Queens, New York — Year 2011
Sixteen years had passed since that quiet night in Room 307. Life in Queens had changed, as it always did—buildings grew taller, streets got louder, and people learned to survive in a city that never paused to care.
But in a modest apartment tucked above a laundromat on 42nd Avenue, the Parker household remained stubbornly the same.
"Aaron! Peter! Breakfast is getting cold!" Aunt May's voice rang through the apartment with the precision of a drill sergeant, cutting through the morning fog like a blade.
Peter, now nineteen and as clumsy as ever, fumbled his way through the narrow hallway, a backpack half-zipped and slinging dangerously off one shoulder. He was muttering to himself, a chaotic stream of thoughts bouncing between school assignments, Oscorp articles, and—if the tone of his rambling was any hint—his latest obsession with the mysterious vigilante web-swinging across New York.
Aaron was the opposite. He sat calmly at the dining table, legs crossed, flipping through a textbook as if time moved slower for him. His dark hair, still tousled from sleep, glinted faintly under the morning sun peeking through the kitchen window. Where Peter's presence was a whirlwind of noise and energy, Aaron's was a silent, unbothered constant.
"Pete, you're going to trip over your own brain at this rate," Aaron remarked without looking up, his tone dry and precise.
Peter didn't miss a beat. "I'm multitasking. It's a talent you wouldn't understand, Mr. Human Calculator."
Aaron's lips quirked at the corner—not a smile, but close enough. "Multitasking? You can't even zip your bag."
Before Peter could fire back, Aunt May emerged from the kitchen, holding a pan in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. She had that look in her eyes—the one that said she was two seconds away from swatting both of them.
"Boys. Table. Now."
Peter, knowing better than to test May's patience, scrambled into his chair beside Aaron. The table was set simply: scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee that could wake the dead. Aaron's plate was already half-empty; he had started eating long before the chaos began.
"You're quiet this morning, Aaron," May noted, sliding a fresh slice of toast onto his plate.
"I'm always quiet in the morning," Aaron replied, eyes still scanning the page of his book.
Peter scoffed. "He's not quiet. He's calculating how little effort he can put into the day and still beat everyone in class."
May gave Peter a look, then ruffled Aaron's hair affectionately. "Brains like his don't grow on trees, Peter. Be grateful you've got a brother who can tutor you."
"I don't need tutoring," Peter protested, then added sheepishly, "...I just need him to stop finishing tests twenty minutes before everyone else. It's demoralizing."
Aaron finally looked up, locking eyes with Peter. There was a glint there—a sharpness that spoke of a mind already ten steps ahead. "Maybe if you stopped trying to save the world and focused on multiple-choice questions, you'd catch up."
Peter shot him a grin. "Nah. The world's more interesting."
Aaron's gaze lingered for a moment. He admired Peter's heart—it was genuine, reckless, and hopelessly selfless. It was everything Aaron had chosen not to be.
The kitchen chair beneath Aaron creaked as he adjusted his posture. It was a soft sound, barely noticeable, but the wooden frame bent just slightly under his casual shift. The table's edge showed faint dents where his fingers had rested moments before.
Neither May nor Peter noticed.
But Aaron did.
Everything feels thinner lately. The thought brushed through his mind like a passing cloud. The walls, the floors, the very objects around him—fragile. Or perhaps he was simply becoming heavier… denser.
He didn't care enough to dwell on it.
"Eat up, boys. You've got school," May instructed, placing Peter's mug down with a mother's practiced grace.
Peter dove into his breakfast with the enthusiasm of a starving athlete. Aaron ate slower, methodically, eyes flicking between his plate and the book splayed open beside it. His brain processed information at speeds he had long since stopped trying to measure. What took others hours took him minutes. What took Peter—well, Peter was still human, after all.
May hovered around them like a gentle storm, fixing collars, tucking away stray papers into Peter's chaotic backpack, smoothing Aaron's perpetually messy hair only to have it spike back up as soon as her hand lifted.
"You two are going to give me grey hairs before my time," she sighed, though the fondness in her voice softened the words.
"You already have grey hairs, Aunt May," Peter teased.
Aaron added without missing a beat, "Statistically, we've only accelerated the process by ten percent."
May groaned, tossing a dish towel at both of them. "Out. Before I make you both stay and do the dishes."
Peter grabbed his bag—now partially zipped—and slung it over his shoulder. "Ready, genius?"
Aaron stood, sliding his book into his satchel with a smooth motion. His movements were deliberate, economical. "I was born ready. You're the one who needs to keep up."
As they headed for the door, May's voice followed them. "Stay out of trouble, boys. And Peter—don't let him skip class!"
Peter gave a mock salute. "No promises!"
Aaron glanced back at May. His face, usually composed and indifferent, softened for a fraction of a second. A look only May could bring out of him.
"See you tonight, Mom," Aaron said.
May's heart warmed at that. He didn't often say it out loud. She watched them leave, two boys who were so different, yet bound by something stronger than blood.
---
The streets of Queens were their usual blend of noise and life. Car horns blared in the distance, shopkeepers shouted morning greetings, and the city thrummed with an energy that never slept.
Peter walked with a bounce in his step, ever the optimist despite the world's chaos. Aaron moved beside him, hands in his pockets, gaze scanning the surroundings with casual disinterest. His mind was already mapping the fastest route to school, calculating traffic patterns, assessing which streets were worth avoiding for maximum efficiency.
"Did you read that article about Oscorp's new tech division?" Peter asked, breaking the silence.
"I skimmed it," Aaron replied.
Peter huffed. "You skimmed it? Dude, they're talking about nanotech prosthetics! That's huge!"
Aaron shrugged. "It's useful. But not for us. Oscorp only cares about profits. Innovation is just a side effect."
Peter frowned but knew better than to argue. Aaron wasn't wrong, but sometimes, his cold logic made the world seem a little duller.
"You're so cynical," Peter muttered.
"I'm realistic," Aaron corrected.
They reached a crosswalk, waiting as a parade of yellow taxis zipped by. Peter tapped his foot impatiently. Aaron stood still, calculating how much sunlight he had absorbed that morning. It was an idle habit he didn't fully understand—his body seemed to process such details without his consent. He could feel the warmth in his muscles, the subtle hum of energy beneath his skin.
"You've been quiet lately," Peter noted.
"I'm always quiet," Aaron replied.
"Yeah, but you've been... extra quiet. Like you're thinking too much."
"I always think too much. You just never notice."
Peter rolled his eyes. "One of these days, Aaron, you're going to wake up and realize the world's not just numbers and calculations."
Aaron's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "The world is exactly that, Pete. You just choose to ignore the equation."
The light turned green, and they crossed the street.
As they walked, a commotion a few blocks ahead caught their attention. A minor car accident. A fender-bender at worst. People gathered, shouting, taking pictures. Peter's instinct was to move toward it. Aaron's was to pull him back.
"Not our problem," Aaron said firmly, his hand gripping Peter's shoulder with surprising strength.
Peter looked up, surprised. "It's just a small accident."
"Exactly. It's not your fight." Aaron's grip loosened, but his tone didn't.
Peter knew that look. It was the same one Aunt May wore when she was done arguing.
"Alright, alright. But you know, one day, you'll be the one running into danger, and I'll be the one pulling you out."
Aaron doubted that, but he didn't say it.
They continued their walk, the noise fading behind them. Aaron's senses, however, caught more than Peter's. He could hear the strained metal in the car wreck, the muffled curses of the drivers, the quiet whir of a nearby security camera adjusting its lens. His world was always louder, sharper, but only when he chose to listen.
He often chose not to.
As they neared the school, Peter gave him a sideways glance. "Wanna race to the gate?"
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "What are we, ten?"
Peter grinned. "Come on, genius. Show me that human calculator speed."
Aaron's smirk was faint, but it carried a glint. "Fine. But don't blame me when you're eating dust."
Peter took off with a laugh.
Aaron walked after him, deliberately slow, knowing full well he'd catch up if he wanted to.
Because everything around him—the ground, the air, even time itself—was starting to feel lighter. Easier. Fragile.
But for now, he let Peter win.
The day was still young.