Gravitational Constants

The day Jefferson Morales—née Davis—met Miles for the first time is one of the greatest days of his life. 

The downside to the birth of your child, however many children you have, is that you only experience that magical moment once with them. There’s only one moment when your child, who you’ve been watching swell your love’s belly for months, is finally placed in your arms for the first time; so unbelievably tiny and vulnerable that the love you thought you’d feel is compounded tenfold. There’s an air of disbelief to it, holding your child for the first time in that delivery room—there aren’t enough ultrasounds in the world that can express what it’s like to finally behold this little life you’ve created; the wrinkling of a little nose, the curl of tiny toes, the shock of soft curls crowned upon them—and the timbre of the mighty, tiny wail of burgeoning awareness, oh. It’s a magic like no other, the one moment that can never be captured again. 

Worth the months of heartburn, if you ask Jeff (he will never answer yes in front of Rio, though).  

Miles is, and has always been, someone who likes a challenge. Always. You tell the kid he can’t do something, Miles shows you six ways to Sunday that he can. Nothing motivates Miles like being told he can’t, or shouldn’t, do something. Nothing. 

Jeff learned long ago not to doubt his kid, but even he surpassed possibility by actually, genuinely managing it, managing to recreate that first wonderful moment for Jeff and Rio to experience once more, like the little miracle he is; on an unseasonably cool day in June, on a Sunday at two o’clock in the afternoon. In a way, Jeff wonders if he should’ve even be surprised about it. Miles has always marched to the beat of his own drum, seeking to show how everything impossible was only labeled as such for a lack of effort. He would be the one child to figure out how to make that magical moment happen twice in one lifetime. 

“I’m… a boy,” he’d told them, confidence fragile and soft but holding nonetheless, honey brown eyes sliding over to Aaron, who gave the softest, most encouraging nod. 

Aaron had been gentle with no one else in the world other than Miles. Even when they were kids, Aaron had been the rough and tumble, the troublemaker constantly dragging Jeff into his mess—not that Jeff had been much better, if he’s honest with himself—running around the neighborhood and causing problems. He’d pull on girls’ pigtails, push boys to the ground, disrespect adults right to their faces, and cover Bed-Stuy businesses with his tag, hands perpetually stained with cheap spray paint. His behavior didn't improve when he became a young man, not like Jeff tried to, simply just became less miscreant and a bit more criminal. For Aaron, his respect hadn’t been something that could be earned or won; he simply would decide whether or not to give it to you and that would be that. Jeff had just been lucky enough to get the respect, or Aaron’s approximation thereof. 

Miles always got more than that from Aaron. Miles unlocked a soft spot that Aaron himself didn’t even know he had. The first time Miles had been placed in Aaron’s arms, the only Davis who came to the hospital to meet the infant, he’d melted for the baby, his hands trembling under Miles’ little body as he drew him in close. That was the first time Jeff had ever seen his brother be so open. Honestly, he didn’t even know it was possible for Aaron until that day. 

From day one, Miles made it clear that Aaron was his person, and Aaron made it clear that he took that serious. Even if Jeff didn’t like the influence Aaron had over his kid, he had to respect it: Aaron loved Miles, with every part of his being, and understood him in ways that Jeff himself still struggles to. 

Which is why he finds himself here—his knuckles raised to knock on Miles’ closed door, inches away from the surface of the wood, the soft melody of a song leaking through the cracks; wishing he could just call Aaron to be here for Miles instead. He’s been locked in there all day under the pretense of cleaning up, and Rio has been pushing Jeff to come talk to him for hours.

“He’s goin’ through it, Jeff, but he won’t talk to me,” Rio had told him over breakfast, hushed tones over the steam of tea, her eyes darting to Miles’ shut bedroom. 

It’s only Sunday, mere days since Jeff had heard the guy Miles had snuck into his room. Only a few days since Jeff tried to investigate it, only for Miles to be closed off, reserved and uncharacteristically quiet, making their TV night a bit more awkward than Jeff would’ve personally preferred. 

When asked about his mood the night before, he chalked it up to missing Aaron a bit extra, and Jeff didn’t want to push. Rio, though? She’d eyed him with a suspicion that Jeff had been waiting for her to bring up. 

“Well, baby, what makes you think he’s gonna talk to me about it?” Jeff had sputtered. 

Reasonably so, to him, because Miles and Rio, Rio and Miles, they were a duo, always. Her little man, attached at her hip. Aaron may have been Miles’ person, but Rio’s relationship with Miles is nothing to laugh at, either. 

Rio had not been impressed, her mouth flattening out as she glared at Jefferson from across the table, hooking her right leg over her left knee as she let Jeff know just how unimpressed she truly was. He remembers that look from the day they met, back when he was young dumb kid tryna make it and she was ready to kick anyone’s ass for messing with her on test day. A recipe for disaster he’s been blessed enough to be reaping the benefits from even still. 

“What, so you’re just gonna let him mope?” 

“No, I—I didn’t say that,” Jeff returned, a hand raising to the back of his neck. Rio’s barely up to his shoulders, and yet, she’s the most intimidating thing he’s ever met. He’s obsessed with it. “We just… we don’t even know what he’s moping about.” 

“Who,” Rio corrected, raising her mug to her lips, “A mother knows.” 

“Sounds like you know more than me, then,” Jeff pointed out, before he frowned in thought, trying to do his best to keep the secret he promised and not bring up the ridiculously deep voice he’d heard in Miles’ room, and instead asked, “You think it’s that Gwen girl again? He said they were just friends, but, amor, baby, I don’t trustthat girl—”

In that moment, though, he’d rather it be that Gwen girl rather than the man Miles had hidden in his room. Miles is still his baby, after all, and that voice he’d heard was deep. 

“I think they’re just friends?” Rio said, cutting off the beginnings of what would have definitely been a rant about the quality of their son’s interpersonal relationships, a rant Jefferson knows Rio’s heard of, and participated in, more than enough over the years, ‘This is different than her, Jeff, I can tell.” 

“Well, baby, if you can tell, maybe you should be the one to talk to him,” Jeff said, not complaining, not truly, but—

Well. These big, emotional conversations? Jeff’s gotten better at them, over the years, but he knows he has a very distant relationship with tact, at best, and when Miles mopes like this, tact is a baseline requirement. 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Rio said, rolling her eyes at him as she snuck a piece of toast off of his plate, “Besides, he’s not gonna talk to me about it. I’ve been asking all semester. If I’m the only one asking, we’re both iced out. Gotta play the game right.” 

For payment for his stolen toast, he scooped up some eggs off of her plate, earning a hypocritical complaint back that he truly found adorable, to which he replied, “Unfair, baby, unfair.” 

It may or may not be less about the eggs than about the conversation he’s being forced to have. Who’s to say, really?

So: Jefferson Morales finds himself standing in front of his son’s room, trying to hype himself up for having a conversation with his son about his feelings. It already sounds like he’s going to need it—the album Miles is playing, while Jeff doesn’t explicitly recognize it, can only be described as intimately sad, a chorus of hopeful piano keys backing up brooding lyricism, sung to a mysterious other about times long since expired—and Jeff wonders, not for the first time, how different things could’ve been if Aaron could be here, tapping in for him and breaking through the seal of the doorway. 

When Miles was little, and the hurts were simple, Jeff had been there. It’d been about soft embraces and kisses to skinned knees, ice creams and gently soothed tears; shushes and soft it's okays. In a lot of ways, this is still that, but in a lot more ways, it isn’t—the wounds are deeper than skin, unsolvable by Neosporin and the jingle of the ice cream truck.

As much as he and Rio both hate to admit it, Miles isn’t their little boy anymore. He always will be, in their hearts, because nothing could eliminate that kind of magic; that will be forever, even when Miles is as grown as Jeff is now. (Well, almost as grown. He thanks the Morales genes every day for halting Miles at just below his own height, because he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to be looking up at him like that, beyond how he already does.)

He just wishes that the little hurts were the same. 

“Hey, Miles,” he finally sighs out, rapping his knuckles on the door, “Miles, let me in.” 

The music doesn’t stop playing. The emotion doesn’t stop spinning. 

“Yeah, come in, Dad.” 

Stepping into Miles’ room is always like stepping into a minefield. It's marginally better than a few hours previous, he'll admit, but—still, not great. He, unfortunately, gets that, not from Aaron, but from himself. He’s an organized individual when it comes to his work and his diligence. His physical, personal space? Nah. Not really. 

He sighs, stepping over the shoes that Miles haphazardly had kicked off of his feet at some point, taking in the visage of his son, his baby boy; curled up at the foot of his bed with his sketchbook in his lap, drawing in the sunlight. The needle of the turntable drags its way through the grooves of the vinyl, playing lackadaisically behind him, spilling the sad tale of the record’s story into the air around them. 

Jeff sits in the rolling chair that’s being held firmly still by the mountains of things Miles had been organizing until this apparent impromptu break, feeling the compression of the piston under his weight as he relaxes into it. He turns to the drawing table, whistling at the impressive piece his son has wrought out on the page stretched across its surface, corners adhered with tape. He much prefers it when Miles turns his talents onto page rather than onto mortar—even if he’d done it himself in his youth, and can understand the rush, can appreciate the adrenaline; he’s always wanted better for Miles. 

Besides: Miles’ work? It deserves the tangibility of the canvas, of the page. It belongs somewhere better than on the rebar of a bridge; the brick of a building. It deserves an immortality that the streets can never possess, somewhere where acclaim and applause can be applied, where notoriety can be established. He’s truly amazing; a marvel. 

Even when he’s being moody as hell. 

“This is impressive,” he compliments sincerely, finger ghosting over the slight raise of the paint, yellow spray streaking across the surface. 

Miles nods, eyes glued to the pad in his lap, half-listening and all. And yeah—that’s Aaron. He always finds himself seeing the little things of Aaron in Miles, despite trying to keep them as distant from each other as either of them would allow. He knows it’s not good to do so, but he likes to see these little things from Aaron through Miles, likes to organize them away in his head. It keeps Aaron living, breathing. 

But it’s not just that. Sometimes, relating some of the things Miles does reminds him that Aaron wasn’t all bad—that Aaron didn’t die the Prowler, and instead died a complicated, but good, person. Because if Miles is anything like Aaron, Aaron had to have been a good person, because Miles is nothing but. After all—Miles is Spider-Man.

Jeff eyes the sleeve of for the record sat atop Miles’ homework desk. 

“Frank Ocean, huh?” Jeff tries, “It’s, uh… interesting.”

Miles’ eyes drag up from the page. “What are you doing, man?” 

Jeff tries to play dumb. “What, a father can’t come into his son’s room and have a casual conversation about hip hop?” 

“You only do this when Mom sends you in to talk to me.” 

He took a lot from Aaron, but he took things from his parents, too. For example, that disappointed look—that half-cocked brow, that unimpressed frown, that faint air of judgment? That’s all Rio. Baby boy could’ve only learned that from her. First time Miles did it, being told that if he ate too many candies his teeth would fall out, technically not even a lie, Jeff had wound up in stitches on the kitchen floor. Jeff pities the future significant other of Miles’ that receives this look from him, because that was the look that did Jeff in for Rio. 

(What can he say? He’s down bad for his wife; he’s not finna apologize for it. He lucked out.) 

He taps his hands on his knees, trying to figure out the best way to move forward with the conversation he’s delaying. Tact, tact, tact. Jeff’s a straight shooter. Rio’s the tact. 

“Soooo… how you wanna do this?” he asks after a while, with a sigh, cocking his head slightly as he looks at Miles, deciding that he could try tact once he gets the conversation actually rolling, “Do you want me to just start guessing, or are you gonna be straight up with me?” 

Miles’ eyes leave the line of their gaze as he casts them back down, adjusting his hold on his pencil; turning it at an angle as the lead brushes onto the page. The room is filled with a soft beat, a gentle rhythm. It’s ultimately not really Jeff’s thing, but he can see why Miles might like it, especially if he’s feeling someway about something. 

“It’s not that Gwen girl, right?” Jeff asks. 

It’s not that he hates Gwen. That would be ridiculous. He just… doesn’t appreciate how she got his boy lost, in all meanings of the word. Nor does he appreciate how cagey she is. He also doesn’t like the metal in her face. Or the dyed ends of her hair. And, while he’s at it, he doesn’t like how much Miles campaigned for her, how hard he worked to butter them up, just for her to no show and leave his baby boy embarrassed like that. 

But it’s not that he hates her. Nope. He just… has a strong lack of appreciation for her. And he wouldn’t be mad if Miles came to them tomorrow and told them she was no longer in the picture. At all.  

“We’re just friends, Dad,” Miles sighs out. 

“Right, right,” Jeff says with a cough, nodding along, trying to withhold the relief he feels at that. 

He can work with her being friends with Miles. Well. He doesn't really like it, actually. Might genuinely hate that. She broke his kid’s heart, after all; he’s not gonna just forget that. She’s not a good influence, but he knows that Miles is a good kid, always marching to the beat of his own drum. Peer pressure isn’t something he’s seen work on Miles yet. Ain’t nothing she can do to change that. 

“Is it… is it that Hobie character?” 

“Dad—we don’t have to have this conversation,” Miles says, voice somber, and Jeff’s heart starts to sink, because, honestly, there’s no person in the world good enough for his son, least of all a hoodlum with that much disregard for authority, with him loud and proud with his blue ladder laces, even if he does bring Rio some sort of delight when she sees him. 

“I mean, he’s just not my first choice for you, personally,” Jeff starts with a cough, trying to be diplomatic, his heart sinking at the idea of that guy leading his son out into the streets, “You can do much better than him.”

“Dad, seriously—we can’t be doing this right now,” Miles implores, eyes cutting up from his drawing to look at Jeff. 

“I get that you think he’s a good guy, and he seems to be nice to you, and I guess he is a good guy on account of the Spider-Man thing, but Miles—you know what those laces mean? Plus, I dunno, man, he looks like he doesn’t shower often enough—”

“—Dad, whoa, hold up, you’re bein’ crazy rude right now, and he showers—”

It’s too late for politeness. Jeff’s already spiraling. 

“What if he takes you to get your face pierced? Or… other things pierced? Does he even have a job? Miles—”

“Dad, no, please, just—can we please—Dad, it’s not Hobie, okay?” Miles says, growing exasperated, sitting forward in his bed enough for Jeff to get a momentary glimpse of what Miles is drawing—just enough to make out a muscular figure, maybe Miles is drawing a superhero?—before Miles shuts the book. 

“Is it that other kid—Pav?” Jeff asks, growing confused, and Miles groans, head dropping back, “I thought you said he has a girlfriend—Miles, what are you—”

“You haven’t met them,” he finally says, sighing, hands clenching the book tight, “Not really, I mean. Honestly.” 

One beat. Two beats.  

“Oh,” Jeff says (in a pretty tactful way, if you asked him), settling back when he realizes he’d shifted to the edge of the seat, having worked himself up a bit. 

A sigh escapes Miles as the record’s tale comes to a close, the music rocking to a cease as the needle, no longer guided by the confines of the vinyl’s storytelling, wanders. Miles drags himself out of bed, bare feet hitting hardwood as he makes his way over, nimble fingers wrapping around the arm as he pulls it off the still-spinning record, accentuated by the light pop of the speakers. 

Miles looks… embarrassed. More than embarrassed, actually—embarrassed, after all, was how he looked when he first introduced Gwen and Rio immediately got clingy—embarrassed was how he looked when he and Rio had erupted into loud cheers when he crossed the stage at graduation, a standing ovation from just the two of them, in matching t-shirts—embarrassed was how he looked when Jeff broke into tears when they moved him into his studio in Jersey. 

Damn. Rio was right; this is different than that Gwen girl.

“Is it, um… homeboy, from…” Jeff starts, unsure how to describe a guy he’s only heard. 

Apparently, it’s enough, because Miles? That embarrassment? Ten fold, instantly, compounded with shame. 

Jeff, one, Miles, zero—and Rio, at minimum, seven thousand, three hundred and five times—and counting, because Jeff’s baby is always right. 

“Really, Dad? Homeboy?” Miles asks, trying to cover up the embarrassment.

“You wanna tell me his name?” Jeff asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Miles frowns, and then sighs. 

“It doesn’t… really matter, either way,” he says.

Jeff doesn't have tact, but he's got ears. He knows solemn heartbreak when he hears it, and he's hearing it now. 

“He do something?” Jeff says, admittedly jumping to conclusions, “I mean, say the word, Miles, if you need him taken care of, most of the guys down the station would be itchin’ to put the fear of god into that punk.” 

(He can’t help launching into That’s My Baby Boy, How Dare You Hurt Him mode. He really can’t. That is his baby boy, and he’s been walking the beat with half the guys for practically Miles’ whole life. They adore Miles. Once upon a time, Miles’ hands were so tiny his little fingers couldn’t even wrap around those guys’ pinkies. That doesn’t just go away, even if Miles can handle himself.)

“That’s—that’s unnecessary, please don’t do that,” Miles says, looking even more discomforted than he already was, dropping back into a seat on the bed as he tucks the vinyl back into the sleeve he takes back from Jeff. Miles’ eyes focus down on the black disc, the embarrassment fading into something melancholic that Jeff can’t otherwise place, “And it sounds like a serious abuse of power, too. He’s not… he didn’t do anything to me. Well, not recently, anyway.” 

“Recently?” Jeff asks, pretending his voice doesn’t go up in pitch as well as volume, “Miles, please don’t tell me—you’re not—it’s not one of those villains you fight, right?” 

Miles looks disgusted by the idea. “Absolutely not. No. He’s not a bad guy.” 

That makes Jeff feel a little bit better. “Good. Because we would’ve had to have a talk.” 

“Would it be worse than this one?” Miles asks incredulously. 

“There’s always room to make this one worse, if you want,” Jeff offers. 

Miles finally coughs a dry laugh. A win, in Jeff’s book. 

Jeff, two, Miles, zero. He’s killing this. 

“Imma be fine, Dad,” Miles says after a moment of silence, pulling his eyes up from the record to look at Jeff, “Imma… imma make you and Mom proud, y'know? And Uncle Aaron, too.” 

Jeff scoffs. Miles says it like it’s hard for him to do that. He’s been making them proud since the moment he was born, just by the merit of coming into the world healthy, hungry and screaming for affection, only quieted the moment he latched onto his mother's finger and released a contented little yawn of new life unencumbered. 

“Yeah, I know you gonna make us proud, man,” Jeff tells him, giving his knee the softest of punches, “But we want you to be happy too, you know.” 

“I know, Dad.” 

“Even if it’s with some hoodlum.” 

“He’s not a hoodlum.” Miles hands tighten a bit on the record. “Dad?” 

“Yeah, Mi?” Jeff says, leaning forward. 

Miles is hesitant, his gaze avoidant. “Do you think… you think Uncle Aaron would be proud of me?”

Jeff lets out a surprised laugh before Miles gives him the most confused look. 

“That—he would’ve been proud of you no matter what,” Jeff tells him, because it’s true. 

Aaron probably bragged more about Miles than even Rio or Jeff ever could. Aaron had started bragging about the Miles the moment he was placed in his hands and never stopped. New to the world and he was already doing the impossible, settling into a part of his heart that Jeff, much less Aaron himself, hadn’t even known existed.  

“You never gotta worry about that, trust me,” Jeff adds.

Miles nods, but he still looks uncertain. 

“Do you…” he begins, before he cuts himself off, biting his lip and shaking his head, “Never mind.” 

“Nah, Miles, let it out,” Jeff encourages, leaning forward and tapping his knee, “Can’t have you out here just bottling stuff up.” 

“It’s, uh… it’s not important,” Miles defends, giving the fakest smile he’s ever seen on him, “Just, uh, like I said. Tryna make you guys proud is all.” 

“Well, you’re pretty good at that,” Jeff tries. 

“Thanks,” Miles says, but Jeff can hear he doesn’t mean it. 

Jeff sighs. “Miles.” 

“Yeah, Dad?” he asks, sounding tired, more tired than he’d like his son to ever sound. 

Why his son lets himself get this ragged, Jeff does not understand. Well—actually, that’s not completely true. He gets it from him. After all, Miles didn’t get all of his worse traits from Aaron. A lot more of them are from Jeff than anything else. But Jeff’s not the person Miles idolizes. 

“You know what makes you the most like Aaron?” he asks him.

Miles gives him a tired look. “Is it the hair?” he deadpans. 

He can’t help but snort. Sue him; his kid can be funny. 

“I raised a comedian,” he says with faux complaint, shaking his head as he tries to somber up, “Nah, man. What makes you the most like him is this idea you get that you gotta hold it all in.”

Miles blinks at him, and surprise in his face before he reels it back in, trying his best to hide it behind a shaky mask of confidence.

“Hold in—I’m not holding anything in, I dunno—holding in, what do you even mean?” Miles argues, stumbling over his words. 

Jeff rolls his eyes. He raised Miles to be a lot, but never a liar. Which is a good thing. Miles should never need to lie. He should be free to live in his truth. That's what it's all for, right?

“Just tell me this: did Homeboy hurt you? Is that why you’re like this right now?” 

Miles is quiet for a moment. 

And then, in a whisper, so low Jeff almost misses it: 

“Nah. Nah, if anything—I’m hurting him.”