Miles should not be slumped over the table like this.
There’s coffee—it’s a coffee shop—and there are other fuels in the form of sugar and energy drinks. Miles could be up and working right now, albeit twitchy with caffeine.
The amount of homework scattered across the table is absurd. He’s still trying to figure out how to balance Spiderman work and schoolwork, and Peter gets wrapped up in his shortcomings as he is right now.
They sit in the eye of the storm, but Peter doesn’t seem too perturbed by it, casually looking over the excessive packets of calculus and statistics work. Surrounding that is homework and notes of all sorts—Spanish, physics, government, and English. Some are already stained with coffee—more than a few with old tears, but if Peter notices, he doesn’t say anything.
With all of the work laid out, Miles should be working. He was working—until he took a few seconds to slump over the table, taking strangled, frustrated breaths, trying to clear his head, which seemed to be an impossible feat. Peter—a veteran in managing his double life—only leaned down to speak into his ear, telling Miles that it was fine, that they would figure out a way to get it all done, that he was proud of him—and sorry for him—and most importantly, that he would help.
Miles only half-believed him, which Peter knew, but he didn’t try to press any further. He stopped talking, put his hand on Miles’ nape, and began to smooth his thumb in a line over the taut cords of his neck.
Which brought him here. Now, Peter’s scritching at the sensitive skin where Miles’ fade begins, smoothing his thumb over the taper. Miles swears that it’s like Peter doesn’t want him to get up.
Eventually, Peter pokes his shoulder with his other hand, rousing Miles without letting up on his ministrations. “Miles,” his voice is so smooth. Everything about him makes Miles unshakably sleepy. He decidedly melts into the table even more. “Miles,” he says again, more insistently, and he shoots up, ramrod straight, realizing that yes, Peter is waking him up and yes, he needs to work. There’s so much work. “Woah, bud. Chill,” he moves his hand down to rub Miles’ back placatingly.
“Sorry, Pete—just got… just tired,” he mutters stupidly, palming the dryness out of his eyes, fist twisting firmly in the sockets.
“I know, which is why I was about to offer to take this to my place. You have a few days to do all of this, right? National holidays and all that?” He drops the hand, which lessens the oncoming embarrassment of that sleepy ordeal, but makes him mourn the comfort that it brought. Peter rests it on the back of his chair, watching fondly as Miles tries to collect himself and at least act like he’s getting stuff done.
“Yeah but… I just want to get this done—and we have… spider stuff to do, y’know?” He mutters, voice rising anxiously.
“You can forget the spider stuff this weekend,” Peter mocks him teasingly. “I can take care of that,” he says, holding up a hand when Miles goes bug-eyed and opens his mouth to interject, to reassure that he can pull his weight as Spiderman. Peter waits for Miles to close his mouth and listen before continuing. Miles snaps his jaw shut, prompting Peter to speak. “…and you can help when you finish your work. I told you when you started, school is your first priority,” he finishes, voice leaving little room to argue.
Miles slumps in his seat, cheeks puffing out as he sighs exhaustedly. “Sorry,” he murmurs glumly, staring down at the wreckage of schoolwork across the table, getting overwhelmed just from looking at the disorganization.
He tilts his head to look at Miles. “I’m not mad. I’d be a hypocrite if I was mad at you for doing that instead of this,” he gestures to the papers everywhere. “I’m just reminding you, okay? Not mad. Everything’s good. As long as you’re doing your best in school and getting sleep, I could really care less about the Spiderman—oops, spider stuff,” he lowers his voice as he corrects himself, looking around as if to see if anybody heard before continuing. “Which is why we are gonna go to my apartment, maybe knock out something easy, watch a movie, eat, and sleep,” he lists off on his fingers, looking at Miles very seriously when he hits movie. Child.
Miles seems to lose all of the tension and anxiety in one smooth breath, waves of internal conflict slowing to something manageable.
He gives Peter an indecisive look before having a visible fuck it moment, tilting sideways towards Peter, seeking the comfort that he had earlier. Peter takes the hint, wrapping his arm around Miles’ shoulder, propping his chin on top of his head, and closing his eyes. He hums softly, rubbing up and down Miles’ arm.
“I’m tired,” Miles mutters dazedly, cheek pressed against his shirt, to which Peter replies with another comforting hum that vibrates through Miles’ body.
He can tell that Miles isn’t just talking about today. “I know,” he croons. “You’ll figure out how to juggle it all in time. I’ll help you. It won’t get like this again—not because of Spiderman, at least,” he says Spiderman so quietly that it’s actually comical. “It’ll be fine, okay, Miles? We’ll work it out,” he says.
Miles nods firmly, anxiety and stress no longer at the forefront of his mind. “Yeah, Pete. I’ll—we’ll work it out.”
Peter pulls back with a firm pat on Miles’ back. “That’s what I like to hear!” He smiles broadly. “Now, how about that movie, huh? There’s this one I’ve been wanting to watch on Netflix, something about a serial killer doctor…”
Miles smiles to himself as they both sit up to collect his papers, tuning out Peter’s needless over-explanation of the movie’s plot. The papers feel lighter in his hands now, no longer like a weight dragging him to the bottom of an endless ocean—less like an insurmountable mountain and more like a rolling hill.
He’s got this.
• • •
“Oh, by the way, I peeped at your grades a little—Mrs. Morales is not gonna be happy about that Spanish grade,” Peter sing-songs, masked eyes squinting with a gleeful smile.
Miles’ stomach sinks. He totally fucking lied. He does not got this.