And It's a Long Way Back From Seventeen
First time he heard he wasn’t wanted, he was six and alone.
Miggy was off to boarding school. Full scholarship. Ma’d been proud, singing his praises to anyone who’d hear. Even Dad had been bragging—well, he hated it, sure, but George O’Hara loved bragging more than anything else—telling all of his coworkers about how much of a genius his boy was turning out to be. There was even peace, for once, in the O’Hara household, and, young and foolish, Gabriel O’Hara believed it could be lasting.
It disintegrated in just under a week.
He was supposed to be asleep, but he couldn’t. Was trying. Couldn’t. See, thing was, back then, Gabriel wasn’t yet used to being alone. Every day up until the moment Miguel headed off for school, Gabriel had been with him, his little shadow. His brother was his favorite person, and it was part of the reason why he even went as so far as to sleep in his bed almost every night, to the point that his own room became foreign to him at times.
For the past week, he hadn’t been able to sleep in his own bed, usually stuck waiting for the moment Dad’s snores started to rip through the thin walls to begin the perilous trek to Miggy’s room. He’d make a game out of it, because, you see, in spite of the paycheck Dad boasted about to his friends, he spent the majority of it on booze, leaving the O’Haras in the Downtown district, where the buildings dated back beyond the past century, with wood that ached and screamed at the wrong step. Miggy had taught him how, and where, to step—the spots by the walls were the best, but the boards by the bathroom and the kitchen were weak and screeched the loudest. He learned to slide across them—hands pressed onto the walls, stained forever brown with nicotine and age, socked feet planted flat, shifting weight almost minutely from one leg to the other, dragging himself forward without even a sound.
Thing about the trek was, it was dangerous to do while both Ma and Dad were awake. Ma wouldn’t mind Gabriel sneaking to Miggy’s room, though she was rarely ever happy about it. Dad though? Hated it. Hated the idea of them being awake past his say so. And if Dad caught him, he’d try to hit him, and then Ma would get involved, and—well. Gabriel preferred to make the trek when one or both of them was asleep; at least Dad.
But, that night, they were fighting. And—well, Gabriel knew better, he knows he did, but they’d been fighting for hours when Ma had sent him off for bed, and he didn’t know when the fighting would end. When Miggy was home, when they shouted at each other, or worse, Miggy would hold him, hide him away with him when necessary. He’d be afraid, and Miggy would be there, but now, the best he had was Miggy’s room, so he’d slipped out of bed and made sure he was wearing his best socks. He remembers it vividly into adulthood, that second of hesitation before he pulled open the door, the plastic edges of his action figure sharp against his chest, even through the fabric of his night shirt.
He didn’t know what they were fighting about. Ultimately, Gabriel didn’t even really want to know. He was in a battle with the floorboards; trying to make as little sound as possible as he skipped from one to the next, the path ingrained in his memory, his breath caught in the back of his throat, chest tight and painful—
“What do you mean—¿por qué no has pagado la maldita factura de—”
“—don’t speak to me in that shocking tone, Con—”
“Oh, what shocking tone, huh—you don't like me talkin' to you like you’re a godjam idiot, Georgie? I hate to break it to you—”
“—Con—”
“What? Shock’s the plan, George? What did you do with the money, George?!”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Of course it’s my business! What’s your plan here, drink away the electric bill?!”
“I don’t need your judgment.”
“You need a shocking exorcist and rehab—”
He was counting, Gabriel remembers, when it was said. Counting. See, the floorboards in the stretch between the kitchen and the living room were a real challenge. Sometimes, when you stepped too fast, didn’t let the last floorboard settle, it’d creak when you started to lift your foot, too. So he had to count—two, three, four, five, two three, four, five, twothreefourfive—
“And what about Gabri, huh? What, you have one kid in a fancy school and you don’t feel like the other one still needs to live—¿como voy a alimentarlo sin dinero, George?”
—fivefourthreetwo—
“That’s shocking—don’t act like you give a shock about the spare—”
Gabriel paused, right in the middle of the doorway to the living room. If he’d turned his head, he wonders now if it’d be like those shitty dramatic movies George would leave running while sleeping on the couch, where the intruder is caught in the most dramatic way. However, it wasn’t a movie scene—and he wasn’t caught. The shouting hadn’t stopped, either—Ma only shouted louder, and Dad matched the volume.
But at no point did she actually say anything about Gabriel not being a spare. He didn’t notice until years later.
Fact of the matter is; if Miguel weren’t his brother, Gabriel doesn’t think he’d put up with half of his bullshit, much less like him very much.
Hell, half the time now, Gabriel barely likes him. After all, for all the changes his brother has made, all the efforts he’s embarked on in his journey to become better, Mig can sometimes be a giant piece of shit, dragging Gabriel into far more trouble than even he thinks he should be involved in. Sometimes, it’s funny in this unhumorous, heavily ironic way, how Mig gets himself wrapped up in such intricate bullshit when he was the one who lectured Gabriel about personal responsibility back when Gabriel was still wrapped up in Cyberspace. In a lot of ways, it’s like watching a dad yell at you about not making mom upset only to turn around and go out of his way to earn ire.
Not that Gabriel would know what that was like, really, mind you. George O’Hara wasn’t the kind to yell at you for making his wife upset—more the kind to yell at you for existing in the path between him and his drink. But that’s beside the point.
The point is; sometimes it’s funny, how Miguel attracts trouble these days, and sometimes, Gabriel would really prefer he take those overlong talons of his out of the hull of his car. Miguel’s body bangs hard into the door as Gabriel cuts a hard right, nearly sideswiping a delivery truck. Probably exacerbating the gunshot wound Mig took to the side only ten minutes ago, not that Gabriel can do much to avoid it. He’s got control over his car, not anyone elses’. That’s their operating system’s failure, not his own semi-reckless driving’s. After all, you flee a hail of bullets and see how straight you drive.
“Couldn’t be any of your little collected array of spider pals, huh,” Gabriel ‘grumbles,’ though it’s actually more of a shout, since if he truly mumbled it under his breath, Mig would’ve missed it the rush of wind and the cacophony of gunfire that follow them, “Couldn’t have reached out to any of them for help, huh?”
As it stands, Gabriel himself can barely hear it, but Miguel seems fine; masked face snapping towards him, the upper neon ridge accentuating a brow furrowing in what’s likely deep annoyance. Knowing Mig, he’s probably doing the tight lip, tight jaw thing, which—good. After all, he’s probably going to owe Gabriel a new car after this.
(Probably, meaning definitely, in this context, since Miguel’s little bad guy took it upon his/herself to rip the roof off of Gabriel’s car. Probably is just the nicer, gentler way of being angry of being involved in the umpteenth car chase; the version that allows him to keep a firm grip on not only the wheel, but his emotions. Not all heroes wear capes, after all: some wear scarves.)
“Are you really trying to blame me for this?” Miguel asks incredulously, very obviously glaring at Gabriel despite his focus being very clearly needed elsewhere, “You think I asked for this?”
“I mean, yeah,” Gabriel grouses as another gunshot rings in his ear, bullet shattering glass almost instantly. He barely even gives himself a second to grimace, pulling his goggles down before the glass can get his eyes. It cuts his cheek before he can get the scarf up higher, though.
Which—whatever. He’s gotten worse, certainly, helping Miguel out of worse binds. It’s—well, is it considered an occupational hazard when:
- This is not his actual job
- Is for his stupid idiot big brother who doesn’t pay him at all?
He cuts the next turn so hard that Miguel nearly goes flying, his brother barking out a string of curses as he hangs on the remains of the door. Gabriel elects to ignore him, for the good of both of their continuing existences, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. He’s going to miss this car. He just broke through all the software and restrictions that stopped the car from hitting good speeds whilst in city limits. Mig wouldn’t understand how fucking impossible that can be these days, wouldn’t appreciate the lengths Gabriel would go to to make sure that he can maintain distance between them and the cyborg that’s been hunting Mig down.
That’s probably what makes the loss of the vehicle even worse, in Gabriel’s eyes. He spent all this time souping the thing up not even for fun, but for necessity. Because this is hardly the first time that one of Gabriel’s vehicles have become the getaway car. Making sure Miguel stays alive has become a bit of a job for Gabriel; one that refuses him dental benefits and therapy.
And pay. Sure, Miguel covers his bills, but sue him; Gabriel would like to actually get paid once in a while. Kind of hard to hold down a job, after all, when Mig has a penchant for nearly getting himself killed every other week. Kind of makes it hard to focus on literally anything else.
Miguel doesn’t see their mother very often, and apparently, that’s Gabriel’s responsibility.
Sometimes, when he comes to see her, she’ll stare at him in this way that makes it evident that she’s not the child she wanted to see. It’s not so much that she’s unhappy to see him—if she is, Gabriel has no clue; not like she’ll say, not like he’ll ask—but some of the words she’ll say to him will make it clear that Gabriel’s not the one she wants coming to see her on a weekly basis. Things like, “you still haven’t brought your brother,” or “Miggy knows how to say that word perfectly,” or “I’m glad you’re helping Miggy with that,” or even “You look too much like your father, can’t you at least dye your hair—Miggy’s color would look nice on you.”
Sometimes, it’s even the things she won’t say that'll make his place to her clear.
Things like,
"I’m glad to see you, Gabri,"
or,
"How are you doing today, Gabri,"
or,
"You don’t need to speak Spanish perfectly,"
or, even,
"Thank you for always making time for me, mi bebe."
And, yes, maybe the one about the Spanish thing, that’s just self-indulgent because his accent is for shit and he still struggles with the correct context for saber or conocer, as if he hasn’t been listening to Spanish since the minute he was born. Nothing wrong with not being fluent in his mother tongue. And sure, maybe it’s all petty to want that brand of attention from his Ma at his age: he’s jam near twenty-seven, after all, he’s a grown ass man. But it’d be nice, Gabriel thinks: to have a conversation with his mother that has nothing to do with Mig.
“Drive straight!” Mig shouts as he finally, finally, pulls himself into the car, talons ripping through sheet metal of a car so far beyond ruined that Gabriel doesn’t even know if he’s mad at Mig or at the car anymore.
“Be more useful!” Gabriel snaps back, coming very close to running into another truck, “Seriously, can’t you do something more than stand there and lecture me about my driving? If not for me, you’d probably be dead!”
“I’m sorry that I’m not prepared for a high-speed chase—¡mi culpa!” Miguel throws at him, grunting as he webs up a street sign to take out one of the cyborg’s—Gabriel doesn’t even know; posse? Gang? Annoying shocking henchmen?
“Maybe you Spider-guys should get a laser alternator for that web gauntlet thing!”
“You know what they’re called!”
“Yeah,” Gabriel punches out, switching lanes and hard breaking to make the next turn, letting a hench person go speeding past them as they slip onto Old 42nd, “But it pisses you off when I don’t call it that!”
“You’re an ass!”
Gabriel can’t help but grin to himself, despite the dire straits. As much as he hates these encounters, these times when he’s too deeply entwined in Spider-Man bullshit; he does enjoy mocking his brother. It’s only made a bit sweeter by the fact that LYLA is still working through the repair for the shooters currently malfunctioning, forcing Miguel to rely on the disgusting organic webbing he’s currently spinning from his wrists; tugging down street signs and lights to keep their pursuers away. First time Mig shot one of those things, Gabriel almost lost his lunch, finding himself retching over his bowl.
Despite all the shit he gives Miguel about the Spider-Man thing, he’s—well, full transparency, he’s not happy to be forsaking his own life a little to make sure Mig has backup when he needs it, but he is going to back him up until the end of the earth. That’s what brothers do, right—have each other’s back? Maybe not in apparent assassination attempts or whatever, but, hey, God doesn’t give with both hands, and beggars certainly can’t be choosers. And Mig—he’s done some shitty stuff in the past to Gabriel, he won’t deny that, but if they swapped places right now, he wouldn’t even hesitate to back Gabriel up. Probably would have more back sass than Gabriel’s got for him now, honestly, if the roles were truly reversed. Out of the two of them, when they were kids, the one who had more wild things to say had always been Mig; things that would get him popped right in the mouth by Ma.
“You could be the first laser-slingin’ Spider,” Gabriel shouts at him with a laugh, flicking a glance in the remaining rearview mirror just in time to see a henchman—or woman, Gabriel certainly can’t tell genders when he’s more concerned about avoiding crashing into cars whose OSs haven’t been overwritten and wouldn’t know that he’s liable to hit their slow-moving asses—launch themselves at Mig.
On a split-second decision and a prayer to the big guy upstairs, he jerks the wheel, pitching them left. He swerves into a lane that wasn’t quite empty, dragging his car against the side of the bus filled with shocked civilians, but he manages to cut off their path, sending them screaming into the front of a truck with a deafening thud he doesn’t want to think about the finality of. He nearly shakes Mig, too, if not for those talons in his toes clawing into the fabric of the seat; tearing them to shreds as he stumbles around.
“Sí, just what I need, more shocking tech to have malfunction at the last minute!” Miguel snaps, whipping around to give Gabriel a quick glare as gunshots begin to ring out again, “Can’t you get us off the major roads? You’re causing so much wreckage!”
“Complains the bajillionaire taking down street signs!” Gabriel croons with a grin that’s probably more crazed than anything else, thankfully hidden behind his scarf, “What, worried about your wallet?”
“Worried about—coño, Gabri, shocking watch it—property damage! Shocking—civilians—!” Mig returns, cutting himself off as he jerks himself out of the path of an apparent bullet, which digs into the dashboard.
Is it weird Gabriel’s still upset about damage to his car at this point? Probably, right?
“So it’s okay that me and Angelina get caught in the crossfire,” Gabriel grunts, punching down on the accelerator as he pushes the car harder, the neons of Downtown condensing into strips of lights at the peripherals of his vision, “but I can’t accidentally harm a few cars? Weird way of saying gracias, Miggy!”
Miguel crouches down low, and he’s sure that he’s turned to him bc he can clearly hear him hiss, even over the roar of the engine as he slips through traffic, “¡Qué mierda, Gabri! Angelina? What is your obsession with naming each and every thing you own?”
“Hey, uno, shock you, segundo, respect my method; you name your shit, too—”
“Not my cars—”
“—maybe because you don’t have a car, lame ass—”
And yeah, maybe it’s not the best time to find himself bickering with Mig, but—honestly, if anything, it’s probably not the worst thing. After all, Gabri technically has a full right to be pissed, after all, because here he was, minding his godjam business on a Tuesday afternoon, trying to get lucky on the web, maybe get a date for the first time in forever, when he gets a call from LYLA informing him that his stupid big brother is halfway up shit’s creek for reasons he’s yet to even have explained to him. It’s like every time he thinks he might wanna get lucky, well, here comes good ol’ golden boy Miggy, making things more complicated than they need to be by getting chased by a cyborg dressed like one of those bad old westerns their father used to fall asleep to.
Sometimes, Gabriel has those moments when he looks at Mig and wonder how it’s possible that he doesn’t hate him.
He’s given him reason to, after all. He’s the reason he lost two relationships—one to infidelity, and one to obsession. The latter, Kasey, admittedly, Gabriel can’t wholly blame Miguel for, can’t hold against him. After all, Miguel had very little to do with her obsession other than happening to exist and breathe as Spider-Man, not much else.
The former… well, Gabriel doesn’t like to think about it much, if he’s got a choice. And he does, so he doesn’t. Turned the other cheek and all that already.
Maybe he’s too forgiving of Mig. His therapist, back when he used to go, when he wasn’t half-scared of accidentally outing Miguel’s identity to greater Nueva York; she once expressed concern that maybe he gets taken advantage of by him. And, you know, maybe she’s got a bit of a point; he won’t deny that. Miguel’s got a bit of a penchant for just plucking him out of normalcy and expecting him to cope with the irrational chaos his life has become. But it’s not, as far as Gabriel believes, intentional. After all, for all of Miguel’s intelligence, he’s got foresight for shit. Rarely thinks about impacts before actions—just acts, typically in the name of the greater good.
Gabriel’s used to it. He grew up in it. Miguel was a good big brother, don’t get him wrong, but when he was being an asshat, he’d go full send. Truly committed to the bit, and sometimes it hurt. When he got mad at it, as a kid, Ma would look at him and just say sabes tu hermano, huffed with an annoyed, but affectionate, laugh, rolling her eyes as if Gabriel was just being silly by being annoyed with her little golden child. Dale paciencia.
And—well, maybe it wasn’t the best thing, to know where he stood when it came to his Ma’s affections in terms of her two children—to know that he was really born to give Miguel a playmate, and not because she really, desperately wanted another kid.
He used to have a bit of an issue with it. Especially when she first told him, laughing as if it was funny for more than just her. Used to eat him up inside, as a teen and a young man, feeling ignored in his big brother’s shadow because—well. He’s no science prodigy, not in the way that can be measured with tests like Mig’s can. He’s smart, Gabriel knows he’s smart, but Mig’s got the kind of intelligence that can be quantified and easily defined, given operational definitions to, can be assessed for. It’s probably what burned Ma up more about Miguel, when he took that job at Alchemax—that he could be that smart, and yet choose something so dumb. Though, if you asked Gabriel, he couldn’t see what was so dumb about it, but that was their Ma—expecting them to just know what the right thing is all of the time.
She’s always expected a lot from Mig. Always.
And she expected Gabriel to be there to bolster him up whenever he needed it.
Dale paciencia, Mama.
“Well, isn’t this a cute family picture,” says LYLA, sparking into reality, holding up her phone with a cheeky smirk, “I should send this to your mom. She’d love to see it.”
Miguel’s don’t comes at the same time as Gabriel’s bueno, and it only makes her smirk broaden into a full-blown evil grin, leaning over crossed legs as Gabriel gets on the on ramp to the vert highway—maybe not the best idea, given the situation, but if Miguel’s looking to avoid collateral, might be the best shot. Plus, if they’re gonna die, Gabriel would much rather it be due to the oxygen loss than a gunshot wound; at least you pass out first without oxygen. As far as the web says, it shouldn’t hurt.
“What’s the status on the shooters?” Miguel growls at her as he crouches down, getting out of the spray of bullets.
She looks up, smirk flickering out to be replaced with sheer boredom, as if a high-speed chase isn’t enough of a thrill for her. Has he mentioned that he loves LYLA? Because he does. She’d be his dream girl if she were flesh and blood. If he were allowed to exist in Cyberspace, he’d figure out how to marry her.
“Oh, those? Yeah, those are goners; nothing I can do from here,” LYLA drawls, as if she’s reporting the weather, and Miguel’s hand clenches a bit too tight on the back of Gabriel’s headrest, the fabric tearing under his fingertips just before she adds, “So I got you some backup. You’re welcome. ETA twelve-point-two seconds.”
Miguel starts, “I didn’t request—”
“Seriously? You’re complaining about help? What about this situation screams we have this under control?” Gabriel cuts him off, turning just enough to arch a brow down at his brother, who leans over the center console, and drops his head in both annoyance and chastisement, a ragged sigh escaping him.
“See, this is why he’s my favorite O’Hara,” LYLA croons, adjusting her pixels to show her lying across the dash, flashing her best grin at Gabriel as she points a leg straight up into the air, perpendicular to the rest of her body, “Handsome and smart.”
“I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again—Miggy don’t deserve you, sweet girl.”
“Please, por favor, just—deja, coño,” Miguel groans, just in time for a henchperson—probably the best he’s doing—pulls up beside them, taking Gabriel by complete surprise before they leap from their bike. Before they land on the car, though, before Gabriel can even think enough to take another breath, they’re tied up, white threads wrapping around their torso as they’re suddenly swinging by an overhead streetlight.
Miguel’s head snaps up at that, looking astounded before he collects himself, his eyes visibly narrowing behind the mask, and he barks,
“Miles!”
“Hey, it’s Spider-Man when we’re out in the field, man, c’mon!” comes the shout from their apparent backup, who lands hard on the hood of the car, further cementing the end of Angelina’s road, “Supposed to be an anonymous superhero, remember?!”
“Half this city's seen your face!” Miguel snaps back, throwing up an arm in frustration, like some of the tension hasn't bled visibly from his shoulders.
“Yeah, because people are gonna remember somethin' from almost five years ago? Be real, man, I bet you most of those people can't remember what they had for breakfast today—”
Gabriel, admittedly, isn’t sure what he expected when Miguel first told him about Miles. Miguel’s way of telling people the happenings in his life, after all, is with bare-bones details, as if he’s allergic to talking too much. It’s kind of hysterical, actually—you ask Miguel to list genome sequencing and be prepared for a lecture spanning, but ask him a single question about his personal life that can’t be answered with either a yes or a no, and you’ll find yourself stonewalled.
It leaves Gabriel with bare-minimum facts about Miles:
- He’s a Spider-Man
- His name is Miles
- His last name starts with an M
- LYLA likes him
So, when he sees Miles for the first time, the first thing he thinks to shout to his brother’s partner, the first thing, is:
“Godjam, you’re short,”
Because, well, if you’re comparing him to either himself or Mig—he is. At six-two, Gabriel’s the short one, and he’s sure that Miles doesn’t even break six feet, the way he manages to fold in on himself. Granted, he’s not too far off, if he’s visualizing correctly, but Christ.
Miles doesn’t even seem perturbed, though he does breathe out a sigh that Gabriel hears above the rush of the wind, his shoulders sagging slightly.
“I’m average height!” he complains, throwing his hands up, foot planted firmly on the hood, unmoving despite the speeds Gabriel's pushing.
“Oje, maybe not the time?!” Miguel shouts with a grunt, pulling another sign down behind them, “Get us off the shocking road, Gabri!”
“What’s even—wait, Gabri?” Miles asks, head snapping towards Gabriel, oversized white lenses going comically wide, “Wait—wait, no, wait—”
“Would you—Miles, not the time!” Miguel shouts, digging his heels into the backseat as he stands at full height, just as a henchperson starts to cover the distance, “We can focus on introductions later, when the peril is done!”
Miles blinks, visibly blinks, the lenses surprisingly moving with the motion, and shakes his head quickly, as if to clear it. He tears his gaze away from Gabriel with some visible difficulty, as he shouts, launching himself off of the hood now, webbing himself to a building to broach the distance between their car and the trailing henchperson,
“What, am I not allowed to be stunned that I’m meeting the Gabriel in the flesh?! It’s like I’m meeting a celebrity!”
Gabriel’s so surprised by the statement, as well as Miles’ mobility, that it shocks a laugh out of him, which is made better by watching Miles land on the nose of the motorbike, giving the henchperson one moment to process before they’re sent flying towards a building, sure to stick thanks to the help of the webbing Miles is quick to hit them with.
“A celebrity? I already like ‘im,” Gabriel croons, swerving around the car in the middle lane to get to the innermost side, building a wall between them and the next trailing motorbike, “Plus, he’s, y’know, actually doing something. I think that’s a novel concept for you, right?”
Miguel doesn’t answer. Not visibly. Gabriel can see his shoulders bunch up in the rearview mirror though, before he forces himself to relax, and in that little motion, he knows—he’s under his skin. Good.
After Dana, he wasn’t really quite on speaking terms with Miguel.
For reasons he thought were pretty fair. After all, who wants to find out that your big brother—the one who used to sing you lullabies until you fell asleep, who taught you how to ride a bike, who was your protector, your world—is fucking the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?
Ma wasn’t happy that Gabriel didn’t want to talk to Miguel, and what was worse about it wasn’t the fact that she didn’t spend very long letting Gabriel grieve the relationship before trying to convince him to talk to Miguel, like all they really needed to do was talk it over and hash it out. He understood where she was coming from. Really, he did. Even outside the blatant favoritism: they’re brothers. They grew up together. And Miguel—as stupid, pig-headed, and selfish as he could be—he loved him.
Thing was, Gabriel didn’t doubt Miguel loved him. That was never the question.
He just—it would’ve been nice. To be the choice. To be the one who got it all. All his life, it felt like his family looked at him and wondered why he had the audacity to be alive if he wasn’t going to be as remarkable as Miguel was, even though he was intelligent in his own right. Just—wasn’t interested in the same things as Miguel.
Unless, of course, if you count Dana. Then, in a way, he was technically interested in the same things, in that sense.
Maybe the most hurtful thing about it all was the fact that the way Miguel lived his life was a disappointment for their mother. After all, Conchata O’Hara didn’t spend her days leading protests against mega-corporations only to watch her son join the biggest one, as well as turn his back on every value she tried to instill in him. And, yet—Gabriel doing the same things as her; standing on picket lines, giving back to his community, trying to raise awareness about the corporate raiders program that paid for the roof over his head—none of that was worthy of his mother’s interest. She didn’t even give him more than a few moments’ sympathy—a kiss on the forehead, the whispered promise for better to come to him—before she was back harping on everything Miguel wasn’t being.
If he’s honest? Him not talking to Miguel had a little bit less to do with Dana than he’d ever like to admit.
There was always this implicit thing, this understood, yet unspoken expectation Gabriel grew up with: Miguel was his responsibility.
Not in a bad way, like he was tasked with taking care of some man-child barely capable of taking care of himself, because that was never the case. If anything, Miguel had always been hyper-independent, for as long as Gabriel’s been alive. Mig was always one of those kids who insisted on doing it themselves, and, nine times out of ten, he’d prove himself to be more than capable of whatever he set his mind to.
The task had more to do with how Miguel was as a person than keeping him alive, because—well, for all of his self-confidence and bravado, Miguel’s never exactly… fit in anywhere. In his defense, when you’re gifted with genius, some things kind of just find themselves falling through the cracks, and, unfortunately for Miguel, the thing that fell through for him was, apparently, social skills. And, God, did it fall through. After all: there was a reason Conchata O’Hara decided to have Gabriel, and it wasn’t for the joy of having children. She might’ve laughed when she said it, but that didn’t change the truth of her words.
Gabriel O’Hara was born to give his brother a friend. And that came with responsibilities for Gabriel, responsibilities he’s still expected to uphold even to this day, to the point that his own personal life becomes a bit of an aside. Which isn’t to say it’s Miguel’s fault, because he’d do the same thing for Gabriel ten times over if Gabriel asked him.
He just… doesn’t ask. It’s not what he’s supposed to do.
“I gotta admit,” Miles says, breaking the silence Gabriel lapsed into, taking him by surprise as he walks over to the couch, “I really didn’t wanna meet you this way.”
They’ve long since ditched Miguel’s would-be assassin, managing to lose them and their posse, as well as ditch the tattered remains of what was once a beauty of a car. Miguel’s injuries had been more extensive than he had been presenting—thank God for his healing, Gabriel guesses, because he looks like a mess; busted lip, subconjunctival hemorrhage in his right eye, four broken ribs he never once brought up, a dislocated shoulder, and fractures up and down his left arm, which Gabriel figures explains why he hadn’t exactly been leaping to swing. All that’s aside from the gunshot wound, which at least is a through-and-through wound, nothing vital hit except for, evidently, Miguel’s pride, which seems to have been dealt some sort of critical wound by just the weight of Miles’ glare alone. And glare he had, seemingly unimpressed by the extent of the injuries, once LYLA let loose how hurt he was.
“That right?” Gabriel asks, quirking an eyebrow as Miles drops himself onto the couch, breathing out a sigh of relief.
If the first thing he really noticed about Miles was his height, the second thing he notices is his overall size. He’s hardly the first Spider-person, other than Miguel, Gabriel’s met, and he’s long since learned that they come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but, on average, they all seem to have a bit of muscle to them. All lean builds, probably due to the acrobatic of the job, but Miles takes that to a new level. He’s willowy, built long and dainty, with tiny, bony wrists and slender, lean neck. His size is only accentuated by the way he drowns in Miguel’s clothes, the shorts pooling under his thighs, the t-shirt baggy and loose, sleeves draping around his biceps.
“Yeah,” Miles breathes, leaning back on the heels of his palms, rolling his shoulders, leveling Gabriel with a sheepish look, “First impressions and all’at. I really wanted to make a good one. One with less high-speed chases, y'know?”
Gabriel snorts softly, nodding to himself as he looks out the window. First time Miguel brought him to this high-rise, he wondered how they possibly could’ve been raised in the same house, by the same mother. She hated places like this; the marks of the rich and the famous, denizens to those who sold their souls for megacorp’s capitalist pursuits. That was probably the first night he ever saw his Ma and her baby boy ever get into an argument, sat at the dining room table he’s yet to see Miguel even acknowledge since that night, words of anger and resentment thrown over expensive wine Gabriel could barely stomach. She hadn’t even been that mad at Miguel when he decided to stop going to church.
Dale paciencia, dale paciencia.
“He’s asleep?” Gabriel asks him.
“I don’t think he’ll wake up for anything right now—maybe the apocalypse?” Miles replies from behind him, soft laughter accentuating his words, “He’ll probably be out for a while.”
Gabriel doesn’t doubt it. Once they got the mask off of him, Miles’ palms sliding against Miguel’s cheek as he slipped it off his face, Miguel looked everything but energized and alert. If he had to guess, his idiot of an older brother had been pushing himself up until the very last second. That’s always been who Miguel is, after all, at least in Gabriel’s experience.
He’s… not sure what to say to Miles, now that he’s in the same space. After all, it’s fairly rare that Miguel has the person to introduce to his family and not Gabriel. It’s been that way since childhood, after all, the two of them like opposites all their lives; Miguel is introverted and private, Gabriel extroverted and loud. He’d been the kind of kid to introduce himself to anyone and everyone, almost compulsively, on the side of too friendly to overcompensate for Miguel’s definitive unfriendly attitude. Miguel was the kind to give such bare-bones information about his life and the people in it, and Gabriel genuinely believes that Miguel must think he’s actually giving too much information. To this day, Gabriel can’t think of a single conversation he had with Miguel’s ex Xina that went further than the topical, not knowing enough about her despite the years she’d spent in Miguel’s life. For Miguel, telling Gabriel that Miles is a person who breathes air is probably a massive breech of information already.
Thing is, he’s wanted to meet Miles. Ever since Miguel admitted to his existence, Gabriel’s wanted to meet Miles. But every time he’s asked about Miles, he’d been given a variation of the same four key facts, which, while none of them were untrue, leaves Gabriel at an astounding lack of ground to start with. What, is he supposed to have a conversation with Miles about the fascinating last name he has? Best he’s got is that he’s a Spider-Man from another dimension, which would be cooler if Gabriel hadn’t met literal hundreds by this point.
Which leaves them where they are: sitting on Miguel’s couch, in this semi-awkward stalemate of a silence, left alone to their own devices, which not even the extroverted Gabriel knows how to talk himself out of. What’s appropriate to ask? To say? Will Miguel get worried if they talk about too much? Will he be worried if they spend any time in private together? Gabriel’s not sure.
Miles breathes out a ragged sigh suddenly, startling Gabriel out of his focus. When he looks at him, Miles is wearing a sheepish smile on his lips, practically apologetic.
“I have no idea what to even say here,” Miles admits to him, sitting forward, leaning towards Gabriel, as if they’re not sitting on opposite ends of the couch, “I'm really nervous, man. All he’s told me is your name and that you exist, really. And that he likes teasing you a lot.” He pauses to think, as if he’s parsing through a lot of information, and adds, “Oh! Can I just say—I’m sorry he stole those empanadas from you. That was super messed up. If I'd known, I swear I wouldn't have eaten them. I can make it up to you, though, if you want?”
Now, if he’s honest? He doesn’t immediately know what Miles is talking about, that’s how little the empanada thing really impacted him. Wouldn’t be the first time, or the last, Miguel decided to relieve him of something of his without asking, and it’s not like Gabriel doesn’t do the same to him. It’s how he got the scarf he wears now, after all, taken from Miguel’s closet years ago. To him, it’s not something worth an apology; it’s just a normal thing they do.
And yet, here Miles is, apologizing as if Miguel’s committed a serious transgression rather than being a bit of a shit, looking at Gabriel with such earnestness that it’s endearing.
“All he’s told me about you is that you exist, and that your name is Miles,” Gabriel counters.
He half-expects Miles to show some sort of aggravation, which he does, in the form of affection rather than true annoyance, shaking his head as he grins.
“That… I mean, I guess at least he’s consistent,” Miles laughs, amusement rumbling through him.
It’s practically infectious, the amusement. It's so honest, so affectionate. Not an inkling of annoyance or aggravation. Gabriel finds himself grinning.
“He’s—it’s the way he always has been, the idiot,” Gabriel replies, shaking his head, “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s redacted half of the info on his birth certificate. I’m pretty sure he’s tried before.” He turns more towards Miles, albeit subconsciously, unaware as his mind flits back to childhood, and he finds himself saying, “Was real annoying for our Ma, lemme tell you. He was a nightmare to get gifts for.”
“I can see that for him, honestly,” Miles says, growing excited, drawing his legs in to cross them, one over the other, almost curling in, “He’s so weird that way, man. He tell you what he did when I tried to get him a late Christmas gift after we got together? So, look—”
It’s not said with any sense of derision or condescension. Just as if it’s a fact, one that Miles doesn’t only accept, but appreciates, finds a little joy in, actually. All of Miles’s words speak to that, in fact, just by the way his lips wrap themselves around Miguel’s name every time he says it, the way he can’t seem to shake this affection that interlaces and runs through his voice—or, rather, doesn’t want to shake it, even as he's teasing him.
Thing about being the lesser sibling: people are often keen to let you know.
Gabriel wouldn’t have blamed Miguel for thinking the same way, but he never has. In fact, Miguel’s probably the only family member he’s ever been sure is in his camp. That’s what made the pain of losing Dana to him worse, in a way. Because he thought Miguel wouldn’t hurt him. Because he can’t even begin to visualize ever doing the same to Miguel.
By the time Miguel’s awake again—Miles isn’t.
He’s dropping an errant throw he finds in a closet over Miles when Miguel stumbles out of his bedroom, upper body bandaged up tight. The split lip seems to be a thing of the past already, though Miguel still overall looks like he’s been run over by a truck. He’s not exactly wincing with every step, so he’s not in a bad level of pain by any means, but he definitely looks like he could use a good night of sleep, or maybe ten.
“Gabri,” Miguel greets, grumbling as Gabriel sits back down on the couch, going from blinking against the setting sun streaming in through the audaciously sized windows down to Miles’ sleeping form. In an instant, the exertion on his face is smoothed over by a slightly-masked affection, as if he’s trying to hide it from Gabriel, of all people, and he sits himself on the edge of the couch, right in Miles’ personal space. He sweeps a thumb across Miles’ right eyebrow, soft, affectionate.
“Did you like him?” he asks suddenly, not looking up from Miles.
Gabriel can’t help but freeze a little, though he tries to settle, looking away from Miguel.
“Does it matter?”
Miguel flicks him a glance.
“Yours is the only opinion that does.”
It’s crazy, sometimes, to Gabriel. Miguel can be—well, he’s a dick, isn’t he? Miguel’s rude, can’t socialize for shit, and he lives his life knowing he’s the smartest in any room he walks into. Miguel’s always been this figure; this thing larger than anything else, drawing all attention in any room he walks in. Gabriel spent all life in the shadow of him, knowing that he’ll never be as smart, never make as much of a difference.
But then Miguel’ll look at him, and it’ll be like he thinks the only person in the world that matters is him. And, for Miguel, that’s true; been true all their lives. Miguel’s made it clear every day for as long as he can remember: in his eyes, Gabriel doesn’t exist in his shadow. He’s not just the accessory his mother birthed him to be. He’s Miguel’s brother.
“Yeah. I like him, Miggy.”
Miguel smiles, so small Gabriel barely sees it. However, he’s had years of practice, watching Miguel, knowing Miguel. He’s sure he would’ve seen it even if his sight was stolen from him. He knows. He knows.
“He’s just like you, you know,” Miguel says, and Gabriel cocks a brow at him, confused. The smile grows. The smile grows, a touch of sharpened fangs exposed. “He can’t speak Spanish, either.”
He can’t help but laugh. “You’re just such a shocking shit, Miggy—”
The unspoken sits between them. Gabriel doesn't touch it, and Miguel doesn't seem to want to, either. At the end of the day, neither of them need to. They know.
Gabriel is not a patient man. Except when it comes to Miguel. And he thinks it's the same for him, too. Because, sure, Gabriel barely likes the guy half the time, but the love he's got for him is endless.
Dale paciencia.