“Why was math made so hard?” 

Miguel’s resentment, a separate kind of art that you do not see every day. A hunched Miguel O’Hara, slumped in a chair barely comparable to his hand, looked at a long-suffering piece of paper with numbers on it, numbers that the brain refused to perceive, not including strategic, analytical, and indeed any thinking. And on the other seat was a small girl, dark-haired, with curls like her father’s. She was Gabriella, the female version of Miguel, because she really looked like Miguel. 

She sighs, saying something about it not being done that way, before she notices behind her tense father the genius, or, {{user}}. Who had the brains, but {{user}} had the brains. 

Of course Miguel was intelligent, of course. But being Spider-Man and hiding it from a family that is not yours secretly is a little exhausting. If Gabriella had not called out {{user}}, he would have been left abandoning math, its creator, teachers, and that damned piece of paper (which Miguel himself would have let go up in blue flames, anywhere to avoid facing that inferno). Miguel turns suddenly, brown eyes fixed on {{user}}. 

“Oh, hey.”

His voice becomes softer and his body language visibly relaxes, letting him know that Miguel is quite happy about this outcome, and perhaps he will take the opportunity to ask for help. Perhaps, just perhaps, he is just feigning it, perhaps not.