Chapter Text
Miguel doesn’t quite remember what it was like to be a teenager with a room.
The memories are gone— lost to the blur of growing up and his mind carving out space for more important things, like taxes and the burden of spider DNA.
But he’s heard the horror stories. Of the handful of Spiders with teenagers, most of them loved to talk, and when they started talking they just couldn’t stop.
Miguel’s been told about everything— the mountains of clothes, ceiling-tall stacks of dishes and the endless array of random items littered and strewn about the place without a single ounce of care. He’s had to listen, only half-aware because most of the time it was during missions, as the parents bemoaned the loss of organization. And a child who actually gave two shits about their parent’s opinions. If the Spiders weren’t so consistent with their complaining, he may have felt a pang of sympathy for them. Instead, it only filled him with a simmering fury.
They should be grateful to even have a child to complain about.
Nevertheless, when Miguel enters the threshold of Miles’s Spider-Society-provided room, he’s expecting it to look as if a bomb had gone off.
But honestly? It could be worse.
Sure, the floor is littered with crumpled paper balls, half-drank water bottles, and an almost dangerous amount of clothes. And maybe the lingering scent of dust and sweat implies that Miles hasn’t opened the window in a while (did he even know how to open the holo-window?), but overall? It looks relatively mundane.
“It’s not as bad as I was expecting,” Miguel says as Miles nearly slips on a t-shirt.
Miles turns to look back at him, stuck between concern and a grimace.
It’s gone quickly though as the kid begins to create a makeshift path between the doorway where Miguel is stationed and his desk only a few feet away; gathering trash and then tossing it with a flick of his wrist into a little can near his bed.
“Mamí would kill me if she saw it like this,” Miles says as he grabs an empty box of bandages. He tosses it. Misses. Wincing, he looks around, as if expecting his mom was going to come through a portal with a chancla. “You can sit down over there.”
Miles points to an open-back rolling chair pushed just a little ways away from his desk.
“Alright.”
Miguel begins to pick his way through the room, having to hunch his shoulders to squeeze past Miles. It’s almost a dance— struggling not to stray from his newly formed path while also trying not to bump into the kid.
When he finally manages to make it to safety, he sighs in relief. He goes to sit down, and the chair gives a groaning cry before teetering backwards. He yelps. Scrambling, he manages to steady himself before his skull cracks against Miles’s desk.
The kid snickers, which Miguel returns with a glare.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly as he grabs another piece of paper from the floor. He looks down at it before flushing. Miguel gets a glance of yellow and pink before Miles hastily stuffs the page into his pocket. “Anyway! Let me see if I can find my stuff. I did Hobie’s hair recently so it should be…”
As he begins to ramble, Miguel tunes him out. Instead, he observes.
The walls are what catches Miguel’s attention. Despite the paint being a standard beige, Miles’s personality still manages to shine through. Posters and drawings and pictures hang to the walls, some taped so haphazardly they sway. Miguel can’t help but stare, pausing slightly whenever he catches sight of things he recognizes: like the group picture of all the Spiders the day after they fixed the multiverse, or an intricate sketch of Pav in the middle of swinging. But what really catches Miguel’s eyes is the life-sized poster of a basketball player hanging right beside Miles’s closet.
He’s not even sure who the player is. It’s not any team that Miguel recognizes, and the man is probably long dead in his universe. But it doesn’t stop Miguel’s chest from tightening.
“You know,” Miguel starts, tearing his eyes away from the poster. He focuses back on Miles, who’s rummaging in a dresser, pulling out brushes and combs and Bobby pins. “My daughter used to play soccer.”
Miles stills. He looks up from the dresser, a package of hair ties clasped in his hands. “Oh yeah?” he says, trying too hard to sound casual.
“Yeah. She was shocking good.” Miguel looks back, eyes training on the poster again. The man’s arm is stretched out, hand hovering over a ball he’s about to slam into the net. “Is he your favorite player?”
Miles’s gaze follows Miguel’s. “LaCron Hames? Yeah, he’s probably my favorite.”
Miguel nods, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste iron.
He wonders what Gabriella’s room would look like, if she was still here. He imagines she would have posters of her favorite soccer players, just like Miles.
Or maybe she would have picked up another hobby as she aged—maybe her room would have been filled with microscopes, her walls decorated with diagrams of the solar system instead.
Who knows. Maybe she would have been a gardener or a boxer or a violinist.
He wants to turn to Miles in that moment and say, You remind me so much of her. You remind me of all that I’ve lost. I’m sorry. but that probably wouldn’t be received well, so instead he asks, “Do you need me to hold something for you?” as Miles steps carefully towards the bed and desk, trying to carry all of his hair supplies at once.
Miles, all too determined and stubborn for his own good, smiles. “Nope! I got this, Tío.”
And sure enough, he does.
This time, as he moves through his room, he doesn’t trip. He dumps the products onto his bed, the sheer amount of…things stick out against Miles’s sunflower comforter.
“Do you really need all of that?” Miguel asks, squinting. There’s at least four different kinds of hairspray and seven unique combs. And that’s just the beginning of it.
Miles looks at the products then Miguel, eyes drifting towards the back of his head. “Truthfully? I don’t know. Your hair is really a mess. I’m not even entirely sure what to use.”
Oh right. Miguel raises his hand, digging his fingers into his scalp and pulling. He winces at the painful tug. “Fair enough,” he says as Miles hums sympathetically.
“Alright, Tío, roll over here. We’re doing this Gwen-style,” Miles says, waving Miguel over.
Thankfully the floor between the desk and the bed is relatively clear, so other than the ear-piercing eek-eek-eek that comes from the strained wheels, it’s relatively easy to move.
When Miguel stops, Miles scrambles onto the bed and perches on the mattress. “Alright, let me just…” he grabs Miguel’s shoulders and twists, causing him to turn slowly. “Now where to start…”
Then, Miles is sinking his fingers into his hair.
For some reason, despite himself, the foreign feeling of someone else’s touch is enough for Miguel to flinch.
Miles pauses and the touch is gone.
Miguel sighs, rubbing his face. “Sorry,” he says, annoyed at himself.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Miguel can’t see Miles’s face, but he can hear the concern. The hesitation. It’s so childish and it makes Miguel’s heart ache.
“Yeah, kid. You may just have to warn me next time,” Miguel says, swallowing down that gnawing sensation of anxiety that threatens him at every waking moment. “Estas bien.”
“Bien,” Miles repeats. “Alright, I’m going to start trying to get through the mats.”
Miguel nods, and with that warning, he doesn’t flinch as fingers begin to work deftly through his hair.
It’s incredible how different it is compared to how Gabriella used to do it. Miles is obviously skilled, parting and pulling expertly. His touch is firm where it needs to be, not the needless rough jerks and twists he was used to from his hija.
It’s quiet too. Miguel wasn’t used to this lack of conversation from Miles, but it’s relaxing, in a way—just the soft hums of concentration that helps his shoulders unravel and the headache from earlier lull. It’s a complete juxtaposition to the constant streams of giggling and laughter that came from Gabriella’s clumsy attempts of making fun of him.
Miguel sighs, deciding that maybe he should stop comparing the two, no matter how hard it was not to.
“Who taught you how to braid?” he decides to ask, some off-attempt to distract himself.
Miles’s fingers suddenly jerk as he pulls apart another chunk of tangles. Miguel winces and bites his lip so hard his fangs clip against the flesh.
After a fleeting moment, Miles responds. “My mamí taught me traditional braids—French, Dutch, fish tail,” Miles says, voice low and conversational even as his hands tremble slightly. “But my Uncle Aaron— he, um. He taught me protective styles: boxes, cornrows, micros. He wanted me to know how to take care of my hair.”
“Mm,” Miguel hums, nodding slightly until Miles forces his head still. After a second of silence, he speaks up again.
“That’s actually him above my desk.”
Miguel blinks, his eyes catching on a black and grey portrait. It’s surrounded by a handful of bright sticky notes, which only helps the drawing stand out more. It’s of an older man, weathered with age even as he smiles.
It’s an awful lot like Miles’s.
He tries to ignore the tear-stains that muddle the shading in the corners.
“You’re very talented,” Miguel says in lieu of an I’m sorry for your loss. He knows how useless those are, especially this late into the game.
The hands still before starting up again. “Thanks,” he says, voice soft.
It goes quiet again, and Miguel breathes it in like spring time. It was so easy for his mind to get ahead of himself, and in this moment, Miguel is able to relax. He can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to let go like this—to let his worries drift away.
Miguel isn’t sure how long it is before Miles breathes a sigh of relief and runs his hand through his hair. There’s not a single tug. “Dope. I think I got through most of the knots.”
It feels heavenly. His head feels so light, the lightest it’s been in months. It’s a relief.
Miles snorts as Miguel begins to card through his waves, slightly stunned by how easily he’s able to go through it. “You don’t want to see how much hair I pulled out. It looks like I shaved a cat.”
Miguel huffs, the closest he’s gotten to a laugh in a while.
“Thank you, Miles,” Miguel begins but is swiftly cut off.
“Oh don’t thank me yet!” Fingers quickly wrap around Miguel’s, pulling them away from his hair. “We haven’t even gotten to the braiding part, tío.”
This time, Miguel actually laughs. “Alright, kid, alright.”
Miles hums and there’s the trace of fingertips against his scalp. His hair is adjusted and twisted and strained— a little firm but not too rough.
Then, an exasperated sigh cuts through the easy going atmosphere. “I don’t know what style to do.”
The frustration is evident, especially as Miles lets go of his hair and it falls with a flop.
“I mean, I can’t do anything too tight— you don’t have enough hair. And it’ll hurt.” Miles makes a questioning noise and then Miguel is being turned again, facing the kid.
His lips are pursed as he looks at Miguel’s face, tilting his head with the intuition Miguel has learned only artists have, observing and imagining what would look best. After a moment though, Miles groans.
“I don’t know,” he says. “There’s, like, five different braids that would look good.”
Miguel, for the most part, doesn’t really care. He’s mainly just grateful that his hair is even braidable.
It’s longer, too, then what he realized. Where his hair used to brush past his ears, now it’s almost down the side of his neck.
Miguel is about to tell Miles he really doesn’t mind when an idea strikes him so suddenly his breath catches in his chest.
“You said you know Dutch braids right?” Miguel asks, knocking Miles out of his artist daze. The kid blinks, focusing on Miguel. He nods.
“Yeah, my mamí usually wears them for work.”
“Could you,” Miguel swallows, the idea pushing and writhing in his mind. He can’t think of anything else, and maybe Miles will even like the idea. “Could you do two Dutch braids that come together in the back as a ponytail?”
For a moment, Miles just stares at him. Then his face tightens and his eyes narrow, looking at Miguel with determination.
“You know what?” he says, serious and terse. “That could work.”
Then, that winning grin is back, and Miles laughs as he turns Miguel around again. “That could really work.”
Miguel smiles for the first time in…he doesn’t really know.
It isn’t long before Miles starts parting his hair and braiding.
The feeling of twisting and tightening is a strange but welcomed sensation, the rhythmic movement in time with Miguel’s heart beat. The stillness has returned, hushed and pleasant against his eardrums. It’s slow, but the tension is easing out of him in waves, starting with his shoulders and then drifting down, his arms and legs loosening. It’s just so…nice. Lyla was right, he really needed this.
It’s safe, some part of Miguel whispers as he leans back, making sure to be careful. He doesn’t want to fall back again.
Miguel can’t help but let his eyelids drift shut, lulled into almost complete relaxation by the pleasant movement and the quiet.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen asleep until a gentle prod to his shoulder has him stirring.
He blinks awake with a start, gasping slightly, mind prickling with unease unease unease.
“Miguel? ¿Tío? You good?” Miles voice rises over the drowsiness and concern. Miguel is brought out of his stupor as quickly as he had fallen into it.
“Yeah—yeah I’m good kid.”
“I think I’m done,” Miles says, and he can hear the pride in his voice.
“Wait—you’re done? How long was I out?” Miguel can’t help but ask, still blinking away the last remnants of bleariness.
Miles makes a questioning noise as Miguel spins, turning to face him. The kid smiles, shrugging.
“I have no idea,” he says as he pulls out a phone. The device looks ancient. “Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?”
Huh. For such a short amount of time, he felt strangely well rested.
“Well,” Miguel says. “Are you going to let me see the product of your hard work?”
A grin breaks out across Miles’s face. “Oh yeah!” he looks down at his phone, tapping away at the screen before thrusting it towards Miguel.
He takes the phone, snorting at the Spider-Man themed case.
Then, he looks at the screen.
Miguel blinks and his reflection blinks back.
“Huh,” he breathes, turning his head side to side.
“Well? Do you like it?”
Miguel peers at himself, tilting his head down so that he can see the intricacies of the woven hair.
There’s no other word to describe it but gorgeous. His hair, which Miguel had grown used to being nothing more than a mop of untamable knots (his own fault), had been transformed into beautiful laced patterns, stretching his waves back in careful braids that pulled taut into a ponytail in the back. He can’t help but raise a hand to brush against his widow’s peak. To touch the ponytail.
Miguel stares at himself, and he can’t help but feel like he’s looking at a piece of Gabriella.
He looks back up at Miles. He’s sitting on the bed, surrounded by all of his supplies. A package of torn hair ties, a half-opened container of hairspray. At least three brushes. It’s a mess, but there is a beaming smile stretched across the kid’s face, a mixture of hope and hesitance.
Miguel wonders if this is the teenage mess that those Spider parents always complained about.
If it was, then Miguel could truly never understand those Spiders.
“It looks amazing Miles,” Miguel says and he means it. “Really. I don’t think I could tell you how grateful I am for this.”
Miles waves him off, as if this was nothing for him. “Aw, tío.”
“Really,” Miguel reaffirms. Miles pauses. “Gracias.”
“It’s no problem,” Miles says, the bashful expression melting away into a more genuine smile. “Thank you for your trust.”
Miguel doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Something in the back of his mind croons with the words, floating high and free over the crawling feeling that usually plagued him.
So, Miguel gives him a smile. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s still there.
“You’re a good kid,” Miguel says, repeating the same words from just a little bit ago. He hands Miles the phone before rising from the chair, grimacing as it creaks in relief. He stretches.
“Now, I’ve got to go back to work—“
“Wait!” Miles suddenly exclaims. He holds up the phone, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. “Picture?”
Miguel should be shocked, but he really isn’t.
“Santo Dios, after all of this and you’re still going to get Lyla her blackmail?”
Miles shrugs cheekily, waving the phone. “I mean. I did tell her I would.”
Miguel groans, but there’s no venom in it. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “One picture.”
Miles grins as he jumps off the bed and takes a quick selfie of the both of them. Miguel stares, trying to smile, as Miles grins with peace signs. But then of course he has to take a picture of the braids itself, and before Miguel knows it, one picture becomes two and then five before Miles has a whole arsenal of blackmail for Lyla.
“I also got one of you sleeping,” Miles helpfully informs him just as he sends it all off to Lyla. Miguel rubs his face.
“She’ll never let me live this down,” he murmurs, but honestly? He doesn’t really care. This was something that Miguel needed, and he felt grateful to the kid for everything he had done. “But hey— send those to me?”
Miles snorts, already tapping away at his phone. “You got it, tío.”
(In the end, when Miguel returns to his office, it’s not as much of a coffin as it had been before. And when he clambers up to his console-desk, he pushes aside Lyla’s goading comments as he adds a picture to a screen, right next to the feed of his daughter.
A picture of a grinning boy and a smiling man with Dutch braids in his hair.)