He had been considering this for a long time. It’s not the noble thing to do, he knows. It’s not the brave thing, it’s not the Spider-Punk thing. It might not even be the right choice. But before he’s even decided all the way, his duffel bag of necessities is packed and he’s slipping through the portal.
Everything he’s known, everything he’s ever loved. His version of his family. His version of his friends. And all the people that depend on spider-punk, all the rebellion he’s caused. All the people who need him to fight for their quality of life. The hope and anger Spider-Punk symbolizes.
Odds are, they’ll think he’s dead. Eventually, he’ll have been gone for long enough that people will start to notice, and they’ll most likely assume he was killed sometime as a civilian. In a raid or a protest or something similar.
He’s scared. He’s terrified.
And that’s not a very Spider-Punk thing to be, but he is. He doesn’t want his friends to lose him. He doesn’t want them to have to mourn. He knows that if he stays, and he dies like that, his friends would be so hurt. Gwen is already going through so much with her dad, who’s literally a fucking cop; he needs to be there for her. He’s self aware enough to know that Patvir would be devastated.
But- his people? All the citizens, the people who are looking to him to guide them to a safer future? He’s a symbol. They’re looking to him. They don’t know he’s literally seventeen. They don’t know any of it, and he gives them hope. And that’s millions of people who are looking to him for hope. And he’s letting them down.
But he wants to live. He wants to see more, he wants to see something that’s not the oppression and death he’d grown up enmeshed in. He wants to grow up, and find himself safe, and look back and think it’s better now. But the thousands of kids that might not get to do that if he leaves-
He’s going against everything he’s ever believed in. But he feels like a cornered prey animal, and what else is he supposed to do?
He knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to die, and die gruesomely, to function as a martyr and a talking point for the people he’s trying to fight for. Videos of some cop bashing his head into the pavement are supposed to go viral, people chanting his name at protests and wearing spider man masks to hide their faces. For the last two years, he’s pretended that’s how he’s content to die.
But he’s not. He wants to live. Even though he’s not useful that way. Even though he’s betraying every single thing he’s been fighting for.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
He’ll leave everything he’s been fighting for. Everyone he’s ever known, ever loved. All of it will be for nothing, because he won’t ever get to see it. Wether or not his universe thrives or dies. And- well, that’s if Gwen says he can stay. If not.. what does he do, go home? Transplant here? Figure out what happened to Gwen’s version of Hobie Brown, kill him, and take his identity? He’d really rather not do that.
The smog across his sky disappears. He steps into the brightness of Gwen’s dimension like it’s a doorway. He shudders violently as all of the atoms in his body stir uncomfortably. The wristwatches stop him from glitching, but there’s still an innate sense of wrongness. He guesses he’s just gonna have to live with that, though. His ribs ache where they’ve been broken- entirely unrelated.
The streets in Gwen’s world couldn’t be more different than his. The shadows are infectious, practically, in his universe. The smog paired with the dark gray of the buildings lends to something ominous. But in Gwen’s world, the lighting is all pink and blue, shifting and moving with people’s actions, reactions, and inactions. You can’t hide anything, here. He looks down at himself, his form bathed in deep red.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’s abandoning them. He should just go home and let himself die. He’s more useful that way.
He knows what he’s supposed to do. He knows he’s more helpful as a news story; a martyr like the many that have came before him, (some people he knew, some friends, although he tries not to think about it,) and for years now he’s been saying that he’s okay with that. Convincing himself that he would rather die where he stands than abandon his people.
And he would. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He shouldn’t leave. He should go home. It’s still early enough to go home. But in practice?
The air’s so much cleaner here. His lungs are burning less with every passing moment. He can’t believe he’s going to stay with a cop and abandoning his own damn people.
His ribs ache. It hurts to move, it hurts to breathe.
Yesterday was the breaking point. Yesterday-
He tries to shake the thought away. The running and yelling and the angry shouting. The feeling of the pavement pushing against his face as some bastard kneels on his back, someone’s knee in the base of his spine, the sirens and the lights from the cars flashing bright across his vision even when he tries to keep his eyes closed.
And then- and then a shot, the image of one of his friends brain splattered across the concrete floor of the bar.
He checks the phone Miguel had fixed for him and the note he had pinned of Gwen’s address, matching it up to the apartment door sign in front of him.
He knocks.