Milo
Miles and Milo had always been inseparable.
From the moment the twins were born they had been so entangled in each other’s identities; first words and steps happened together- every milestone reached at the same time- not wasting a moment in keeping up with the other.
They stayed together throughout everything, every scrape, fall, sprained wrist or twisted ankle. Tears and laughter were shared, as were any outings, friend’s birthday parties, concerts and award ceremonies. Every moment of their lives was intertwined- even refusing to move into separate rooms as they grew older, the spare room in their floor-through apartment quickly being turned into a guest bedroom when it became apparent they wouldn’t be separating.
Then Miles passed the Visions entrance exam and Milo didn’t.
Suddenly, they were two separate people with their own, individual lives; no longer each other’s shadows. Miles wasn’t with him every step of the way; he couldn’t turn his head and see his brother waiting beside him.
Milo, for what it’s worth, knew that they were too close. Knew that their reliance on each other bordered worrisome; never apart, attached at the hip, too over-protective, too much. He wasn’t sure if Miles understood that their level of closeness was unhealthy- co-dependency at its worst – at least from his side.
Their parents seemed to encourage the separation, their worry that they had been too attached, too dependent on one another’s presence to function individually had been so glaringly obvious.
Miles had withdrawn from all of them when they pushed for him to go to Visions. He had locked himself in their shared bedroom, only opening it when Milo asked to come in so he could sleep. Miles had wasted no time in climbing into Milo’s bed with him, wrapping around him in a familiar tangle of limbs, pressing his head into his shoulder and crying out how unfair this all was.
Milo agreed with him, of course, but he didn’t voice it. He knew it would only push Miles to fight against their parents more. He wondered if he was holding him back, arms still wrapped around Miles after he had cried himself to sleep. That maybe they needed to be apart to grow into who they’re meant to be.
The thought of embracing their separation made his chest ache, but maybe this was what they needed.
He would try anything for Miles.
So, when morning came, he tried his best to be excited for his brother- Miles likely seeing through him, if his permanent frown was anything to go by.
“Do you really want me to go to Visions?” Miles had cornered him in their bedroom, blocking the door, definitely upset with how Milo had been avoiding him over the weekend.
He looked past Miles at first, reluctant to look into his twin’s eyes as he spoke. “Maybe it’ll be good, Miles. It’s a good school, you can study anywhere you want from there.” He knows he sounds like their parents, but Miles knows him; he knows he’s lying no matter how he phrases it.
“Liar, you don’t want me to go- as much as I don’t want to!” His voice was a whispered shout, anger clear even though he kept his voice down. His brother was very rarely upset with him- and it generally came more from a place of concern than actual anger. This…this was anger. It tied knots in his stomach. “Why don’t you help me convince them? You just sat there, not saying a thing! Maybe if we spoke to them together, they won’t make me go-”
“Miles.” He speaks truthfully to him for the first time this morning, “They’ve already decided. Nothing we say is going to change their minds.”
Miles pulls back, eyes panicked as he scrambles to think of something, “But maybe we can-”
“We can’t, Miles!" He doesn't mean to raise his voice, knows the immediate reaction it will get from his brother like it always does.
Miles' eyes hurriedly darted away from his face as tears welled in his eyes, lip trembling as he stepped away.
“Why don’t you want to try? I don’t understand – I thought this was upsetting you too." Miles' voice wavered, uncertainty taking over as he stared at his brother. He had probably expected anger at their parents from his brother, Milo always too ready to fight for what Miles wants.
Milo meets his eyes directly, staring him down, and Miles flinches at his sudden intense gaze. “I think it will be good for us to be our own people. Aren’t you tired of always just being a twin, a half?” Milo straightens, squaring his shoulders as he speaks, voice cold and harsh, “I know I am.”
Miles’ eyes blurred with tears, and Milo was sure he couldn’t see through them. His brother’s expression crumpled entirely, and it hurt, it hurt to watch and it hurt to hold himself back, not wanting to give in now that he had said something so cold, something that he knew would hurt Miles but would also push him to try for himself, not for Milo.
He needed to try, for Miles.
Milo pulled at any frustration he’s felt over his emotions regarding his brother, pushed them around and out, using them to help build this wall between them; pushing Miles away so that they both can try and be normal. He fought the urge to comfort his twin, tears had welled in Miles' eyes to the point that he began rapidly blinking so that he could see again.
“Okay,” Miles had rubbed a hand aggressively over his eyes, likely upset that it’s still so easy for Milo to make him cry, “I’ll go.”
At first, time spent apart was agonising.
Miles moved out of their bedroom, their little argument causing enough of a rift that he didn’t want to be in a shared space anymore. Their parents were surprised, concern showing through their eyes, but they accepted his request, and let him move into the guest room. He took down his portion of things in their decorations that left their – no, Milo’s – bedroom empty and devoid of a particular energy that Miles always carried with him.
Then he packed again when school started, leaving for a week to stay in his dorm room at Visions.
He didn’t call often, and it was always a family-oriented call through one of their parents who would just pass the phone to him long enough for him to say hello before they were taking it back to shoot off questions about classes and new friends.
He never stuck around to listen to how well Miles was doing without him. He felt like he was falling apart with him not there.
Everything carried on exactly the same. He went to classes, spent time with their friends, answering questions about where his brother was, "How is he doing”, and "When will he come see us”. He answers them as quickly and shortly as he can, not willing to let anyone know just how much he misses him, just how empty and without purpose he felt with him not around.
And he does, he misses him so much that every time Miles comes home for the weekend he has to hold back from throwing himself at him, clinging to him like he was his lifeline. He felt like he was, sometimes.
Miles, throughout it all, seemed too distracted to notice the growing distance between them, didn’t see his brother fall behind, or hear him call out to him as he went places further than Milo could ever hope to reach. He wonders if he felt that same suffocating pressure in his chest when he would turn to say something to Miles only to find him not there. He wondered if he even noticed they weren’t together anymore.
Time spent apart meant they were no longer the same. Despite their weekends being shared, there was an undeniable change in their relationship, as well as in themselves. Every distinct difference that Miles revealed made Milo want to cry out, made him want to ask "When did that change".
When Miles was pulled away from him, their parents pushed his focus onto his studies, encouraging him to try harder at school, even attempting to entice him with thoughts of him joining Miles at Visions. But he knew that wasn’t what they really wanted. They seemed relieved that they weren’t so codependent anymore, his father particularly so; his gaze neutral when he acknowledged their fraying relationship. While his parents nagged him about grades and his future, Milo leaned more into his relationship with his uncle, Aaron.
His uncle had seemed to favour him above Miles after he got into Visions. He put more time and energy into their interactions, sympathy rolling off Aaron when Milo would begin to say something to his brother only to find Miles not there. Aaron picked up on his weary emotions enough that he began avoiding mentioning Miles in his presence at all. While some could see it as him caring about Milo’s feelings, just wanting him to feel okay- Milo saw it as pity. His brother had gone off to do “great things” and he had been left in the dust while he waited for him to come home on the weekends, waited for when he could listen to Miles complain or speak to their parents about what he was up to because he no longer spoke to Milo directly.
Milo found himself unable to really talk with Miles after everything. Every conversation they had after the fight seemed surface level, like Miles was avoiding the truth, keeping something from him and he was completely unwilling to share it. Or maybe he was waiting for Milo to initiate the conversation, to attempt to mend the bond that had been so clearly tampered with.
Now, any updates Milo got on Miles' life were through his brother's interactions with their parents; listening in on conversations, sneaky glances over shoulders when they had their phones out texting Miles. He’d held himself back from actually travelling to Miles’ school to check up on him, unsure of how his twin would react if he were to catch him lurking around. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway.
He had always struggled to communicate like Miles did, the harsher, more volatile of the two. He hadn’t changed like Miles had. His brother had even gotten a growth spurt before him; he had come home one weekend and asked his parents if he could get money to buy new clothes because everything was suddenly too short for him. He carried himself differently. Eyes drifting to the news, actually paying attention to the news reports, when they both used to complain about being forced to watch it with their parents after dinner.
Milo had watched Miles grow in so many ways without ever really knowing why or how. He felt the need to change as well overtake him. He needed to leave the past Milo behind to feel sane again.
His uncle had taken him out after a particularly bad depressive episode, bad enough that Aaron had picked up on it through texts and had gotten concerned enough to nag him to come and visit when he had time.
Aaron wasted no time in dragging him back out of his apartment and to the mall, buying him some new clothes and paying for him to get his hair braided. Milo stood, examining his new reflection in the mirror. A single stud earring sat in his ear. This, he had paid for himself, something he'd been saving up to get for a while.
Miles had always said they'd get matching ones, maybe on opposite ears. He doubts Miles wants to match with him now, doubts that he wants anything to do with him.
"I need to change."
Aaron had frowned, staring at him through the reflection in the mirror. "What do you mean, Milo?"
He turned to face him. "I can’t keep waiting for Miles to come back. I can't follow him forever. I can’t be in his shadow, or at his side." That last part hurts the most to say out loud. It's so much more than him just physically being next to his brother. He wants more than that. He wants his everything, every experience, every dream, and every achievement. He wants his first kiss and his first time and anything else that he could possibly take from Miles; anything he would give him.
Milo knows he can't have that.
He also knows that he doesn't have to explain more, that his uncle understands him on such a deep level when it comes to loving their brothers. But neither of them pries, it’s an experience that never needs to be spoken out loud for them to understand each other.
Aaron nods and turns to face him, his expression serious as he places a hand on his shoulder, “Milo, I’ve got something to tell you.”
His uncle involving him in his occupation was something he had not expected. Sure, he hadn’t expected Miles and him to grow so far apart that they no longer knew everything about each other- to the point that he knew Miles was actively keeping secrets from both him and their parents.
With his and Uncle Aaron’s own secret to keep he found a new sense of belonging.
Hidden beneath the mask he wasn’t Milo Morales, he wasn’t a son, a nephew, he wasn’t Miles’ brother. He could put aside his own issues, focus on his work for Kingpin, escape for a while, the decent income just an added bonus.
He won’t lie, the anger that someone needs to fight has always been with him. He'd always carried a heavier bag of emotions with him, not as open as his brother; didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Miles did. He had a certain sense of rage that always lurked beneath the surface. It was this same rage that always ensured that he and Miles never got bullied, that kept the kids that wanted to stifle Miles’ never-ending happiness far away from his twin.
The one kid who hadn't thought of Milo before going after Miles had sorely regretted it; he was gifted a broken nose and multiple bruises that had sent all of them to the principal’s office, waiting for their parents to settle their scuffle.
Milo had left Miles alone for a few minutes, off to fetch their lunches, Miles going on ahead to find a spot under one of the trees on the playground where they could sit and draw together over lunch. He had fetched their lunch bags- matching comic book characters adorning the fabric- only to see Miles in the dirt with a much larger boy above him, sneering down at him.
The boy had clearly shoved Miles, their joint art book that he had been carrying smashed into the dirt, pages likely smudged with sand, scrapes on his knees and tears welling in his big eyes as he stared up at the bigger kid in utter confusion. He didn’t understand why.
Milo had lost it, dropping their lunches to rush in and swing, fist connecting with the kid's face before he could react. He had gone down easily enough, immediately falling to the ground, not expecting anyone to come to Miles’ defence. He had hastily clambered over him to carry on punching, holding him down while the boy had tried to get him off, face now bloodied and bruised.
Distantly he had heard Miles' shouts and felt his brother attempt to wrap his arms around his waist to haul him off. Only when he unintentionally elbowed his brother, pulling a yelp from his twin’s mouth, did he stop swinging and look down to see all the damage that he had done. By then a teacher had seen the commotion and was rushing over, yelling their head off at them. After that it was all a rush; phone calls to parents, a brief trip to the nurse’s office to get their scrapes and bruises checked, waiting to be called into the principal’s office.
The boy he had punched hadn't stopped blubbering, fat tears running over his bruised face while the nurse checked on him, sending a disapproving glace Milo’s way, making him puff out his chest in defiance. She had muttered something about a nasal fracture and additional trips to the doctor to the boy's parents, but Milo hadn't heard everything, instead focusing on Miles' injuries.
Miles had reached out to hold onto Milo’s shirt while he got his knuckles cleaned, the anti-septic stinging but clearing the blood away, so he didn’t complain. When it was Miles’ turn, he sniffled and moved forward to have his knees cleaned, Milo reaching out and grasping his hand, careful of his raw knuckles.
Miles winced, new tears welling in his eyes as the nurse worked away the blood and dirt from the scrapes. The boy – he still hadn’t learnt his name, not really seeing the point- had clearly shoved Miles hard, intending for it to hurt.
He had gotten what he deserved.
Milo tells his parents as much when they ask him why, like he was in the wrong for coming to his brother's defence. After the meeting with the principal and the other boy’s parents- where they had to discuss consequences and compensation for the hospital fees for the boy who had hurt Miles. He couldn't understand why his actions were worse than bullying Miles.
He would protect his brother. Time and time again.
Now, he fought in the shadows, far away from his daytime life and his home. The strangest part of all of it was him not even fighting for Miles. It was to escape his own emotions over his brother and their past, through a familiar route of violence that scratched a particular itch in the back of his skull that he could never reach; it soothed Milo, despite how much he wished it didn’t. He knows Miles would disapprove.
This added sense of strength that came from the battles he’d won went with him wherever he went. He knew that he had changed in his own ways without Miles being there, and had grown more confident and self-assured. He knew his own capabilities well enough that when in the suit, powered-up claws encased around his hands, he knew how hard to hit to get the results he wanted. Just how much strength was required behind a punch to break a jawbone, how far he needed to twist to snap bones or how hard to squeeze to make someone choke.
He'd never felt more in tune with his own body. With himself.
Miles Morales had moved on without him. Milo Morales had changed in his absence.
While he could never be upset with his uncle involving him in this line of work, he still wasn’t sure if this was the right path for him. The money was good, and his anger levels while walking around daily were a thousand times lower than before he started beating people up for work, but Milo couldn’t imagine how his brother would react if he found out.
He knew what wrath would come from his father if he were to know - their arguments were plenty enough as it is, he'd imagine his reaction would cause an immense rift in their dynamic. It would be harsh and brash and maybe over-the-top, after all, his temper must have come from somewhere.
His mother would most likely cry. She would yell at him through her tears, maybe hug him close when she realises what he’s been getting up to when he’s out of the house. Hold him like a small child again, like when he’d fall and scrape his knee and she’d baby him through his complaints, holding his hands in her then much bigger ones.
Maybe she’d mention how this would upset Miles.
Miles. Miles’ reaction would be the one he is most scared of, because, despite it all, he doesn’t know where he stands with him anymore. He isn’t sure if he’d shout, or fight, or if it would make him cry. He isn’t sure if he would bring up their parents, maybe try and guilt him into rethinking everything he’s done. Or maybe he would be indifferent. That would hurt the most. But, with everything that has happened, they don’t talk like they used to, like they were each other’s worlds; no two people so wholly the same. Hell, they don’t even talk like they’re friends anymore, let alone brothers.
Milo supposes that’s good. That they’re not so wrapped up in one another’s lives, unable to differentiate where Milo began and Miles ended.
Now, he knows where he begins and ends, his ties to his family and his ties to work. Where to be careful, what can be shared, what is a secret.
The gloves slide on like a second skin, familiar and worn-in around the shape of his hands. The claws let out a ‘clink’ as he activates them, testing the tension to see if everything is as it should be. Milo Morales is the Prowler when he is not a son, a nephew, a brother.
He wonders, briefly, what secrets Miles is hiding.
His mask slides over his face, concealing his features as he slips into the night. His uncle’s window is left unlocked, waiting for him to come back to patch himself up, to hide the evidence of his double life.
The Prowler sits atop a building’s edge, scoping out the city skyline for the infamous figure of Brooklyn’s hero, Spider-Man.
He’s been tasked with capturing him. A task that he has been given to prove himself to Kingpin and the little empire he's built, to secure his place in the web of crime that lies beneath this city's surface.
He almost feels bad for Spider-Man. He intends to achieve his goals, even if it is to the detriment of their local hero. For what it’s worth, he does genuinely respect him and what he stands for. With his set of powers, Milo isn’t sure how he didn’t turn to crime. Spider-Man’s webs and super strength would have been useful in any of the fights he’s had.
Maybe other people just have a better sense of morals than he does, less disillusioned.
He considers the information Uncle Aaron has shared with him about Spider-Man.
“He’s quick, Milo. Agile too, comes at you with everything he’s got. Shit, I don’t know how many times he’s almost knocked me down in a fight.”
The older man had placed a large hand over his shoulder, giving him a pat before walking toward the board where a single photo of the aforementioned hero was pinned, a variety of considerations when facing him listed off to the side on sticky notes and paper that had been taped to the wall.
“You’ll have to be quicker. And stronger. Ready to take him down, no hesitations.”
When his uncle had handed him the mantle of the Prowler, he had warned him that he would fight good people too. Not everyone they hurt would deserve it, some would be kind or righteous, and some people would just get caught in the crossfire. He had warned him that he would face cops and vigilantes, hurt people seeking revenge or justice, that he would fight heroes, too.
It was a strange decision to be faced with. He had held the clawed gloves in his hands, heavy with their history and not yet his, but they had given him such a sense of self that he wasn’t able to turn his uncle away, he couldn’t deny the path that named him and made him belong.
So, now he waited atop a building, storm clouds shadowing him as he oversaw their little trap play out; a woman shouting out in panic as two men close in on her. She’s causing a racket, screaming her head off and scrambling around, throwing things in the alley at them as she backs away. It’s in one of the areas that Spider-Man frequents, and Milo tries not to think about how close it is to home.
Suddenly there’s a shadowy figure on the wall across from him; they had appeared out of nowhere, just blipped into existence in front of him. A figure shrouded in darkness, but definitely human.
Spider-Man drops down and apprehends the criminals quicker than he expected. He watches eagerly, taking in up-close how Spider-Man works.
The first man is knocked into the wall, the young hero jumping behind him before punching him hard enough that his body whacks the bricks, and he lets out a groan before sliding down. Spider-Man runs forward and the second man lets out a shout as he is bashed aside as well, the hero working quickly to wrap them up in webbing, eyes scanning around for more people before settling on the shaking woman.
He calls out to her, likely asking if she’s alright, but Prowler isn’t sure from this distance. She lets out a pitiful sound and then starts crying. She’s a good actor, he’ll admit. Prowler narrows his eyes as she approaches the hero, waiting for her signal.
As quickly as Spider-Man had swooped in for the rescue, the woman threw herself forward and shoved a needle into the hero’s shoulder. She’s knocked away just as fast, the needle barely in before Spider-Man reaches up and yanks it out, tossing it away from them. He doubts the small amount of sedative that entered his bloodstream was enough. He should move but he’s more curious about Spider-Man’s reaction, watching his movements, analysing him and trying to understand why the sight of him makes his heart beat out of his chest, much worse than he’s ever felt in a fight before.
“Ow, what the hell?” He rubs at the spot on his shoulder, walking towards the woman who now lies unconscious, having hit her head against the corner of one of the bins lining the alley.
Prowler notes how young he sounds, how he hesitates before standing and looking up, directly at him.
The white irises widen, and the hairs on Prowler's arms stand up as his skin tingles, electrified by something he can’t place. He should move. Prowler should attack, the plan has gone awry, and he needs to fix it before consequences are handed out from higher-ups.
Spider-Man shoots a web somewhere above him and Prowler backs up as he watches it shoot past him, attaching to a water tank before turning back to see the hero land on the edge of the wall, swift and quiet, crouching down and waiting for him.
“And who are you supposed to be?” Spider-Man calls out, and something about the way he obviously deepens his voice is so familiar that it has Milo hesitating before he remembers himself.
“I’m the Prowler,” he calls out, the built-in modifier making his voice deeper and distorted. Straightening himself, he tries to erase any sense of wrongness he feels in his chest, claws flexing as he moves his fingers, readying his hands for the fight to come.
If he doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t let him know. “The old one was bigger,” he notes, his deepened voice changing slightly as he sees the need for it lessening, hopping down from the wall, walking in a wide berth around him; slowly circling like a shark waiting for a chance to attack. “No cape?” His voice lilts and loses the faux baritone.
He sounds like Miles.
Voice muffled by the mask, but still Miles.
“It gets in the way.” It leaves his mouth quietly, but the modifier picks it up and feeds it through the air.
He analyses Spider-Man’s figure, but all he can see is how similar his build is to Miles’; his brother is now a bit more slender than himself, still long-limbed, but lean and strong in a different way to Milo’s slightly more muscled figure. He blames it on carrying heavy gear around for his work. He watches him step like his brother would, a slight bounce in his step, his endless energy squeezing out where it can.
He slides his feet across the floor, twisting quickly as he suddenly charges at Milo.
Prowler reacts hastily, narrowly dodging the swing at his face before he punches back, Spider-Man ducking under his arm before his fist can connect.
‘He’s fast.’
He remembers his uncle’s warning.
Prowler powers up the impact on the gloves, readying himself to make contact. He needs to hit him; he needs to knock him down. He needs to hear him speak again. He needs to-
Spider-Man slides up under his arm and flings his fist out at his face. Milo barely pulls his back in time to dodge it, moving himself back to try and get his bearings as the hero advances on him.
He doesn’t know what he needs.
Spider-Man approaches fast, closing the gap between them and swinging again, this time making contact and hitting him right in the stomach. He feels the air leave his body as he lets out an ‘oof’ and stumbles back, but this isn’t anything he hasn’t felt before. It seems like Brooklyn's hero is not using his full strength on him. Yet.
The Prowler charges, but Spider-Man reacts like he sees his moves coming a mile away, blocking the hits and kicks, directing the charge of the gloves away from his body. A drop of water lands on his mask, the clouds from earlier darkened and rumbling as the two figures dance back and forth on the roof.
‘He’s fought Uncle Aaron. He knows how he fights, he knows how we fight.’
What can he do? What will distract Spider-Man?
Prowler charges up the gloves again, the gauntlets glowing brightly as he sprints to Spider-Man, arm pulling back only to fly forward again- Milo speaks before he thinks.
“Miles.” He says.
His fist makes contact.
Spider-Man flies back as the charge rips through the gloves and knocks him into the metal frame of the water tank. It twangs and creaks under the impact, but it doesn’t break.
There is no reason as to why Spider-Man should have reacted at all to that name. To his brother’s name.
There’s a groan from the floor and Prowler reacts before he can stop himself, sprinting forward and grabbing him by his suit, dragging him up against the frame. Slender hands come up to grip his wrists, but they do not push him away.
He knows they easily could.
“Miles.” He says again, just to get it out into the air between them; it’s firm and without question, he knows Spider-Man’s true identity.
"How did you- why-" The mask's eyes widen, looking him up and down like he wasn't pinned to metal, very much in danger. “Who are you?” Miles asks.
Every single line he’s drawn, every aspect of both sides of his life, every trick and lie he’s used to separate the Prowler from Milo Morales comes crashing down on him.
His chest throbs and shakes from the weight of it. He tries to pull back, but Spider-Man- no- Miles holds him there, not letting him go.
"Let go." He prides himself that his voice did not waiver, the modifier thankfully still on.
“No.” This stubborn reply is very typical of his twin, and he finds himself trying not to laugh at it. They stand there, more raindrops beginning to fall, two masked figures, two brothers, twins, staring each other down.
Then he does laugh, hard and a little manic. His brother is Spider-Man. Miles Morales is Spider-Man.
The same boy his uncle had fought before passing down the mantle. The same one who had almost died on the news, time and time again. The boy who strived to make their parents proud, who loved with too much of himself, who wore his heart on his shoulder, was the same boy who risked his life almost every day for everyone else.
He laughs harder, Miles hesitating in front of him, his laughter robotic and lifeless as it comes out of the modifier. He’s probably scaring him, he thinks distantly.
Shit, how didn’t he see?
All the footage he’s seen on the news and through his uncle’s own first-person footage of fighting the young hero. His figure, the way he holds himself. The way he speaks, the little quips and jokes. That never-giving-up attitude that lies at the centre of Spider-Man’s charming character, of his brother’s personality.
There is no denying that Miles Morales, his twin, his brother, his everything – despite how hard he tries for him not to be- is Spider-Man.
How ironic.
His laughter peters out, chest aching while his heart rapidly beats in his chest. Miles is still gripping him, waiting to see what he’ll do. He twists his right wrist, Miles letting out a small sound of protest as Milo’s clawed hand pulls free and wraps around his, pulling it forward to rest on his chest.
They’d done this sometimes. Milo tugging his brother’s hand to his chest, letting himself feel the pressure of someone he loves so close to his heart.
He presses his hand over it, flattening his clawed fingers over Miles’ hand, covering his slightly smaller fingers and pressing deeper so Miles’ can feel his heartbeat through his gear.
Miles had helped him calm down with that pressure on his chest, time and time again. His own safety blanket when everything gets too much.
Miles lets out a soft gasp, fingers twitching under his gloved hand, the hand still wrapped around Milo’s other wrist loosening enough he could pull his wrist away if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to pull away from his brother’s grip.
“Milo?”
His voice is uncertain, attentive, and hopeful.
He lets his mask slip away, revealing his face to his brother.
“Oh.” Miles hesitates, and then he reaches up to his own face, gloved fingers slipping under the seam of the mask and pulling it over his head. Miles' lips tremble as he looks at him, honey eyes searching his own, and then he throws himself forward, pressing his face into Milo’s chest, wrapping his arms around him, “Milo.”
His shoulders shake around him, and Milo realises he's crying and mumbling into his chest. He pulls him closer, tugging Miles up so that he can hook his chin over his shoulder.
“Milo-” he can hear the pain in his voice, “Why are you here?” He’s tugging him closer, somehow, and Milo can’t remember when last they were this near to each other. He wishes he could feel his warmth through their suits, that the rain didn’t wash it away before it could reach him.
Miles pulls back to look up at him, eyes red, tears streaking down his cheeks. Milo lets the gloves loosen, pulling them off and letting them fall to the ground, lying at their feet. He brings up his hands to gently wipe the tears from Miles’ face, the latter’s eyes fluttering shut at the motion.
“Don’t cry, mano.”
Miles shakes his head, removing Milo’s hands from him. “No, Milo. Why are you here? Dressed as the Prowler?”
He can feel the rain land on his face, trailing down his face as he stares at Miles. He doesn’t know what to tell him.
He can’t exactly tell him the truth – I didn’t have anything to drive me when you moved on without me. I needed to belong again. To feel whole. Our parents pushed us away from each other on purpose, you know that, right? I wanted to try to be someone who doesn't obsess over their twin brother the way I do. I don't want to hurt you. I don’t deserve your tears.
He knows Miles would argue against him. Would counter every thought, and dig out their flaws.
Miles sees his hesitance to answer.
“Are you the Prowler? The new one?” He grips the front of Milo's get-up, fingers twisting in the fabric and yanking him closer, “I know the one I fought before was older and bigger." Miles searched his face, frowning as he looked into the eyes of his twin.
Milo’s silence answers him.
“Shit-” Miles doesn’t let go, but his hands shake, lip trembling again, like he was going to start crying all over again. “That’s – why would you do this? Milo? I don’t understand.”
He hates making Miles cry.
“It’s work.” That’s a terrible answer, Miles’ own disbelief meets it immediately.
“Work. Work?! Milo, there's no way you're running around like a villain for work! You mean to tell me that fighting for these people, for Kingpin is all just a job to you?”
"I needed something, Miles. I needed to belong." He’s clenching and unclenching his fists, a nervous habit he developed whenever he and Miles bickered. Normally his twin would stop him by wrapping their hands together, preventing him from digging his nails into his flesh when he squeezed too hard.
Miles’ face tenses, emotions flitting across his eyes before he settles on something that snarls out at Milo through the look in his eyes. “Is this about you not wanting to be a twin? Not wanting to be a half anymore?” His brow furrows, lips falling into a harsh sneer, anger dripping off him. He’s not used to this Miles.
Anger and hate were reserved purely for Milo. That burning sensation under your skin, that animal rattling in your chest, trying to break out. Miles wasn’t built for the harshness of anger, that’s why Milo spent their childhood chasing away Miles’ monsters.
This display of emotion from Miles is as confusing as his words are.
“What do you mean?”
Miles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, hands squeezing his biceps.
He’s comforting himself, Milo thinks distantly.
“I mean, you told me that you’re tired of being a half. So what? You run off and find work for a villain? All because you don’t want to have a brother anymore?” He scoffs, fingers digging into his arms, pressing dents into the suit.
Miles is waiting for him to agree with him. He doesn’t know if he should lie. He looks at him and finds his voice gone, words and thoughts all scrambled as he stares at his brother, at Spider-Man, who in turn looks at him, at Milo and at the Prowler.
They’re seeing each other for the first time. Who they are when they aren’t Miles and Milo. Who they are when they’re brothers, too.
Miles’ expression turns to hurt, and his fingers squeeze into his arms enough that Milo knows that must hurt.
“Is being my twin that bad?” He whispers it out between him, the anguish clear in his voice, brows pinching up and tears threatening at the edges of his eyes again.
Milo steps forward and pulls him into his arms, wrapping around him and letting Miles shake in his arms as he tries to calm himself down. “Miles, mano. No.” He keeps Miles tight against him so he doesn’t have to look at his teary face while he speaks out into the rain, only loud enough for the both of them to hear.
“You being my brother is the only thing that has kept me going for a long time.”
Miles lets out a watery huff, voice warbled from tears, “That’s not exactly a good thing, is it?”
He knows what he means. But that doesn’t change the fact that Miles is Milo’s everything.
“It’s been good for me, Miles. You’ve been good for me, no matter how angry I get, or how much I make you cry.” He rubs a soothing hand on his back, Miles burrowing impossibly closer as he listens to his brother.
“I don’t believe you. Why would you say all those things then?” Miles mumbles into his chest, buried against him in a way that doesn’t allow Milo to see his face.
“It’s hard to explain.” He couldn’t tell him the truth.
Miles pulls back, face harsh and angry all over again, "Well figure it out then!” He backed away, waving his hands around in the air as he paced, “Do you expect me to just move on? Do we pretend that we just never saw each other? Never fought?"
Milo’s heart is jittering in his chest, unused to Miles shouting at him. “No.” His voice is soft, he can feel the frown on his face and the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes, “I don’t expect you to do that, Miles.” He’s not a crybaby. Not by a long shot. Miles must notice the tears too, because his whole demeanour suddenly softens, just a little bit.
Just enough for him to breathe deeply into the space that he’s put between them and reach out again, taking Milo’s hand into his own.
“We should get out of the rain,” He tangles their fingers together, squeezing Milo’s bigger hands lightly. “Change into something dry, then we can talk.” His tone is soft and soothing, and Milo is reminded of their mother and how she’d speak to them to get them to calm down when they were too riled up.
He looks into his brother’s eyes, he can read the concern there, can see the hurt that dances beneath that. And now he’s seen the anger there, too, never directed at him in this way.
It’s a chance to tell the truth. For once in his life, Milo doesn’t want to pretend like Miles’ presence isn’t something that he craves and needs; he doesn’t want to pretend that his disapproval means so much to him that it’s tearing him apart to see Miles look disappointed in him, that look of utter disbelief at his poor reasoning behind villain work ripping into him from the inside.
Miles looked at him like he actually believed he could do better. Like Milo was more, could be more.
He had missed having his brother’s undying faith in him, missed having it to keep him going.
“Okay.” He squeezes Miles’ hand. “Let’s go.”