How did he not notice it before?
So maybe he was just aware that his other version and himself were alike. In a lot of ways. I mean, he is technically me. I am technically him. We are technically each other. So of course, that would only make sense.
But where they meet in the aspect of being Miles Morales, there are also the notable differences that he found out that countered the other from him.
Like the cool and reserved air that his opposite carries. A confidence shown in the way he tilts his chin up high like he answers to nobody, despite him being shorter by a few inches than Miles. The way he walks in a steady beat, the patient and pronounced stride of his movements like that of a feline’s grace. Or the way his eyes speak in matured tones despite both of them being just shy of eighteen, aged in an experience that shakes something into Miles’ core. Something that he feels guilty for being thankful that it wasn’t him that was put in that situation, because his eyes told him glimpses of hard decisions and unbearable heartbreak that he had no choice in. Because despite his own gained strength and agility, his abilities were still limited. And frankly, it was too late for him to put it into use when he failed to save one of the people he cherished most.
At first, Miles didn’t question much about their differences. Not when he was initially busy with trying to avoid the sharp whisk of a claw that was only one hair away from his person on their first meeting. He did, however, take notice of how their movements just seem to add up in a predicted synchronisation. A test of differed strength, calculated dodges and punches that just seemed to block each other in a mirrored move. It both infuriated and gave in silent fascination at how it seemed more like a dance, matching each other’s steps, contrasting light and aerial evasions from clear-cut and grounded swings. Defence and offence. Air and earth. Smooth and rugged.
They made use of this tactic when they decided that their harmony with one another proved to be a better opponent against others as opposed to using it against each other. And it was exhilarating. Fighting side by side with someone, movements complementing one another, and it took them by surprise at how natural it felt. As if it was a practised step that they’d known all these years, despite only recently finding out about their shared synchronisation. He felt stronger at that moment, lighter and not alone, and he had an inkling that his partner also felt the same.
After the whole ordeal with saving his dimension, with saving his dad, with dealing with Spot, they all went back to living their own lives in their own universe, as it was expected to happen. And it should’ve come as a big relief for Miles, but there was a heaviness in his chest of everyone suddenly leaving again. Sure, it was hard to say goodbye to his new friends, and old ones that he was glad to see again, but the heaviest impact was when it came to saying goodbye to him. An anvil of something he couldn’t put a name on retained as he watched his back leave into the colourful jags of the portal along with his uncle Aaron, back to dimension 42. And Miles deals with that feeling for days. Turning into a week, turning into months, until he realises that it’s been almost a year and two months since the incident happened.
Miles keeps wondering, and wondering and wondering and wondering and wondering why he’s in such a state. Why he was so hung up about the other’s presence. It was like his dilemma with Gwen all over again, only this time, he did have the means of going to dimension 42, a souvenir from Hobie if he ever wanted to swing by their universes. However, he didn’t know if he was welcomed there. Sure, they fought as comrades in arms, but he didn’t know how he would take it as something… casual. If it was alright to keep in contact with him, to swing by and have a little chat with him from time to time. From the few days he’s figured him out, he quite enjoyed their little quips, despite the rocky start that they had. But from his past experience, he figures that every “rocky start” he’s had with others always came out with something familiar in the end.
It finally takes him the scent of the crisp air of Brooklyn’s highest point and a few fidgets on his watch to see those colourful jags once again, taking a deep breath and walking into the swirling kaleidoscope. He was greeted with the sight of Brooklyn 42’s vivid reds, greens, and purples. Taking a good look at it, it was quite strange to see another perspective of what each dimension looked like. What they’d known to be their reality. And apparently, in this reality, his other self was currently grabbing the dried out clothes from their rooftop, before his unprecedented arrival.
A stunned look was etched on his face, and Miles can understand that. What would you do if the other version of yourself just suddenly popped out of nowhere in a jagged whirlpool portal after kicking ass together that passed over a year ago? Expectedly, he supposed a series of questions would be the first thing that he would be greeted with from the other. Unexpectedly, he just quipped,
“Since you're here, make yourself useful by getting the other dry clothes. You're folding them with me. If your mamá and I are the same, then you’d know that she hates surprise visits when she hasn’t prepared anything for the guest, so you’re making it up for that.”
Now the surprised face of Rio 42 was what he expected. They only ever had a brief introduction with each other the last time they met, and he didn’t get to assure her as much as he’d like to. When the fate of his universe was thinning to a thread, there was just no time for him to make further explanations with the strange events happening. Especially meeting another version of your son, he thinks. Being the ever understanding mother he knows she is, Rio took it all in stride as best as she could, supporting them with whatever she could do.
But now, he finally gets the chance to introduce himself in a pace that would give her a better comprehension of what was at hand. As he does, a look of deep perplexion and disbelief stays on her face all the while, and he understands that it might have been a lot to chew for her. He lets it sink once he’s done, seeing the gears in her head turn and making sense of all of his words. He sees his opposite keep her grounded, keeping the touch of his hand on her shoulder to keep her reality in check.
Once she does, she looks at her Miles, then at him. A back and forth and more minutes of sponging the information ‘til she sets her eyes in an understanding acceptance, giving him a warm smile that he’s oh so familiar with. And he just realises the tension he unconsciously held when he puffs his chest in relief. He supposes that no matter what universe, he’d always want to be accepted by his mami.
Stepping in the space of his room felt like a strange déjà vu for Miles. It felt familiar, the same enclosure he knew to have grown in, but the different character of things contained and harsh lines of the dimension gave a different edge to it. On the right, where he knew a bookshelf of his was supposed to stand, was a clothes rack full of jackets. On the upper part of his windowsill where a handful of his caps hung, he found that it was lacking in his counterpart’s room. And are those… nunchucks he had? And a maize ball?
The desk he had with books and mostly collectibles and childhood toys filled with even more books from top to bottom. He notices the different screws placed there, and from the equipment that he had in his Prowler suit, it would make sense that his opposite was tech savvy.
Despite the fascinating differences of their room, the main elements still stayed true to their character, like the drawing board he knows to be placed by the right. Posters also filled the area by his bed, and it made him chuckle to see that some of them had different names of trends he knew in his own dimension. It was a refreshing sight, seeing a different kind of angle of himself.
“So what brings you here, héroe?”
There was a pause, because what would he say?
I haven't stopped thinking about you and what we did together for the last two months and a year ago. It was badass, and I felt some sort of connection there.
My senses keep telling me to come see you, but I didn’t know if you were cool with me just barging in here.
Something in me is just itching to know how you are. Even I don't understand it.
“Just needed to see a friendly face.”
A brow raised at him. Something unreadable passing on his face.
“After one year? You know that you could always look in the mirror to do that, right?” Miles snorted.
“Eh, s’just not the same. ‘Sides, I doubt I could even do a decent braid. Or pull off being broody.”
“The hell am I, Batman? I’m not broody.”
“Riiight, like you don’t have that resting emo face on you.”
“So that’s your definition of a “friendly face”? At least I don’t have a dopey ass smile plastered on me 24/7.”
Before he could quip a counter, a shirt was thrown at him. Seeing the easy-going lines on his face melts the tension on Miles’ shoulders like smooth butter, and he can smell the sweetness of familiarity that bloomed between them a year ago. It brings out hope in him of getting a chance to become better acquainted with the different reflection of himself.
When Miles dismantled pieces of differences between them, it felt like opening those mysterious toy prizes that he had when he was a kid, finding excitement in what he might get and delighting in what he finds. He knows that other versions vary and have their own life and character, but to encounter his and observe it was something else. Because never in his life did he think that he would be hanging out in a familiar room that was encompassed with strong-edged imprints instead of smooth ones. To draw in the cover of sheets that had the same softness but lingered of a different scent in the streams of a Brooklyn afternoon. Of seeing an image of himself focused intently on paper, a little poke of pink peeking from his mouth (did he also have that habit?), the smell of markers faintly reaching his nose that mingled with the simmering heat as Miles’s body lay heavy in the numbing warmth of the day.
In that moment, he was lost in the serenity of carpe diem, eyes closed in bliss with his music surrounding him through his headphones, a soft melody playing meant for a lazy afternoon. His mind warps between dozing off and being conscious, and distinctly, he remembers a time when he was just like this. When his worries didn’t jostle him and he had nothing to think about but the streams of strange dreams that his mind projects, and the faint rustle of his mami tucking him in properly for his siesta. He missed those easy days.
Now, little solaces were in the form of a ceiling with jagged lines and a purple coloured room. Of having the fractional freedom he can schedule in to travel to another Brooklyn and set himself on a bed that had the slightest tinge of sharpness that overtake his heightened senses. Of having a mirrored companion who was sitting just shy away from his space, the golden streams from the window enhancing sharp features; the line of his cheekbones, the plumpness of his lips, the defined ridges of his nose, the…
dazzling virescent of his eyes.
Which brought him back to the question…
How did he not notice it before?
As an artist, keen attention to detail is something that he’s practised to embody them in his vision on paper. However, Miles never thought of their appearances much aside from their stature (which he loves to poke sometimes, earning him the nickname larguiricho) and the different hairstyles they donned. And coming to the fact that it’s just him in a different font didn’t give him much of a reason to eye anything out of place with their looks. And he knew himself. He saw that face everyday in the mirror. And frankly, he sees that face right in front of him as well.
His mami always told him that he shouldn’t hold a person at face value, so he grew up seeing people as a whole of their character rather than what they appear to be. Putting that in the context of his alternate self, he didn’t think of him as someone who just had his face.
For the few months that they reunited and frequented each other’s presence, Miles didn’t define him as just Miles G Morales of Dimension 42.
He was something sharper, in the way that his tongue spat out quick-witted remarks at him whenever they quarrelled; the way his eyes felt like it surveilled his every move, observing him like a steady hunter. He was enigmatic, shown in the form of his weirdly sarcastic humour that he knows Hobie would’ve enjoyed if only they played nice with each other; the way his static aura captures him, wrapping him around his finger but always keeping him at arm's length. He’s a paradox, surprising Miles with glimpses of his playfulness from his freeform rapping (oftentimes used to diss him) and his fascination with dressing up (it’s cosplay, he was corrected), and little bouts of geeking off that he found strangely… endearing (and no, he would never say that out loud in fear of a claw getting on his face); the way rough hands that single handedly slashed and clobbered their way in a fight felt so tender against his scalp, firm and precise in twisting his hair into individual sections, a whisper of a gentle caress going every now and then against the side of his face that made him shiver.
All of those aspects are what he connoted to MG,
"What did you call him?"
"MG. I couldn't call him Miles no. 2 'cause that just feels like we're putting a rank on each other when we're technically just the same person, y'know. Plus, I'on think he'd like being called a number two…"
Beter looks at Miles in a silent daze as he continues to rattle about his opposite, something that they noticed quite a lot that often takes their gazes to Gwen, seeing how she took it. Her eyes showed a sombre realisation, gripping at the reality of what is lost, and she could only take it in an accepting stride.
A knowing look passes on Beter's face when Miles' tone drips with endearment at the mention of his MG, and it takes his thoughts back to his own MJ.
"Yeah, MG seems perfect."
a constant in Miles' life, a piece that he captured in his sketchbook after realising that his pages were barren of him.
Funnily enough, he thinks that he may as well be doing a self portrait, but then he looks closely and sees a rounded face that was emphasised with dark curvatures that made them look sharper than his smoothed edges. Eyebrows that were more pronounced that made his pen glide satisfyingly on filling their shape, a nose broader than his and lips that looked fuller at the top that was shaded darker. His cheekbones rested on the higher planes of his face, where half-lidded eyes lay at the top, and there, he could see those green-tinted orbs.
The virescent colour changes in the lighting. In the noir-esque vision of 42, it was a deep green, but unlike his mother’s who had a bounce of light on her viridian ones, his was almost muted, lacklustre. Even when directed to a lighter viewpoint, his eyes held an olive hue that could almost be mistaken with the similar shade as Miles’ because of the ever present penumbra in his dimension. That was until he encouraged him to take a different pace and visit his New York.
It was, perhaps, one of the best decisions he’s made for many reasons. The first one was when he saw the wonderstruck look on MG’s face when he stepped into the gentle palette of his universe. The smooth, bright lit city of Brooklyn 1610 was a spotlight to his dark-edged tones, and he was like something that came out of his paper with how his heavy inked outline contrasted greatly in the mellow tones. It made him all the more stand out in his vision.
The second was the brilliance of his eyes, and it took his breath away with how vibrant they were without the dusky shades obstructing the vividness of their colour. What fascinated him most was the ever changing shades they went through.
In a normal lighting, his eyes were a gorgeous apple green that reminded him of the sharp scent of nature, and despite his nonchalant expression that he so often donned, his eyes ironically told of rebirth and hope. At the sun’s highest and brightest peak, tints of browns slowly scatter from his pupil, creating roots in the lushness of his orbs that alter into a sharper tone. In the setting day of the New York sky, hues of earth mingled with his evergreen, creating a beautiful landscape of hazel that owed to the work of his mamá and dad’s love.
And it was beautiful. Oh so beautiful of him to be in the gradient firmament of his Brooklyn, where they rested at the top of Williamsburgh Bank, gazing at the distant blues of the cityscape. The baby tones of the sky engulfs him, turning him into something softer, something serene, and it shows in the placid etches on his face. Throughout their lingered time with one another, he’s never seen him in such a blissful ease, and it kindles pride in himself of the decision to let him revel in the perspective of his world.
“Nice view, huh?”
He notices his eyes so taken with the colours, vision stretched in a soft daze of something far away, something unreadable, and that always makes Miles wonder. Wonders what runs in his head, but his tongue is heavy, his words slipping like little granules of sand hissing against each other. The time didn’t seem right. Not right now, he thinks. Not when the heavy presence of tranquillity settles in their space, so he just sits in the warm silence between them.
“Thanks for taking me here, colibrí.”
Miles feels the steady thumping of his heart. There's a small tilt in MG’s lips, the captivating olives of his eyes peering at him from the side, glinting with something he can’t quite name but it almost felt familiar. And then he wonders again. Wonders what that look held and why it made his chest pound harder like the name he called him.
Now doesn’t seem like the right time, he thinks. So he settles in the cool breeze, the colour of peaches hueing into smooth blues. He thinks he’ll find out one day. For now, he’ll just admire the different shades of greens that look back at him.