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Miguel has been in love with Peter B. Parker since he first saw him. That day back when everything changed. It was not love at first sight. It wasn’t even friendship. Not initially. It was a newborn foal, that with shaking legs and thin frame stood up from where it was birthed, and walked away from its mother. Miguel was unable to control the love, but it was able to control him. It was unnoticeable at first, to his eyes, to his soul, and to his heart. But just as the foal came back for its mother, so too did the wonderment of love come back.
He’d just lot Gabriella. The sense of loss acute and overwhelming. Sometimes he likens himself a monster for filling himself back up so quickly. Like a monster. A void. A hole where things go to get lost but not to stay. Or be found. A transit place. Somewhere you would go for a stop, a drink. Perhaps a coffee. But then they see the blackened sky. The clouds and the lack of sun. They’ll see into his heart and find that it’s void. A desperate thing. Which takes and takes because it’s afraid to give. And they find it disgusting, wretched, something deserving damnation and nothing kind.
Sometimes he wonders what Peter sees. If he’s blind. Or ignorant. Maybe his doe, innocent, tired, and pleasant eyes look into his heart only to look away as to not confront the truth of the monster sitting in front of him over the cafeteria table.
In another universe. Good things lasted longer.
The message is delivered by Lyla. On a Sunday morning where things should be quiet at Spider HQ. The sky is deceptively bright as Miguel walks towards the med bay. He does not understand. The heavens should be in tatters.
But the heavens do not care for the insignificant lives of the spiders living underneath it. Miguel wants to shake it. Yell until it understands that he cares (he cares) he cares so much that it should change the apathy of the sky. His love should be enough to change anything he wanted.
But it had not been strong enough to change canon. It will not be strong enough to save anyone. He can try and try. Save as many spiders, innocents, and worlds as he wants, but the canon comes for all of them. Destiny is a laughing skeleton stepping just behind you; breathing down your neck until one day you turn around and it’s standing in front of you.
Miguel has spit that skeleton in the face too many times. He will do it again. If it means Peter walks out of that hospital room laughing and smiling, with his soft stomach and easy conversation like always.
The white door of the room where Peter lies taunts him. Lyla is sitting on his shoulder. Unnaturally quiet and solemn. He wants to scream that “he isn’t dead yet” but fears that he won’t stop until his voice gives out. Perhaps even after that and there is no oxygen to give it anymore.
He would do it in a heartbeat if it meant Peter put his arm around him once more.
The kids come and go. Miguel notices them in a half-aware state as they press food and coffee into his hands. They leave and they sit beside him in an intangible flow of time that feels like forever. Jess presses medicine into his shoulders and makes sure that he remains human. He wants to tell her that his humanity hurts. That he would much rather embrace the spider. But he can’t leave Peter. Peter is the only thing keeping him tethered to his body on a good day. Makes him feel human, and not just like a machine that is crumbling. Its rusty parts coming apart even when they are forcibly turned. Now it’s his time to repay that.
And then one day someone presses headphones to his ears and Miguel comes to with the sound of frühlingsstimmen in his eardrums.
His voice is rough. Unused. The blank, sterile, walls fill his vision. The light makes his eyes water until someone dims it.
“Tío?”
He blinks. Desperate to go back to the blankness. Where nothing hurts and waiting isn’t forever. But someone shakes him. A heavy hand rests on his shoulder. Cold and comfortable.
He wants to shy away. But his body is rooted to the chair and the only thing he can turn is his head.
Hobie and Miles are in front of him. They look bigger than before, or perhaps he just feels smaller.
A container is put into his hands. It’s clumsy and he nearly drops it. When they see there’s no change of motion, Miles joins Hobie’s hand. “MJ made it for you”. The kids look at each other. Miguel is too tired to decipher what it means. “Here let me open it for you”. The care Hobie shows seems uncharacteristic, but Miguel knows. The punk cares more than anyone. Just usually not about him.
The smell of Spanish food triggers something primal. An attribute forgotten. A gnawing in his stomach. A fork is put into his hand. If it weren’t he would have eaten with his hands like the animal he is. Once he starts coughing a water bottle joins. It’s quickly drained. And then the food is gone and he feels nauseous. Like he might throw up, but that seems unfair when Peter has been relying on a liquid diet for the whole week. He leans forward anyhow. Two pairs of shoes are in his vision and he remembers he’s not alone. Fingers rub soft circles on his back. And suddenly he feels human again. Like all he needed was a soft touch.
“I’m not a child”. He tells the kids in lieu of an apology. He asks for forgiveness for his absence. For dying with grief for someone who isn’t even dead.
And like a thirsty man in front of a well, he is forgiven. Amazed by the kids he’s grown to love he smiles.
“We aren’t treating you like one”. Miles wraps a blanket around him. As if he’s a foal, a calf, a newborn thing with no hatred in his body. Like he deserves it. “You are our tío. Of course we want to help”.
“I hurt you”
“You did. But that was a long time ago”. Miles stops and thinks. As if the next words are important. Miguel listens with all his attention. “You hurt all of us. The society crumbled. Spiders joined. Spiders left.”
“But we forgave you as you worked tirelessly. We saw you. And we understood. It was difficult at first we’ll admit.”
The words wrap around him like a second blanket. “How?” His talons dig into his thighs until Hobie’s hands take them in his. Not wanting to hurt him he sheaths them. “How could you forgive me?”
“Why shouldn’t we?” Hobie confronts. “It’s stupid to assume you are unworthy of something so intrinsic to the human heart. You are not above humanity. Forgiving you is human. It’s confrontation and unpredictability.” He laughs. “It’s saying fuck norms and preconceived self-perception”.
Strangely it makes them all laugh, even as Peter breathes quietly behind them.
The moment ends and they all remember why they are there. Miles is the one to break the quiet. “I’ve never seen him so still”
“He shouldn’t be.”
“It feels wrong”. The Brit says. Gripping the end of the bed as if Peter will suddenly wake up.
They don’t know if he will. Prospects looked good, but Miguel has dealt with Alchemax of his dimension too many times to not think them underhanded.
It was supposed to be him. But Peter had asked him to care for a sick Mayday while MJ was busy, and had gone on the mission instead.
The guilt overwhelms him. “How is Mayday? I know.” He swallows. It’s difficult. “I know I should’ve-“
“It’s okay tío. It’s been a group effort. It helped. With the waiting”
The room exhales. The guilt doesn’t evaporate. But then again Miguel has always held himself to an impossible standard.
For the kids he can. He’ll try. They don’t deserve the wretched thing he is. He was. He’ll change. Be worthy of their love. Their forgiveness.
As if sensing his thoughts, knowing his conclusions. Miles has seen him at his worst and knows him better than most. “Stop that. You don’t need to change to be cared for. Peter loves you for who he’s met, not the thought of who you could be”
It’s difficult to think of Peter loving him. If it’s with the same all-consuming enormity that Miguel does. Or some more human version. Whatever capacity he will take it. And he will be thankful.
Hobie has grabbed two chairs from some storage closet. And together they sit and wait. By the doctor’s predictions, Peter should wake up soon. It’s easier with them there. The room eases. It seems brighter. He’s so very thankful for these kids.
Peter wakes up on a Monday. He would hate that. If he knew he’d ask to be put back to sleep. The doctors allow Miguel to stay with an exasperated look when he promises not to hover. They all know it’s a lie.
The grey color sweeps out of Peter as he wakes. Miguel would say the sun is shining out of him but he knows that’s scientifically possible and he’s not interested in saying anything to anger any entity out there that he doesn’t believe in.
The first thing Peter clearly sees is Miguel. He stands clear in the white room. Tired haggard. Beautiful. Like a fallen angel who is rising once again.
“Hey”
Miguel laughs. There are tears. But he manages a simple “hi”.
“Wait hold on. Let me put on my sexy voice”. Peter coughs. “Hey, tiger.”
They’ve both forgotten about the kids who sigh and leave the room.
“The doctors have you on the good stuff I see”. He walks over slowly. Scared that Peter will be scared of his bigger build now that he’s weak in a hospital bed.
“Come here.”
Who is he kidding. Peter has never been scared of Miguel. He knows it’s because of the drugs, and that Peter hates hospital rooms. But he quietens the rational part that affirms that indulging will only hurt when Peter wakes up next and asks him to leave.
Nor could he stop himself when he whispers “I love you” to a sleeping man. It releases something inside of him, and it also breaks something deeply. The void neither deepens nor fills. It still exists.
Then Peter, sleep-coloring his voice, whispers “Mhmm, I love you too, honeychums”.
It’s that easy to break a man and create him anew. Like Peter is his god and Miguel his mold. A lump of clay to be shaped. A gargoyle waiting for life. He feels renewed, lighter, and re-energized. But then Peter snores and reality checks in. And Miguel sleeps next to the man he loves and knows that only in his dreams can it ever be returned.
Somebody put a blanket over Miguel. It’s soft and has a nice smell. He could have borrowed some of Peter’s hospital blanket, but the act seemed ludicrous and unjustifiable. He’s used to sleeping in the cold, when he’s worked himself so much that he can finally sleep there’s rarely energy left to do anything other than stumble into his web hammock. A hand is gently tracing through his hair. Repetitive and soothing motions. His hair is filthy, there has been no time for showering in the last week. Every waking moment spent in the chair watching over his love.
He opens his eyes.
Peter is staring softly into his.
“Hey love”
Miguel’s brain short-circuits. “Don’t call me that”. He’s proud when his voice doesn’t sound as if his world is shaking apart. He never thought Peter to be cruel.
“Why not?” And bless Peter. He really does look confused. Miguel cannot bear to explain that he’s not a person someone just says that too. If you want something yes. It’s surprisingly easy. He’s been burned many times, yet he never seems to learn. He knows Peter isn’t like that though. Peter is good and pure, even after all these years of knowing Miguel, of holding his hand and sharing his coffee. His impurities have never infected him.
“I’m not…” searching for the right word. Worthy? Lovable? Human?
“You’re though”. Peter answers. As if it’s that easy. “I love you.” His hand has moved from his hair to gently grip his cheek, holding it as if it’s the world, and not hiding a despicable feature of the monster. “I’ve always loved you”.
Oh. He finally understands. He’s been loved all this time.