasn’t always an easy thing to do.
Miles gave a deep sigh, trying to shake off the remainder of his emotions. Soon, the contest winner would be announced, and then he could go home.
And maybe get some peace from this painting.
…
Miles didn’t win the contest.
He predicted it. He could smell it as soon as they said it was time to announce the results.
Still, he clapped politely for the winner and watched as they shook hands with the program founders. He didn’t remember what they submitted- a ceramic piece, maybe? It didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was that the attention was now off of Miles, effectively.
And he could drink as much as he wanted.
…
Four champagne flutes in, Miles was starting to feel better.
He managed to network, shook hands and introduced himself to people while he was still in the ‘confident’ phase of his tipsiness.
Now, he was munching on a horderve, waiting for the next tray of champagne flutes to- Miles reached for a glass as the waiter passed by him, only to have it plucked from his hands.
“Um?” He turned over his shoulder to see Miguel O’Hara standing over him with an arched brow.
“I was gonna drink that,” Miles said as Miguel dropped the glass on another tray.
“Are you even old enough to drink that?”
Miles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You tell me, you’re the one who knows me.”
“I know you’ve had enough,” Miguel told him, brows furrowed together.
Miles felt himself growing annoyed, “Look, I appreciate it, but I really just want to be left alone.”
Miguel observed him for a minute before softening. “This is all a show, Miles. They do this every year, it’s all a big-”
“Spectacle.” Miles finished, trying not to sound bitter.
Miguel nodded, short. “You can’t let it get you.”
“That’s pretty easy to say as a donor.”
Miguel raised his brow.
Miles bit his lip, “Respectfully.”
Miguel held his gaze, dark red-brown eyes looking at him intently. “That is fair.”
Shortly after being left alone (and with Google) Miles remembered where he knew Miguel’s name from- not only was the man a former Alchemax employee, he had also been a major donor to the LatinxArtHeritage foundation in New York for years.
Miles didn’t know how it took him so long to realize! Definitely felt like a major bonehead afterwards.
Miles had read a few articles on him, a genius who now spent the rest of his fortune funding art.
And somehow, Miles crossed his path.
“I get how things work, okay?” He shifted his weight, suddenly feeling the champagne hit harder. “I’ll make more paintings, keep applying, and that grind won’t ever stop, alright?” He said, accent prominent.
Miguel frowned. “More paintings? What’s wrong with this painting? You can keep submitting it for a while.”
“This? Nah, it’s-” Miles shook his head. “It’s no good.”
“It’s no good?” Miguel repeated in confusion.
“I don’t like looking at it! It makes me sad.” Miles admits, shrugging his shoulders up a bit. “Not in a good way.”
Miguel considers this for a long moment. Then, “Can I buy it from you?”
“What?” Miles frowns up at him.
“The piece, is it for sale?”
”I never…” Truthfully, he never intended to sell it. Hell, he never even intended to make the damn thing. It all just happened. “I never thought about it.”
“Think about it.” Miguel suggests.
Miles took a moment to do so. The problem wasn’t that he thought the painting was bad, but that it was such an accidentally delicate piece of him now existing in the public eye.
He was proud to have put himself out there, especially for such a high-profile event, but the group here and now is about as far as he was willing to go with it.
Not that they’d even really appreciated it anyway. He didn’t win the contest; there weren’t even that many people who gave it more than a passing look.
No one except for Miguel.
And he wants it for himself…which somehow feels more nerve-wracking than having it installed in Times Square.
Despite his complicated feelings that he doesn’t care to address, the connection to his uncle makes it entirely sentimental, and there’s not really a price you could put on that.
Even if he could use the money.
Miles suddenly frowns. How much money could he even get for it?
He looked to Miguel, who already had a slight, knowing smile on his face. “Name your price.” Miguel said with a quirk of his brow.
Miles knew this was a risky game to play. If he said a number too high, Miguel might laugh in his face, maybe even take back his offer completely. And if he said a number too low, he could get played by some rich guy and not even know until it was too late.
The piece had taken a lot of fucking time to make. Not to mention the costs of spray paint and all the clothes he got spray paint on.
Plus, he wants to move out of his parents’ place soon. Not that he doesn’t love them, but dealing with semi-constant hovering after having his own space in school has not been it.
If he could afford it, he’d do it. This contest had a reward prize of $5,000. It would've been huge. Enough to move into a fairly decent studio somewhere in the city. Near his parents, but not under the same roof.
He’d been working as a Host at a restaurant downtown since being back, and it was fine, but he didn’t make tips. At his current rate, he wouldn’t have enough money saved until well after Christmas.
So okay, maybe he would sell it, maybe. Probably.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Miles said confidently.
That should be a reasonable amount. It was twice the amount of the contest money, which should be more than affordable for a former Alchemax board member.
Miguel gave a short nod, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Miles eyed him suspiciously.
Miguel gave another short nod, unfazed.
Miles frowned again, suddenly hearing all of his mom’s warnings about rich, beautiful strangers. He’d gotten the talk before both high school and college. It was necessary for the rich, preppy spaces he was in.
The man seemed fine, but he didn’t really know all that much about him. Fancy events like these weren’t really the best judge of character, after all.
“Listen, sir, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know you very-”
“You don’t have to decide right now.” Miguel flipped a thin business card out of what seemed like thin air and extended it to Miles. “How about you just give me a call whenever you’re ready to talk?”
Miles swallowed, throat suddenly dry. With only slight hesitation, he grabbed the card.
Miguel instantly straightened his shoulders, brows furrowed. “Can’t believe you called me sir.”
A breathy laugh exhales from Miles. “What should I call you, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Of course not, Mr. O’Hara was my father.” He gave his shoulders a slight shrug. “Call me Miguel.”
Miles swallowed again, growing warm. He gave the man a slow nod.
“I have to get out of here pretty soon. You aren’t driving home, are you?”
Miles had forgotten that he’d been drinking. That’s why all of his thoughts were so fuzzy. Like the ones that kept pointing out how handsome Miguel was.
“Nah, I don’t-” There was no need to say that he didn’t drive. “Ima catch the train.”
Miguel flipped out his phone, “No need, I’ll call you a car.”
Miles eyes went wide, “That’s not necessary.”
“Don’t worry about it, you deserve it.”
Something about that statement made Miles feel deeply uncomfortable, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it showed on his face because Miguel gave him an odd look and then-
“Miles Morales.” Miguel started, closing his eyes as if it strained him to say. “I saw your application. Read all your materials. You deserved to be in this room, even if you didn’t win the contest.”
Miles looked up at Miguel for a moment, anxiety already starting to quell.
The man was right. He worked his damn ass off to get here. To make that damn mural. And if Miguel kept talking like this…he’d have no problem giving him the painting.
“Take the car. Go home, or, I don’t know, go have another drink- but not because you’re sad.” Miguel tells him, placing his hand on Miles’s shoulder. “To celebrate.”
His shoulder was warm beneath his blazer. Miguel’s touch was gentle but somehow felt rock heavy.
“Thank you,” Miles said, finally, after failing to find another excuse.
A smile spread across Miguel’s face upon hearing that. “You’re very welcome.” His auburn eyes seemed to glisten under the lights.
“I’ll probably go home,” Miles said as he watched Miguel call for the car on his phone.
“Good.”
Miles felt his stomach do a little flurry. How was this happening to him? Why? All of his failed situationships throughout college should have prepared him for something like this.
Something as hot and dumb and risky as catching feelings for a millionaire. Nothing real, yet. However, he’d felt comfortable enough with the stranger to talk about his uncle.
And even after, he let Miguel pull him away from his slightly drunken state of frustration.
Miguel had been kind to him.
Offered to buy the painting, fuck. Didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Very practical.
Which was a nice counter to his mostly emotional mindset. Could you really blame him? He was an artist.
“It’s out front whenever you’re ready.” Miguel’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Miles nodded. “Okay.” He took a small step back. “It was really nice meeting you, Mr.- um, Miguel.”
Miguel smiled again, a light across his dark face. “It was nice to meet you as well, Miles.”
Miles gave a small smile back, then turned toward the door.
As he left, he could feel Miguel watching him.
He tried to ignore the warmth he felt or how much he liked it.