Queens High School Rooftop
The rooftop of Queens High wasn't much to look at. The concrete floor was cracked, the iron safety rails rusted, and the old ventilation fans hummed lazily in the corner. But to Peter and Aaron, it had always been their quiet spot — away from noise, expectations, and people who asked too many questions.
Today, though, the silence felt different.
Peter sat on the edge of the rooftop's ledge, his legs swinging idly over the side. The city stretched out before him, chaotic and indifferent, its noise dulled by the height. Aaron stood a few feet away, leaning against the wall, arms folded, his gaze drifting over the skyline.
"I know what you're doing," Peter said, breaking the silence.
Aaron didn't look at him. "Observing?"
"Deflecting," Peter corrected, his tone light but sharp.
Aaron sighed, a faint exhale barely audible over the city's hum. "You dragged me up here for a reason. Might as well get to it."
Peter turned, leaning back on his hands. "You cracked a desk today."
"It was old."
"You caught an apple mid-air yesterday without looking."
"Good reflexes."
"You're acting like you're fine, but I know you, Aaron. You're not."
There it was. The confrontation.
Aaron's eyes flickered, not with surprise, but with silent calculation. He had expected this—Peter wasn't blind. He just hoped to delay it longer.
"I'm fine, Peter."
Peter stood, walking closer, his expression more serious now. "Look, I'm not asking for a confession or some dramatic reveal. I just—" He paused, choosing his words. "I just want to know if you're okay. Really okay."
Aaron's gaze met his brother's, sharp and unwavering. "Define 'okay'."
Peter huffed, pacing a few steps. "You know what I mean. You're… off. It's not just your usual cold, logical you. You're glitching, man. And not the 'I skipped breakfast' kind."
Aaron pushed off the wall, walking to the railing, resting his hands lightly against it. He looked at Peter, his face unreadable, but his voice was calm, clipped, controlled.
"The desk was poorly made. The apple was within my reach. None of this is abnormal, Pete. You're seeing patterns because you want there to be something."
Peter frowned. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate."
"No, it's not." Peter's voice raised slightly, frustration leaking through. "I'm not trying to label you, Aaron. I'm trying to help you. You're my brother. If something's wrong, we fix it. Together."
Aaron's silence stretched between them, the weight of it pressing against the rooftop's open air.
Peter softened, stepping closer. "You remember what Uncle Ben used to say? About not carrying burdens alone?"
Aaron's jaw tightened. He remembered. Ben's lessons were ingrained, even if he never admitted it.
"Uncle Ben said that because he was soft," Aaron said finally. "He believed in people. He believed everyone would share your weight if you just asked."
"And you don't?"
"I believe people take advantage when you show them where you're weak."
Peter's shoulders sagged. He had heard this logic before. Cold, precise, and brutally honest. That was Aaron. But beneath it, Peter knew, there was a heart that cared more than Aaron would ever admit.
"I'm not 'people', Aaron. I'm family. Aunt May is family. You don't get to decide who carries what alone."
Aaron's fingers drummed against the railing, a habit that had started recently. He didn't know why, but it helped him think. His eyes drifted over the city, watching the blur of cars, the distant flickers of cranes moving like ants.
"Peter," Aaron began, his voice low, "what if I told you… it doesn't matter?"
Peter blinked. "What do you mean?"
"What if I told you that whatever's happening… whatever's wrong with me… isn't something you can help with? Would you still ask me to share it?"
Peter stepped beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. "I wouldn't ask. I'd expect you to. Because that's what brothers do."
Aaron's lips quirked at the edge. It wasn't quite a smile. "Obligation through blood, huh?"
"No. Obligation through choice. You're my brother because we choose to be. Not because we have to."
That landed. Aaron's gaze softened, if only for a breath. But his mind, always calculating, always weighing outcomes, couldn't accept Peter's offer fully. He couldn't risk it.
"I'll make you a deal," Aaron said, turning to face him fully. "If—when—it becomes a problem for you or Aunt May, I'll deal with it. Until then, it's my equation to solve."
Peter searched his face, seeing the stubbornness rooted deep, but also the sincerity behind the words. It wasn't that Aaron didn't care. He cared too much, in his own way.
"You're impossible," Peter muttered.
"And you're naïve," Aaron countered.
They both smiled this time.
But as the moment settled, a sudden pulse thrummed through Aaron's body. It wasn't visible. Not to Peter. But Aaron felt it. A spike, sharp and brief, coursing through his muscles like a static charge. His vision sharpened unnaturally, the city skyline bending outward for a fraction of a second. The colors, the shapes—they fractured, realigned, distorted like glass under stress.
Aaron's grip on the railing tightened.
"You okay?" Peter asked, noticing the subtle shift in his posture.
Aaron's response was instant, calm. "Fine."
But inside, he wasn't. The anomaly—the Infinite Sun Template, though he had no name for it yet—was accelerating. His calculations, his projections… they were starting to slip. The variables were wrong. Or worse, they were changing faster than he could process.
Peter's hand rested on his shoulder briefly. "You don't have to carry the world on your own, you know."
Aaron's lips thinned. "I don't carry the world, Pete. I carry you and May. The rest is background noise."
Peter didn't argue. He knew when Aaron's mind was locked. But he also knew Aaron wasn't lying. For all his coldness, his detachment, Aaron Parker's world revolved around two people. And Peter was one of them.
The rooftop door creaked open behind them. MJ's voice floated through.
"Lunch bell's about to ring. Thought I'd find you two brooding up here."
Peter smiled. "Guilty."
Aaron turned, his composure back in place. "Brooding implies wasted energy."
MJ smirked. "Everything with you is a calculation, isn't it?"
Aaron didn't reply. He didn't need to.
As they made their way back inside, Aaron's thoughts lingered on the brief pulse, the warping skyline, the crack in the desk. His body was evolving. Faster than he wanted. Faster than he could track.
And in his mind, a cold, undeniable truth whispered:
You can't calculate a mistake once it's already been made.