Archive of Our Own

“Come on, man,” Miles mutters, scrubbing the wrist of his sleeve into the wet spot on his hoodie. The campus rooftop was so damn crowded, overflowing with Visions students to the point he’ll probably have to catch someone who falls over the side.

He gives up with a sigh, holding his cup to his chest. Miles didn’t even like vodka. Which Ganke would know, if he hadn’t ditched him ten seconds after shoving it into his hand. After being a gamer shut-in for four years, his roommate finally “spread his wings” and learned how to talk to girls, so that’s about all he’s doing these days. Apparently he still needed a friend to accompany him to this party to speak to said girls. Because Miles is a good guy, he came. And because Miles is a chump, he is now alone and sober.

He couldn’t blame the sober bit on Ganke, though, being that it was mostly a choice. You’d hate to be drunk or hungover when someone calls for Spiderman. This mere fact has made Miles…less than a party animal during his time at Visions. He is by no means antisocial, but something about starting college made this party feel like a diversion. He should be doing more right now.

Namely, stressing over his going away party tomorrow with all of his extended family. He’ll surely have to explain what a Quantum Physics and Multidimensional Studies program is at least twenty times. He’ll be asked where he’s going to work during college to help pay for living expenses, to which he’ll have to conjure some excuse other than, “Oh, well, being Spiderman tends to eat up my evenings, you know how it is.”

“Hey, Miles!” calls another student – Adam or Kyle, or something. Miles, pulled from his pouty haze, nods upward at him with a tired smile. “Get in, man!”

“Oh, nah, I…” Miles’ protests go unheard under pounding music as he’s pulled into the circle of students.

He quickly learns that the game is King’s Cup, and the goal is to throw the ball into the solo cup you want your opponent to drink. Or…the one you want to drink. He isn’t clear on the rules, the music is very loud and drunk people aren’t known for their enunciation.

Someone falls into the table and knocks over half the drinks. A kid Miles has never met before puts a shot in his hand and downs it with him. Someone sinks a ball and Miles is elected to drink a mixture of whisky and pickle juice. But it doesn’t matter, because suddenly he’s laughing, and girls are pulling on his arms and Adam-Kyle tells him to toss the ping pong ball into his open mouth, which Miles does, and everyone cheers.

It’s so stupid. Somewhere in between saving his dimension and graduating Visions, Miles forgot how good stupid could feel.

“Miles,” says Rhonda, a particularly cute girl from Biology. “Pour this?” She hands him a spout bottle of rum and tips her head back. Miles blinks rapidly, almost shatters the bottle with how hard he squeezes it before remembering his strength.

“Y…Yeah, sure,” he stutters, grinning. He lifts the bottle slowly, screaming in his head not to dump it in her eyes, when a familiar tingle rattles his skull. He straightens, turning his head to the source of the disruption.

Across the rooftop, a flash of light appears and vanishes behind an AC unit. A few students in the area glance over, but no one seems to investigate. Miles’ lips part. What could want to come here, right where Spiderman is? On a rooftop of innocent students?

“Dude!” Rhonda shouts.

“Oh, uh—” Miles snaps back to her. “Sorry, can you hold this? Thanks.” He weaves through the crowd instantly, eyes locked on the unit.

He emerges from the mass of bodies and touches the outer corner of the metal box, just outside where the flash came from. The fingers of his opposite hand curl, slipping his web-shooter out from under his sleeve. He steps carefully, slowly circling the unit…

And finds nothing. Miles furrows his brow, posture relaxing. If there was nothing here, then that was one hell of a camera flash.

Crunch.

Miles whips around and shoots a web at the face of the figure behind him. Except that figure dodges, quite calmly, and the web flies clean off the roof and to the street below.

Arm still out, Miles gawks. “Hobie,” he says.

Hobie’s grin is lopsided, his hands tucked into his vest pockets. “Y’look like security wit’ that big ass jacket.” He throws his arm over Miles’ shoulders and rubs his hand into his hair. “Alright, Milly? Y’don’t look happy to see me.”

Overcoming the initial shock, Miles remembers to laugh and wrestle out from under his arm. “You’re the worst, dude. I thought you were a bad guy!”

“Depends on who you ask,” Hobie says, pinching Miles’ stomach. “Came to visit you before you pack for Princeton.” It should probably embarrass Miles how flattered he is that Hobie remembered what college he’s going to. Or that he’s going at all.

He smiles. “Seriously?”

“Nope.” Oh. “Jess’s got a mission goin’ back in the lobby,” Hobie explains, walking out from behind the AC unit and into the party. Miles falls into step without a thought.

Hobie denounced the whole Spider Society thing on the day Miles met him. Since then, he’s been around, helping where he can and showing up to dimensions that need fixing with his own gizmo (much to Miguel’s chagrin). But Hobie’s presence didn’t mean he agreed with the organization or followed orders.

With this in mind, Miles has to ask, “And you came to tell me?”

“Gwendy asked me to, and you know I gotta look out for my drummer.” Something about Hobie’s words put a bad taste in Miles’ mouth, and it wasn't just the usual jealousy.

Miles asks, “What’s the mission?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout a stealthy infiltration. They could benefit from your expertise.”

“So, basically, I can turn invisible and have no say in this.”

Hobie tucks his hands in his pockets. “Basically.”

Miles sighs, rubbing his forehead. Of course. After a month of not hearing from Nueva York, Jess wants him the night before he has to pack for college and see his entire family. His eyes drift across the party: the circle of students still playing King’s Cup; the bodies dancing to music and throwing streamers over the side of the roof; the students who only have to think of attending graduation and going to college. The nightlife he never had and, honestly, probably never will.

“Man, one night, just one normal night. Can’t it wait?” he mumbles to himself. He’ll have to swing by home quickly to get his gizmo first, maybe a snack. If he portals to the lobby by midnight, he might be able to wrap up before—

“Yeah.”

Miles blinks and regards the taller boy again. “Huh?”

Hobie shrugs. “It can wait.”

“Oh…Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, mate,” Hobie says, patting Miles on the cheek. “Don’t act like you just got shot, hey? We can knock about, Jess ain’t rushin’ this one.”

We? He watches Hobie walk into the crowd, the litheness of his body in a pair of split-dye jeans Miles hasn’t seen before. His wicks captured the purple and white undertones of the party, outlining his long figure like a beacon amongst men.

Miles missed Hobie, honestly. He loves all of his friends, interdimensional or not, but Hobie has always been someone to admire. Cool. Confident. Pretty much everything Miles wanted to be when he first became Spiderman.

All of that being said, Miles doesn’t hang out with Hobie one-on-one too often. When he sees him outside of missions, Gwen and Pav are usually there. Miles loves their group and having Spider-people to relate to.

But now, on this rooftop party in the late night, Gwen and Pav and Jess and Peter are tucked away in their own dimensions, and Hobie is here. And Miles has him all to himself.

With a small smile, he follows after him.

“What’s with the trust fund shoobs?” Hobie muses as they brave the mass of bodies together, two Spidermen amongst a sea of drunk college freshmen.

“Sort of a post-graduation, pre-college party,” Miles says, feeling supremely lame. Hobie wasn’t the organized education type, nor was he the rich-kid-academy party type. Miles almost wished he caught him in a cooler setting, like when he’s hanging out with Ganke or stopping a heist or something.

Hobie looks over his shoulder. “A party to celebrate startin’ your lifelong debt to an organization built on discriminatory admissions and fabricated propriety.” He nods, pursing his lips. “Sick.”

“Uh huh. Let me guess, you don’t believe in college?”

“Just the dickheads who retail it. Your mum here?”

“Wh—uh, oh, no. Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t want her seein’ her baby boy about to get! Absolutely! Sloshed!” Hobie throws his arm over Miles’ shoulders, shaking him with each shouted word. A few bodies from the crowd cheer their sentiments in return. “Or, maybe I would. Be kinda funny.”

Miles’ relationship with Hobie’s touchiness has not been a steady incline of getting used to it. It was more like a slope, or a complex quadratic formula of up-and-down lines. When they met, Hobie was everywhere: his hands on Miles’ shoulders; his arm around his neck; his long legs draped over Miles’ lap when they sat down.

A fifteen-year-old Miles became accustomed to this and didn’t notice it anymore. A sixteen-year-old Miles came to crave it, like each pat and hug and noogie was a show of approval for his skill, his likeableness. When seventeen-year-old Miles had fully moved on from his feelings for Gwen, Hobie’s brave hands became much more noticeable. Almost two more years have passed since then and the touching is now definitely a problem. But, damn, if problems can’t be addicting.

Miles laughs nervously under Hobie’s arm. “No—hah—no one’s getting sloshed here. I have to do this all over again tomorrow but with my aunties and uncles.”

Hobie’s raised eyebrow is accompanied by four long seconds of silence. Miles feels his cool resolve wither away during that time, which is the last thing he wants to happen right now.

“Standpatter,” he says, patting him on the chest. Miles’ eyes follow him as he walks past.

“What?” Miles asks, once again following without a thought. Hobie parted the crowd with his mere presence, leaving Miles to trail behind in the wake of a separated sea. No one made Miles, a six-foot dude, feel short quite like Hobie did.

“A stickler!” Hobie calls back. “A lover of the rules. Fearer of change. Enemy of spontaneity.”

“That’s harsh!” Miles shouts over the music. “I just don’t want my cop father seeing me hungover tomorrow!”

“Then don’t be a lightweight,” comes a third voice. Miles turns to find a round face bejeweled by familiar smokey eyes.

“Oh, hey!” Miles shouts, hugging the girl. For once, he hopes that Hobie did do the annoyingly aloof thing and just kept on walking without him.

“Who’s this?” Poppy says, eyeing the tall punk who is very much still standing right there. Cool.

“Ah, Hobie, this is Poppy. Poppy—”

“Hobart Brown,” Hobie says.

“Oh, hi, wow. That’s a great accent,” Poppy says in a weird, flittery voice Miles has never heard from her before. “Do they all come as tall as you in England?”

Hobie shrugs. “Can’t speak for yours, but in mine they do.”

Poppy laughs, elbowing Miles. “How have I not met this guy before? You couldn’t’ve been hiding him this whole time.”

“Yeah, Mil,” Hobie eggs. “Keepin’ me all to yourself? Tsk.”

“Alright,” Miles strains, clearing his throat. “Pop, what’re you doing here?”

“A couple of my girlfriends went to Visions, thought I’d come and see if I could run into my second-favorite cousin!”

“Right, uh, I just need to introduce Hobie to some people, first. I’ll find you later, okay?” he says, dutifully ignoring the way Hobie is smirking at him.

“Okay, okay, big connections! I see you, whatever,” Poppy teases, digging her fist into Miles’ arm. He rubs at the spot when she turns to Hobie. “It was nice meeting you…Hobart.”

Hobie nods in answer, and Miles takes him by the elbow to pull him away. He’s only a little surprised when Hobie actually lets him.

“Your cousin?” Hobie says.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Got a nice boat.”

“Yo.”

Hobie laughs, a disarming sound no matter the context. “Means face, man.”

Miles rolls his eyes. Three years, and much of Hobie’s Cockney slang still flies right over his head. He honestly thinks Gwen and Pav are lying about being able to understand him. “You gotta know how that sounds.”

“I ain’t talk ‘bout women like that. Neither should you.”

“I don’t!”

“Good lad. Lookit this, an entire table dedicated to booze? You’re livin’ it up in Brooklyn.” Miles realizes where he’s been following Hobie to, now. He glances around them as the other boy touches different bottles on the table, disturbed that Hobie’s sheer confidence might draw attention from partygoers.

“Isn’t England, like, one of the drunkest countries in the world?” says Miles. “Wouldn’t think you’d be impressed by a drink table.”

“That’s a vicious stereotype, and one I will not dignify with a response.” Hobie spins a Jack bottle flat on his palm before uncapping and pouring it into an empty cup. He looks like a bartender from a film, twirling and up-ending a second bottle of vanilla cream into the concoction without spilling a drop. “The parties I go to don’t ‘ave these organized tables. More like, pubs an’ open pitchers on the floor.”

He sets both bottles down and swirls the drink by its rim.

“What’re you having?” says Miles, eyeing the opaque mixture.

“I don’t drink.” Hobie extends the cup to him. Miles, who is definitely not a standpatter, takes it without hesitation. Hobie appears to read his confusion anyway, annoyingly astute as he is. “You wanted to be a normal kid, yeah? Normal kids drink. Even if your almighty government tells us we aren't allowed.”

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I got my years bein’ normal all done.” He taps his temple with the tip of his finger. “Gotta keep the dome clear to take on the regime.”

Despite his desire to appear experienced in front of Hobie, Miles sniffs the drink. It reeks of sugar, which is comforting. It isn’t Miles’ first time drinking, but he’s only ever allowed himself beer and rum that the boys on his floor snuck into dorm parties. Which was hell-like, considering Miles never enjoyed the taste of alcohol. What was it about him that told Hobie he’d prefer a sweet drink? Or worse, did Hobie just assume he had a weak stomach?

“...You gonna drink it or just sniff the bouquet all night, bruv?”

“Right, yeah. Yes.” Miles takes a tentative sip. When he meets Hobie’s flat eyes over the rim, he tips the cup back and downs a more generous amount. He licks his lips afterward, preparing to force on his best poker face, but… “Oh, damn.” He smacks his lips and takes another sip. It’s sweet and smoky and…lemony, somehow? “Dude.”

“Thought so,” Hobie hums. He flicks the bottom of the cup when Miles is mid-sip, making him splash his own face and cough. “Bartendin’ comes wit’ a price. Got some questions for ya’.”

Miles scrubs the drink from his nose with his sleeve. “‘Bout what?” he muffles into the fabric. Hobie simply curls his finger at him and resubmerges into the crowd, making the younger roll his eyes. He follows anyway, because it’s Hobie and damn this drink really is good. Why has he been depriving himself of this stuff?

He’s already halfway through the cup when they reach the edge of the roof populated by smokers and some students making out. A waist-high ledge runs along the entire perimeter of the roof. Miles dutifully leans his hip against the one stretch of ledge that isn’t taken by a slobbering couple.

“I hope you aren’t about to ask me some embarrassing shit,” Miles says. “‘Cause honestly, if you make me another one of these, I’ll tell you anything you want.”

The taller boy swings his long legs over the ledge and sits. Miles pointedly doesn’t do the same; facing the opposite way when talking to Hobie is the safest way not to embarrass himself. Not looking at his eyes or choker or—or lips—helps.

“Princeton, eh. Big bucks,” says Hobie. Miles is only a bit surprised; Hobie didn’t make a habit of delving into the details of people’s lives unless necessary. He doesn’t think he’s even heard Hobie mention money outside of it being the root of humanity’s corruption. When Miles doesn’t respond, Hobie adds, “Our gig don’t exactly pay. Not that it should, obviously.”

“Right,” Miles mutters. “I’m, uh, I’m getting help.” Hobie raises an eyebrow. Miles touches his thumbs together, head down in an effort to appear humble. “Scholarship. Full ride.”

He hesitates to look at Hobie, but when he does, he finds a smile on him wider than he’s ever seen before. “Man like Miles.”

He rubs his collarbone modestly. “S’no big deal.”

“Nah, mate. I mean, I don’t believe in commercialized education. Or the phony elitism of Ivy league schools. You’d be better off as a street artist or sewage worker, at least then you’d be making a contribution to society. But, for real.” He grabs the shoulder closest to him and jostles Miles. “Aces, Milly. Good fuckin’ on ya.”

Despite Hobie’s evisceration of the entire college organization, Miles warms under the praise. “Thank…Thanks, man.”

Hobie swings his legs back over to face the party, throwing an arm over Miles’ shoulders. “An’ goin’ to this pompous school got you there?”

Emboldened, Miles holds onto Hobie’s wrist where it hangs off his shoulder. “It’s not so bad. I mean—I used to hate it, too. Everyone felt so isolated. I missed my old neighborhood, but…honestly, after being Spiderman for a while, I appreciated how normal things were here.”

“Buckled down, did you?” Hobie teases. Miles elbows his side. “You wouldn’tve gotten ‘normal’ at your public school?”

“That’s not it, I just…where I grew up, everyone on the block knew me. When I’m Spiderman, everyone in New York knows me. Here, it’s like I’m anonymous, or something. I got Ganke and a couple friends from class, but that’s it.”

“Shit, tell me how you really feel,” Hobie says, pulling his arm off Miles.

“No—no! That’s not what I—”

“Kidding,” Hobie snorts. “I get you.”

Miles huffs, grinning. “That doesn’t mean this school doesn’t annoy the hell out of me.”

“Good, I was gettin’ worried there.” Hobie’s eyes flick toward the party. “Jesus, have a butcher’s at that.” The punk jerks his head toward the crowd, where a chanting circle has formed around a bigger dude trying to perform a kegstand. “Rich kids havin’ fun gives me hives.”

Miles actually laughs at that. “They’re not all rich.”

“Don’t humanize ‘em,” Hobie responds. “Don’t matter either way. You’re the best out of ‘em.”

And there it was. One of those quick, passive compliments that Miles never understands the intent of. Hobie delivers them like it’s nothing, like he isn’t capable of making Miles feel like the most important person in the world with just a few words. Hobie has that effect. He doesn’t delve into people’s personal lives because he doesn’t need to; people just tell him. He’s easy to like; easy to want to spill your guts to; easy for Miles to endlessly seek the approval of.

Miles pushes off the ledge suddenly. “I know a spot,” he says.

It takes two minutes for Miles to lead Hobie to the far corner of the roof, behind tall AC units that block them from the rest of the party, and swing up to the roof across the street. There’s a small water silo there with a base of metal bars forming a makeshift cage.

Miles slips into the space underneath the silo and moseys into the corner. He sits on the ground with his back to the corner pillar. “So, Jess needs me for something but isn’t in a rush? What’s that about?”

“Where’s Ganks?” Hobie asks.

“Uh, somewhere down there.”

“He wudn’t hangin’ wit’ you?”

Miles shrugs. “Kinda been doing his own thing these days. It’s fine. Don’t look at me like that, it’s really fine! He’d be texting me by now if he got himself in trouble, anyway.”

In the entire five-by-five foot space, Hobie chooses to sit right next to Miles. His back rests against the metal bar perpendicular to the one behind Miles, which means Hobie lays his legs right on top of Miles’ without a thought. Because that’s just the kind of touchy person Hobie is. And Miles can no longer deny how long Hobie’s legs are; not when they’re sitting in his lap.

“Best friends can be like that,” Hobie comments mildly. The brit isn’t looking at him, but rather staring at the distance, in that aloof, far-off way he does.

“I wouldn’t say he’s my best friend.”

Hobie looks at him through the corner of his eye. “You told him you’re Spiderman, yeah?”

“Not so much ‘told’ as ‘got caught.’”

“Still,” Hobie shrugs. “He ain’t rat you out. Good lad?”

“Yeah, but…”

“You spend most of yer time wit’ him.”

“You’re my best friend.” It sounded much more petulant out loud. But it was out there, and Hobie was looking at him now. Both horrible truths.

After a suffering silence that Miles for once refuses to break, Hobie says, “Liar,” and looks into the distance again. Miles stares, round-eyed.

“What—What the hell do you mean ‘liar’?”

“You ain’t got that word in America? It means you’re full of it.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Well, you did, didn’t ya’?” When Hobie tilts his head back, his wicks squish against every piece of metal within their reach. “Even if it isn’t Ganke, it’s Gwendy. If it isn’t Gwendy–”

“Stop ranking my friends!”

“—It’s that bloke from your uni admissions, and if it ain’t him–”

“I barely know Yousef! Are you messing with me? Why would you think…why wouldn’t you be—you’re—”

“Milly,” Hobie deadpans. “I’m takin’ the piss.”

Miles blinks slowly. Then he throws his empty cup at Hobie, who blocks it with his forearm and laughs. “Corny ass,” he mutters. Still, the interaction kept Miles off kilter. He didn’t like Hobie’s voice in that tone.

“Ain’t no ‘best friends,’ mate,” Hobie chuckles. “Assignin’ level of friendship to people is just another defect of narcissism.”

“You’re messing with me again. You don’t like every person in your life equally.”

“I ain’t say that. Did I say that?” Hobie grins. “I can have my favorites.”

Miles finds himself retreating under Hobie’s gaze. His chin tucks into the neckhole of his hoodie, lips pressed against the draw string. “Corny,” he whispers again, vindicated.

“Better off pickin’ Ganke as your favorite, though,” Hobie mumbles. “Spider-folk don’t tend to stick around.”

The quiet that follows isn’t an uncomfortable one, which is rare for Miles and Hobie. Well, Miles is certain all drawn silences for Hobie are botherless to him, since he’s so far removed from caring what others are thinking. Miles, conversely, dreads every moment that feels like he’s boring him. But not this time. This time, silence is good. Because this time, Miles needs a moment to be lost in thought; the same thought he’s been pushing down since he got to this party.

“Alright, what?”

Miles looks up to find Hobie staring at him. He blinks. Looks at his sleeve. Picks at some pilling. “Don’t you ever wanna talk about…non-Spiderman stuff?”

“Mate, everything in every world is Spiderman stuff,” Hobie monotones. “The point of Spiderman is to make the world less shit. Every symbol against the conformist nature of capitalism is Spiderman stuff. When I leave the corporate chain pub without closin’ out my tab, that’s Spiderman stuff.”

“Right…But I mean easy stuff. Like, ground-level, ‘I burnt my grilled cheese,’ ‘failed my bio quiz’ stuff.” He snickers. “You’re just not the most ground-level guy.”

“Callin’ me an elite? That’s mess.”

“Not elite. Just a really dedicated anarchist.”

Hobie bows his head as though to say, why, thank you. Miles titters. “Hey, I’m fun, man. Ask Gwendy,” he says.

“You are,” Miles mumbles before his nerves can stop him. “You are fun.”

Hobie gives him a vicious little smile and kicks the outside of his shin. Miles returns the assault, but it’s a bit too gentle, a bit too fond and enjoyable. He pretends to watch the skyline when all of his focus is on Hobie in his peripheral, who is staring directly at him.

Eventually, he says, “I don’t do normal, and neither do you.” Miles looks at him again. Hobie wears an oddly serious look as he speaks. “Normal is conformity designed by the fascists upstairs who wanna keep you where you are. Bein’ normal is stayin’ put, innit. Playin’ the rat race. You ain’t wanna be normal.”

“It doesn’t have to be those things,” Miles huffs. “S’not about playing by anyone’s rules. I love being Spiderman. I wouldn’t give it up for anything. And–and yeah, yes, Miles is Spiderman. Spiderman is part of me. But just once in a while, maybe once every few months, or something, for just a few hours, I wanna be…”

“You wanna be Miles.”

Hobie speaks in that quick successive way he does when he’s deliberating; breaking down the moment as he experiences it. Miles has learned a few things about Hobie over the years, and one of these things is that he, like most Spider-people, can be very analytical. He’s always internalizing, absorbing the moments and words and movements around him. He can make you forget he’s there until he surprises you with a quick attack: a simple string of words that prove he’s been listening more carefully than anyone else in the room.

Miles swallows. Nods once.

“We’ve all thought that at some point, man,” Hobie finally mutters. Miles is surprised; Hobie’s life wasn’t exactly normal or conformist before he got bit, and it probably wouldn’t have been if he never became Spiderman. He was a model, a street artist, an activist—every real, substantial thing you could be without the help of spider venom. It was weird to think Hobie would ever want something simpler. “It ain’t about that, though. S’about wanting to slow down. When you’re Spiderman, you become so far removed from normal that you don’t even know what it is anymore. And if you did have normal, you’d be damn near suicidal.”

Miles furrows his brow. “That seems harsh, even for you,” he says. Hobie isn’t looking at him anymore; he stares at the toe of his own boot, swaying an inch side to side as he sits.

“There was a time before I met you, or Gwendy,” he mutters, “where London din’t like Spiderman too much. And it wudn’t some public image bullshit, I don’t give a toss ‘bout that—it was just…fear. My first fight wit’ a Big Bad, it—it ended with—it ended how it needed to end. I think London thought Spiderman was someone else. A different type, I mean. After that fight, most civilians wouldn’t go near me when I was in the suit. Which is fine, ‘cept when I’m tryna save ‘em from a burnin’ building or some shit, ‘cause it’s like, bruv, stop fuckin’ moving around, hey? Anyway.”

Miles watches Hobie’s head tilt back, the way the wrinkles on his forehead relax and his throat bobs with a swallow. “Had to lay low for a few months. Did the good work on th’ ground level, y’know? Performance art, riots, whatever. It was good. But I missed the mask. I missed who I was, and who I could have been if I wudn’t run off the streets. Never felt so helpless.”

Something seems to change in Hobie’s eyes the moment the last words leave his lips. He looks at Miles suddenly, as though just now remembering he’s there.

“I get that,” he says before Hobie can retract his words. “Like, when you realize Spiderman isn’t a persona or a switch being flipped; it’s just you. It’s like…suddenly you don’t feel as invincible.”

Hobie regards him for a moment longer, then nods. Miles nods back, equally cool and aloof. He tries not to preen at his success in stopping Hobie from putting those walls back up.

…He wonders how a fight with a villain could end up making people fear Spiderman.

“So, you wanna be your own normal,” Hobie finally says. “I could respect that. You-normal.”

“Me-normal,” Miles sighs, nodding.

“Miles-normal.”

“Miles-normal?”

“Only type of normal worth existin’.”

Miles shakes his head, unable to fend off his pleased little grin. “Yeah, I guess. Is that even possible? I feel like every time I try to step back, something catastrophic happens.”

“It’s possible,” says Hobie. He gestures around them. “S’a quiet night.”

“Shh!” Miles flaps his hands. “Dude, you can’t say the Q-word!”

Hobie pushes one of his hands down. “Been sittin’ ‘ere for almost ten minutes, no Rhino, no Spot.”

Miles looks around, as though he needs to double check for himself. It’s true. Tonight has been…un-louder…than most. He meets Hobie’s eye with a curl of his lips. “Guess you’re right.”

“I am.”

“I can be normal as hell right now.”

“The world is your cubicle.”

“Alright. Then we can only talk about stupid, meaningless stuff for the rest of the night. Game?”

“Game.”

“Can you do an American accent?”

“Mate.”

“I’ve always wanted to know.” Hobie’s head hits the bar behind him as he groans. “Is it like when Americans do a British accent, and you can tell it’s, like, a little bit off? Come on, do it.”

“Fuck off,” Hobie chuckles. “I’m not doin’ it.”

“Alright, alright,” Miles mumbles, hands raised in mock surrender. A thin silence takes shape over the next few seconds. Hobie gazes at the distant lights of the party across the street.

“...Hobie is short for Hobart?”

“Leave it.”

“Three years knowing you, and you didn’t tell me your name is Hobart. Now that’s hilarious. I can see why, but—mh.”

Hobie stares at Miles impassively while his hand is pressed over his mouth. “I will do the accent if you stop that shit right there.”

He must feel Miles smile under his palm, because he lifts his hand away. His big hand. Hobie sighs slowly.

“...Hello, my name is Joseph,” he drawls in what might be a Southern accent. He swings his arms side to side, elbows out, like a pirate’s jig. “I hope I am not late to my job as Licker at the boot factory.”

Miles collapses against the pillar behind him, hugging his stomach in laughter. “That sucked!”

“Yeah, alright,” Hobie chuckles, almost bashful. “So fuckin’ bland.”

“I thought you guys were good at American accents!”

“Let’s hear yours, then.”

Miles hides half his face in one palm. “Nah, man, mine’s so—”

“Don’t be shy, now, big talker,” Hobie teases. Miles flips him off, privately thinking that those words shouldn’t sound so enticing coming from him. He chews his lip, looking away.

“‘Ave a butchers ah’ thah’,” he garbles. He’s startled by the sound that erupts across from him, something like the deep, puttering wheeze of a broken down car.

“Are you choking?” Hobie croaks, barely able to punch the words out in his laughter. Hobie laughing, really laughing, like a proper stupid twenty-year-old, and not like the ever-mysterious punk Hobart Brown, is a hypnotizing picture indeed.

Miles shakes himself from his momentary stupor, putting on a smile. “I never said I was good at it!”

“That’s jokes. Ah, fuck. Woo!” He dabs his eye with his wrist. This motivates Miles to kick his shin again.

“Shut up,” Miles snickers. “You’re the only British person I know.”

“But you’ve seen movies, yeah?” teases Hobie. “And—ey. Have you ever traveled?”

“Uh, duh.”

“In this dimension.”

“Oh. Not really.”

“Not even to Europe?”

“Europe costs money, bro.”

“Don’t always need money to travel,” Hobie says, winking. Miles has yet to hear a story about Hobie being a stowaway or traveling (apparently illegally).

“Even if I could, when would I have the time?” says Miles. “Between school and being Spiderman, and now starting college—I can’t leave Brooklyn alone for two days without it blowing up or something.”

“Yeah, but you’ve made time for some small things.”

“Not really.”

“Some, Mil. You had to have.”

Miles’ knees shift where they’re pinned under Hobie’s skinny thighs. “Yeah, I mean…Yeah, all the places we’ve gone with Pav and Gwen. Peter and I—”

“Ah ah. Non-Spiderman, remember?” Hobie says, wagging a finger. Miles huffs. “C’mon, somethin’. You must’ve had a cheeky lil’ girlfriend at some point, hey? Or are you still messed up over Gwendy.”

Were Miles still nursing his drink, he’d surely choke. “Whoa, hold on, I never—”

“Never, huh? Pity. You’ve hooked up plenty, though?”

What has Miles done to piss off some greater force? He coughs and says, “Yeah. I mean, yeah, I…Tons. A few…A few times.”

Hobie watches him for a moment, and suddenly Miles wishes this Q-word night would take a loud, villain-filled turn.

”When would I have the time?!” Miles insists at the same time that Hobie throws his head back and bellows, ”Wooooow.”

Miles puts his face in his hands and groans. “I don’t like this game anymore.”

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Miles pulls it, finding Ganke’s name in the message preview. He doesn’t have to open it to know what it says.

“Ganke left,” Miles sighs. No point in staying now. “We should head to the citadel. I need to stop home first to…What? What’s that look for?”

“Nothin’,” Hobie hums. “Yer in a hurry.”

“No, I’m not?”

“Your mate left the party, I told you we ain’t rushin’ to go, and you said you wanted normal tonight. Seems like you got everything you want. Why you rarin’ to leave?”

Miles looks at his black phone screen and finds himself staring back. Hobie had a point. Though, when does he not. He pockets the device and nods up at the other boy. “My turn to ask a question,” he says. Hobie bows his head and waves his upward palm at Miles as an invitation. “How did you get back in the game? After, you know, your world kind of feared Spiderman.”

For one moment, Miles fears he overstepped, but then Hobie lets out a breath of a laugh and shrugs, like he’s been asked how his weekend went.

“Just did,” he says. “I realized that not bein’ the most I could be was way worse than everyone bein’ scared of me. So I got over it.” He picks at the raw hem of his vest. “Had a good mate give me the kick in the arse I needed, too.”

“A good mate, huh?” Miles grins. “Did you have a cheeky girlfriend?”

“Don’t do that. Americans can’t pull that off,” Hobie says, and Miles laughs lightly. “We were close.”

“Close enough to kiss?”

“N’ you called me corny? Yeah, maybe we were.”

“Wow. Player.”

Hobie rolls his eyes but Miles sees that little upturn of his lips. He isn’t used to seeing Hobie being anything but unapologetically himself. It was kind of thrilling to actually get under his skin. He should probably stop.

“That's why you clowned me for my game, huh?” Miles continues. “What was her name?”

“Simon.”

“Oh.”

He openly laughs at Miles’ look of surprise. “Prude,” he rasps.

“No! No, I’m not—That’s cool. I mean, that’s fine, I just didn’t know you were…” He stares, waiting for the other to complete the sentence for him. Hobie stares back in merciless silence. “...Into guys?”

Hobie shrugs again.

“Right,” Miles nods. “Labels.”

“Hate ‘em,” Hobie agrees, smirking. “You?”

“Me what?”

“Ever kiss a bloke?”

That’s two for the would-have-choked board.

“No.” Miles clears his throat. “I mean, nah.”

“Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hobie blinks at him slowly. “You said you din’t have time.”

“For nothin’ serious, yeah. I’ve done stuff.”

“That definitely did not come across.”

The younger boy can’t help laughing through his nose lightly. “Fuck off.”

“You want to?”

Miles perks up, surprise evident on his face. His lips part in Hobie’s direction. “What?”

“No, I meant—haha, shit. Wanted. Like, over the years. Wanted to. Kiss a bloke,” Hobie stammers. The sight of a less-than-composed Hobie Brown is instantly addicting. Is Miles a bad friend if he wishes more things would fluster him?

“...I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest,” he finally answers. Hobie only nods, lower lip jutted out.

“Wouldn’tve mattered. Since you got no game, apparently.”

Miles kicks his shin yet again. This time, Hobie retaliates by grabbing Miles’ calf in two hands and yanking it toward himself. Miles yelps as his back hits the floor. He tries to kick at Hobie while he climbs over him. Hobie grapples his wrists, clearly trying to wrestle him down, but Miles does not give him one moment of reprieve.

Horseplay devolves into proper roughhousing, and soon the two boys of superhuman strength are headlocking and kneeing each other on the floor.

“Cheating! Cheats!” Miles wheezes when Hobie pins his elbow to the floor with his foot. The taller boy has to bend himself in half to do so, and to anyone else, it would be a wonder how someone like him could do it. Miles struggles under his weight, looking for a way to escape this without using electroshock or webs.

“C’mon, Milly. You’re not gonna’ cry wolf every time I win, are ya’?” Hobie coos. “You’re better than that.”

Miles sneers and brings his own knee to his chest in a show of Gwen-like flexibility. Hobie’s eyes go wide as he realizes what’s happening before it does. Miles plants his shoe into Hobie’s chest and thrusts him back, knocking the taller man on his skinny ass.

Hobie groans through his laughter, eyes screwed shut. He does nothing to stop it when Miles kneels over him and pins his foot to his stomach. He wraps his fingers around the metal bar above Hobie’s head and grins down at him, panting.

“I win.”

Hobie meets his eye with a lazy smile. “You win.”

Leave it to Hobie Brown to lose the match and still make you feel like he’s the one in control. The taller boy rests his hands behind his head, as though Miles putting his entire weight on his (hard, toned) stomach was the most comfortable thing in the world. What Miles feels is akin to the electricity that thrums under his skin before he deals out a shock. The bend of his leg, the knee brushing Hobie’s side, the hammering in his chest; this might be the most aware he’s ever been of his own body.

Just then, all of the energy is sucked from him and re-channeled into the feeling of Hobie’s fingers curling around his calf. An invisible thumb strokes back and forth over the side of his knee.

And Hobie just looks at him, the bastard. Just looks and leisures and smiles. Silver lip and nose rings glimmer in the dim streetlight. Full lips curl up subtly as he does absolutely nothing to get Miles off.

He’s sort of gorgeous.

Red and blue lights fill the underside of the silo. A siren whoops.

Miles looks over his shoulder, startled, before glancing back at Hobie. They detangle at once and wiggle over to the edge of the roof. Sure enough, a train of squad cars line the street down below, blocking the exits of the building that the Visions students party on top of. A couple more ill-advised boys don’t even hesitate before throwing themselves onto the fire escapes.

“Shit,” Miles laughs.

“Plods’re ‘ere. Duck n’ dive,” says Hobie, moving swiftly to the other side of their roof.

“Huh?”

“Run.”

“Sometimes I really think you make shit up just to mess with me,” Miles says, casting a web off the rooftop and swinging right behind Hobie.

It takes Miles a minute to realize that Hobie is leading him back to his own house. He should probably warn him that his parents are home, but he’s a bit busy trying to keep down a concoction of Jack and cream in his stomach. Man, Peter wasn’t joking about drinking and swinging. Don’t do it, were his exact words.

“Shit, shit,” Miles whispers to himself. He sees Hobie land on the side of his building and climb in through his window. If his parents hear anything from his room, they’ll go right in expecting their son. Miles hasn’t prepared a lie for who Hobie could be to his parents. Mami, Dad, this is the anti-cop vigilante I’ve had a sort-of crush on for the past few years.

He casts a long web and launches himself at the window with more speed than necessary. In his haste, his foot catches on the bottom of the window sill and he stumbles inside to the dark of his room.

A hard chest breaks his fall. Hobie holds him by the biceps. Miles rights himself quickly and steps back, clearing his throat.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“S’alright,” Hobie says.

“We gotta keep it down.” Miles circles Hobie and goes to the bedroom door. He carefully presses his ear against the wood. No sounds of movement; no light coming in from the edges of the frame.

He exhales a breath and turns around to inform Hobie that they should be in the clear, but is horrified to find the other boy in front of his desk, sketchbook in hand.

Great. Why do the people he likes always immediately find the most embarrassing thing in his room and feast their eyes? Miles was helpless, staring wide-eyed at the leatherback book in Hobie’s large hand, the way he admires the spine of it as though he thinks he’ll find a title there. He’s going to open it. He’s going to look at one of the barest parts of Miles, whether he's ready for it or not.

“Can I have a look?” Hobie whispers.

Miles blinks. “You’re asking?”

“…Yeah?”

Miles suddenly feels guilty for assuming Hobie wouldn’t be considerate enough to ask before snooping. Fortunately, he did, and now Miles can spare himself the embarrassment and say no.

“Sure,” he says. Hobie flips on the desk lamp and opens the book in one hand. Miles, too embarrassed to peruse with him, spends the time milling about the room and picking up stray clothes. He kicks the lip of his skateboard underneath the bed to hide the clutter, then regrets it, because skateboarding is cool. But even Miles is too proud to intentionally leave a skateboard out just so a boy will notice.

He just pulls out the wheel.

“Lotta Gwen,” Hobie comments. Miles feels his face warm.

“Yeah, she was sort of a muse for a little while,” he admits because it doesn’t feel as weird saying it anymore. He and Gwen are cool. He loves her. It feels good to love her like a friend.

Hobie doesn’t seem to share his affection for this sentiment. He flips through the pages with an unreadable expression. Miles sheds his puffer jacket and drapes it over the foot of his bed before sidling up next to Hobie.

He finds him stuck on a mural page: a contained explosion of purple and green over two silhouettes, both resembling Miles. Black tear drops frame the blocky lettering at the bottom that reads, Anomaly.

“That ones…a bit cliche,” Miles mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Early draft.”

Hobie shakes his head. “Stunnin’.”

Miles swallows. “Yeah?”

“Put it up yet?”

“Yeah—I mean no. I have this spot in mind but…”

“Haven’t had the time,” Hobie finishes. Miles looks up at him at the same moment Hobie turns his head, and their eyes are very close. The lamp light glimmers against Hobie’s piercings, the black center of his eye.

The hypnotic moment passes in an instant as Hobie turns the page. There’s one Miles actually forgot about: a full body sketch, stretched vertically across two pages. Pink, blue, and yellow sticky notes cover the page, bits of the anatomy drawn over them in overlapping colors. Hobie turns the book and holds it up against the lamplight. Miles chews his lip.

“I ain’t that scrawny, am I?” the Brit chuffs. Surprised, Miles punches out a quiet laugh.

“That’s what you’re taking away from it?” he mumbles, though is inwardly pleased. He’s never been totally comfortable with showing anyone his art, especially if they’re the subject, but it’s easier with Hobie. Of course it is.

“Nah,” Hobie replies. “Sick pose with my guitar. I look good.”

“Yeah,” says Miles. When Hobie looks over this time, he doesn’t back down. He holds his eye, smiling casually despite the hammering of his heart. Fuck, Hobie didn’t seem like the type to wear cologne, but he did, and Miles is pretty embarrassed for noticing.

They turn away from each other at the same time. Miles quickly breathes into his palm and sniffs it.

Hobie wanders to the other corner of the room, where a bookshelf holds all of Miles’ old action figures and comic books. He’s less embarrassed about them now that these interests are more mainstream. But then he remembers Hobie is from another dimension and doesn’t even subscribe to the mainstream, and he’s humiliated all over again.

“So,” Hobie says, picking a Doctor Doom figure up off the shelf and turning it over in his hands. “You had a normal night. Was it everythin’ you dreamed?”

Miles sits in his desk chair, legs stretched out long as he rotates toward Hobie. “Oh, yeah. I feel like a new man.” He watches the taller boy’s back; the way his triceps flex when he reaches the top of the tall bookshelf effortlessly and places the figure back down.

“Good. You can stop poutin’ then,” Hobie mumbles. Something in his less-than-playful tone puts Miles off instantly.

“I wasn’t,” he responds.

“Don’t just mean tonight.” Miles watches with a pinched brow as Hobie turns to face him and leans his back against the bookshelf, crossing his arms.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Is it the ‘wantin’ to be normal’ thing?”

“Bro, what are you talking about.”

“This is the second time I’ve ever been in your room,” Hobie bizarrely goes on, looking around boredly. “But I’ve been in your dimension plenty. You’ve been to my gaff maybe twice.”

“Way more than twice—”

“I see Pav and Gwendy when they call for my help, or when we can jus’ see each other. But not you—I only come to your dimension when you’re a splint away from eatin’ it.”

“So I don’t call for help in my own dimension. I can handle myself,” Miles whispers harshly. “So, what?”

“Oh, you call, Milly,” Hobie deadpans. “Jus’ not me.”

Something wraps its sickly fingers around Miles’ heart and squeezes. He wishes the pressure were enough to make him burst; it’s preferable to the chill of realizing that he might have actually, genuinely offended Hobie. Hobie Brown, the single most unaffected human being across all dimensions.

“I used to call you.”

“Used to,” Hobie says.

“That doesn’t even mean any…That had nothing to do with you, Hobie.”

Hobie kisses his teeth. “‘Nother lie. Keep ‘em comin’.”

“Dude,” Miles sighs, scrubbing his hands into his face. “I didn’t even know you noticed stuff like that.”

“I built your gizmo.”

“I didn’t know you tracked it—“

“I don’t,” Hobie cuts, voice still low. “I just ain’t dim.”

“I call Gwen and Peter over only when I absolutely need them, which isn’t often. Sometimes Pav—”

“Y’don’t need all that help, Mil. I know you.”

“Okay, yeah. Sometimes I just wanna see my friends and I call them. Especially lately,” Miles mumbles, rubbing his forearm as he looks for the words. “I just didn’t want you…”

“Ah.”

“Let me finish.”

“Go on, then.”

When Miles looks up, he doesn’t recognize the person he finds. Hobie hasn’t moved from the bookshelf, but it’s like his entire body has warped. The way his sharp shoulders downturn, hands limp in vest pockets. His head is leaned all the way back and his drooping eyes train somewhere on the floor.

He’s hurting.

Miles has never felt completely certain about how Hobie Brown thinks or feels, but right now, he knows.

And maybe Miles is more similar to the average Visions student than he thought. Maybe he believed he was completely separate from the narcissistic, main-character mindset that each private school student had, but he isn’t. Miles has spent so much time in the past months thinking about how he’ll never get to be normal that he didn’t even realize he was becoming one of the most ordinary types of people there is: a self-centered fucking kid.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Miles whispers, “how much I wanted you around.”

Miles took the following silence to listen to the rest of the apartment; for the telltale creak of his mother’s weight outside the door, listening in every time she heard a murmur. Nothing. It was just them in the whole world, and he had Hobie all to himself.

“Why,” mutters Hobie.

“I don’t know, man.” He sinks into his chair and lets his head hang over the backrest, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to be cool. Maybe I didn’t wanna seem desperate. You’re—fucking everything.”

“Everythin’.”

“Yeah, dude. Everything I wanna be, everything I want around me, and—and you’re not some gimmick, okay? I don’t just like being around you ‘cause you’re cool and artistic and you use a guitar when you fight like a comic book character. I like being around you because you’re loyal and you stick to your beliefs. And you had my back one hour after meeting me.”

Hobie stares at Miles throughout his entire verbal stream of consciousness. When he’s done, he pushes off the bookshelf and walks up to him. Miles has to tilt his head back to look up at the other boy standing over him.

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ me,” says Hobie.

“...Did you zone out while I just said all that?”

“Why din’t you want me knowin’? Why you visit the others n’ not me? You think I’m gonna judge you?”

“No, I just—I didn’t want you to think I’m weak.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know!” Miles strains, as loud as a whisper will allow. “I get to be Spiderman, and go to Princeton, and have parents who are alive and love me, and I still want to be different. What is that? Sometimes I wanna be a normal kid, and sometimes I wanna be a hero that is so untouchable that I could never embarrass myself around you.”

“Christ, Miles, would you stop it wit’ that? I ain’t some big hat for you to impress. We’re mates, we’ve been mates.”

“I know, I just…” Miles thumbs the hem of his sweater, head downturned. “I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been reaching out, man, I just…I guess I wanted to figure my shit out first. That’s why I’ve been doing every mission I hear about from Nueva York. I don’t know…who I wanna be aside from Spiderman, yet. I wanna be perfect. I know it’s dumb, but I wanna be absolutely perfect in every way. Then, a year ago, I realized these…feelings I had, for…” Miles chews his lip. His eyes fall to his lap, fingers twisted in the pocket of his hoodie. “And I got hung up on the idea of you seein’ me perfect, so…I just made sure you wouldn’t see me at all.”

In the silence that follows, Miles can only sit there, helpless, as his open spleen sits on the carpet and his heart beats loud enough for the entire world to hear and reject. He’s thought about it before: the magnanimity with which Hobie would not return his feelings. The effortlessness of comforting Miles, of casually saying that they wouldn’t work, that he isn’t mature enough or it’s too complicated between dimensions or he just plain isn’t interested.

Then, Hobie bends at the hip to reach Miles’ height in the chair and presses his hands into his shoulders.

“Mil,” he mutters. “It wudn’t your fate to be Spiderman.” Ouch. Miles looks away, but a knuckle in his cheek turns his head right back. “What I mean is, you’re only meant to be you. Whatever that is. Miles Morales, Spiderman. Whatever that looks like, man, you do it. And it don’t matter how you do it.”

Large hands slip from Miles’ shoulders, up his neck, to either side of his face. Thumbs brush the outer corners of Miles’ eyes, long fingers curling around the back of his head.

“So long as you never stop fuckin’ shit up.”

Miles stares. Hands that used to make him lightheaded now feel like they’re the only thing keeping him from floating away. Hobie doesn’t even look like he’s breathing, the sheer stability of his body and stoicism of his face making him a statue in Miles’ eyes.

“So,” Hobie whispers. “You done wit’ that ‘perfect’ bollocks? Gonna start visitin’ me more?”

Miles nods quickly between Hobie’s hands.

The taller boy smiles slowly, then nods. He pats Miles on the cheek and stands up straight. “Right. Good talk, then. You got a khazi in this place? I gotta take a piss.”

Miles launches out of his seat and kisses him. The chair rolls back into the desk with a thud.

Hobie’s chin tucks into his clavicle to meet Miles’ mouth, hands limp in the air with surprise. Miles holds onto Hobie’s jaw, his neck, stubbornly, refusing to back down, to run away, to avoid. It was all too quick to make a decision about aim; when he realizes his mouth is smearing across Hobie’s lower lip and chin, he pulls away.

Miles’ eyes droop, trained hazily on his own thumb pressed into Hobie’s cheek. The taller boy still hasn’t moved. An eternity of quiet, of standing motionless in his bedroom must pass.

“...Yeah, alright,” Hobie mutters and wraps his arms around Miles’ middle.

They press against one another from mouth to hip. Miles’ arms wrap around Hobie’s neck without a thought. It feels deceptively effeminate; should he be doing something else? He’s only kissed girls before, and remove the ‘s’ because it was one girl and she went home right after.

Conversely, Hobie, as he does with most things, performs with effortless confidence. His hands are so present on Miles’ torso, burning through his baggy sweater and branding his skin. His lips trace a path from the corner of Miles’ mouth to the center, locking around the other boy’s lower lip. His spine curls forward, holding Miles to his body by the small of his waist. Miles has to bend backward to conform, and it feels impossibly close, impossibly good.

Emboldened, Miles starts to push Hobie toward the center of the room without breaking the kiss. Their feet kick through stray clothes and pens that Miles failed to pick up off the floor. He leans forward, putting his weight on Hobie so he can blindly toe off his sneakers. It takes a few failed kicking attempts before one slips off.

Their lips part with a small smack and Miles is embarrassingly out of breath. But then he finds that Hobie is, too, and that is just lovely. Hazy eyes search Hobie’s wettened lower lip, his hooded eyes. They just stand there, for a moment, holding each other. And it’s not perfect. And Miles loves it.

He swallows, and whispers, “I—”

“Miles?”

Miles shoves Hobie toward the wall, his figure disappearing behind the door when his mom opens it.

“Hi, mami,” he says, cheeks pinching from how wide he smiles.

“Mi amor,” Rio says with concern. “I heard a thud. What are you doing here? I thought we wouldn’t see you until the party tomorrow.”

“I know, I, ah…” Miles’ eyes flick to the edges of black wicks that stick out from the top of his opened door. He widens his eyes then stares back at his mother, laughing lightly. “Couldn’t get to sleep at Ganke’s.”

“So you came in through the window? You haven’t done that since you were sixteen.”

No, this is just the first time I’ve been caught since I was sixteen. “Hah, yeah, y’know…nostalgia.”

Rio walks into the room, letting the door drift shut behind her and exposing the tall man who was hidden behind it. Hobie silently jumps and pulls himself onto the ceiling, flattening against it. Rio stops in front of Miles, oblivious to the punk stuck to the ceiling behind her.

“You feeling alright, baby?” She holds Miles’ face in her hands, turning it gently this way and that as she looks up at him. “Nervous about leaving tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he mutters, eyes stuck on Hobie’s shadowy figure on the ceiling. Rio raises an eyebrow, slowly turning her head to follow his gaze. “I…I mean, yeah. A lot.” Miles holds his mom’s elbows tightly to make her look at him. “Yeah, I’m, like, freaking out. Just so nervous, you know? But also tired. Nervous and tired. Can I sleep here tonight? Right now?”

Rio’s pinched brow and slightly guarded eye tells Miles she knows something is up. Miles can only grin back at her, his cheeks sore from it by now. He feels like his mouth has been painted where Hobie kissed him and she can clearly see it.

“So you came in through your window in the middle of the night, stumbled around, and didn’t text me first. Because you wanted to sleep here,” Rio says in that hardened tone of hers. Miles presses his lips together, realizing that if she smells the alcohol on his breath, too, there’s absolutely no way he’s surviving tonight.

“...Sí, mami.”

“...Of course you can,” she finally says. She paps Miles on the chest and steps back, turning toward the door. Hobie scuttles backward on the ceiling to stay right above her head. Miles is going to have a heart attack. “But I want this mess cleaned up in the morning. You have to be done packing before your cousins get here, got it?”

“Yep, yeah. Got it. Thank you.”

The door begins to shut behind her, the warm light from the rest of the apartment diminishing. Miles lets out a breath, then tenses right back up when Rio swings the door open again.

“And Miles.”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes drift down. Miles follows her gaze to his feet, one with a shoe on and one without.

“...We’ll talk about this in the morning.” She pulls the door shut behind her, refilling the room with darkness. Hobie lowers himself from the ceiling soon after, dangling from one arm with the tips of his fingers. He grins at Miles in the darkness.

“Someone’s in trouble,” he whispers.

Miles’ shoulders sag and his face drops into his hands. “She definitely thinks I’m drunk or something,” he muffles, breathy with laughter.

Hobie drops to the floor soundlessly. “Great opportunity to tell her yer’ Spiderman, if you ask me.”

Miles peeks at Hobie through a gap in his fingers. Faint moonlight poured in from the window and painted Hobie’s front; his piercings, his exposed clavicle, the spikes on the shoulders of his vest and toes of his boots. He steps toward him.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here,” Miles says as he grabs Hobie’s waist and presses their lips together again. Hobie’s lithe arms slide over Miles’ shoulders and hang behind him outstretched. He isn’t sure if it was the close call, or the promise from his mother that he will be in trouble in the morning, but something makes Miles greedy. For once, he just wants to take and enjoy.

Hobie is obviously tall and lanky, but Miles never realized before just how small his waist was. Now that it’s between his hands, he brushes his thumbs over his sides, squeezes it and pulls it into him almost obsessively. And Hobie lets him.

Until the taller boy pulls away and Miles thinks he’s overstepped. He tilts his head up to meet the other’s eye. Hobie only smiles down at him in return.

“Bold looks good on ya,” he says.

Miles swallows. “Must be the drinks.”

“With your healing factor? No chance you’re still buzzed.”

“Can’t you just let me have the excuse?”

Hobie laughs and kisses him again. Long fingers splay across the back of Miles’ head, trailing along his fade and making him tingle. Light-headed, Miles guides Hobie backward. To where, he isn’t sure, until Hobie’s knees hit the bed and he’s tugging Miles down with him.

Kissing feels a lot more serious when it’s horizontal. Miles isn’t sure if he’s supposed to keep his hands on Hobie or use them for balance. He ends up laying his entire weight on the other boy and their faces squish together unpleasantly. Hobie’s hand spreads across Miles’ clavicle and gently pushes him back.

“Sorry—”

“Ain’t no sorry,” Hobie chuckles. “S’kinda funny.”

Miles’ forehead drops to Hobie’s shoulder. “That is not what a guy wants to hear when he’s making out with someone,” he mutters sufferingly. Hobie’s body shakes with silent laughter. He’s been doing that way more ever since they got into Miles’ bedroom. Laughing. It sort of makes the humiliation worth it.

“Here,” Hobie murmurs, and that’s all the warning Miles receives before he’s being turned over and laid on his back. Miles leans up on his elbows, watching Hobie sit astride his waist. His vest and shirt rise with the movement, exposing midriff and a belly button piercing that Miles knew he had but still finds shocking to see in person.

Briefly, his mind goes to a few hours prior, when Ganke was dancing around his room getting ready and Miles was begrudgingly finding a mostly-clean hoodie to wear. He didn’t even want to go to the party. If he hadn’t, Hobie would have found him somewhere else in Brooklyn. They wouldn’t have gotten on the topic of being ‘normal.’ He wouldn’t have gotten to see Hobie Brown straddling his waist like some dream he’s never allowed himself to even fantasize about before.

“Alright?” he whispers. Miles barely nods. Hobie’s elbows frame Miles’ head on the mattress and they’re kissing again, and it’s almost overwhelming.

Miles’ legs twitch, feeling useless where they hang off the side of the bed. Miles barely fits on this single bed at night anymore, nevermind two tall men trying to make out on it. He ends up holding the back of Hobie’s neck, poking his wrist on his studded collar but dutifully ignoring the sting. Miles is so aware of each small smack and sigh that passes between their mouths as it fills the small bedroom. He latently wonders if it could be heard outside the door. But then Hobie hums into Miles’ mouth, and it completely does not matter anymore.

He should do something sexy. Miles tries to nibble his lip like Hobie did earlier, but his teeth catch around hard metal instead.

“Shit,” Miles gasps, releasing Hobie’s lip ring and jerking back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s, uh,” Hobie stutters. “That’s alright. Very alright, actually. Definitely okay.” Miles blinks a few times, finding himself mesmerized by the rarity of the sight: Hobie Brown’s eyes rounded, lips agape, unable to look away from Miles like he’s someone brand new.

“Did I surprise you?” Miles' lips curl teasingly as he mumbles the question.

Hobie shifts his jaw to the side, looking elsewhere. “Alright, man.”

“‘Cause I can keep doing that.”

“Sod off.”

“Nah.” Miles is still smiling when he leans in again, but Hobie pulls away.

“Y’do, you know,” Hobie mutters. “You always surprise me, Mil.”

“Y…Yeah, okay.”

“Still think I’m a role model?”

Miles rolls his eyes. “No, I think you’re annoying.”

“Good.”

Hobie leans closer again, demanding Miles’ gaze, his attention. When their mouths meet, Miles still feels alight with Hobie’s words, his almost-confession. He surges up and Hobie lets him push him around until they’re laying longways on the bed and Miles is on his chest. Hobie’s hands slide up the back of Miles’ hoodie and stroke the skin there. When the kiss breaks, they just sort of look at each other.

“I’m gonna say somethin’ lame,” Miles whispers so, so quietly. “So, can you just pretend it’s because of the drinks?”

Hobie quirks an eyebrow, amused. “Sure.”

“Thanks for callin’ me out. On my…bullshit.”

“Thanks for thinking I’m extremely cool.”

“Shut up, man,” Miles laughs. Hobie hugs him loosely with his arms and thighs. Miles stacks his hands on Hobie’s chest and rests his chin on top, gazing at his tall mound of hair, the wrinkles on his forehead, the pillow behind his head. He touches Hobie’s chin with his outstretched pinky, feeling some stubble there.

“Y’smell good,” he murmurs.

Miles cheeses. “Yeah? Is it sexy?”

“Guesso.”

“You caught me on a good night.”

“Aside from yer’ poutin’.”

“Aside from my pouting.”

Hobie’s arm is buried in Miles’ sweater up to the elbow now, tracing the skin over his shoulder blade. Miles twitches when his thumb grazes a pimple.

“That’s—”

“Normal,” Hobie finishes. Miles laughs through his nose.

“You wanna crash?” He squirms on top of Hobie’s thin body, as though he could somehow get any closer than this. “And by crash, I mean you have to leave at 6am before my parents see you.” It felt childish but also thrilling to say. Maybe he’s a bit late to the teenage romance phase, but this was an experience Miles never thought he’d have in the first place. Now that he does, he can’t picture another person he’d want to share it with.

“Yeah,” Hobie answers, and Miles can’t help mirroring his smile tenfold. “What’ll we do ‘til then?”

Miles digs his knees into the bed to inch forward until he can peck Hobie’s lips. Just because he can. His eyes droop as he looks over his face, considering exactly what he’ll do with Hobie for the next three hours. No matter what it is, Miles has a feeling it will be amazing. And if not amazing, then comfortable. And if not comfortable, then memorable as fuck.

Because Hobie is here. And Miles has him all to himself.

What they end up doing is trading quiet conversation and contact for another two hours before falling asleep. Hobie told Miles more about his early fights as Spiderman, Miles told Hobie about Uncle Aaron and how he got him into art. It only took twenty or so minutes for Miles to convince Hobie to do the accent again, and when he did, they risked their muffled laughter being heard.

In the second hour, Hobie declared he was too hot to sleep, which Miles took as an invitation to get off his chest. Hobie then ended up just shedding his vest, kicking his jeans off, and pulling Miles right back onto him. As if laying on Hobie in boxers wasn’t the opposite of relaxing.

In the morning, Miles splays across the other’s body with a slack jaw, drool seeping into his shirt. One of Hobie’s arms is tucked under the pillow behind his head and the other dangles off the bed. Their legs are tangled and Hobie’s feet hang off the end of the bed. Miles’ phone alarm dutifully goes off just as the sun creeps into the room. He sniffs and smacks his lips, blindly reaching out to his sidetable.

His hand slaps a notebook, then the base of his lamp, then his phone. He flips it over in his palm and blindly taps where the snooze button should be. The incessant bleeping continues. Miles begrudgingly cracks open one eye to look at his screen. He finds the time – 5:58 – and no alarm going off.

He pushes himself up slightly, rubbing drool off his chin, only to find Hobie underneath him. Oh. Right. He’ll panic about that later.

He feels the mattress around Hobie’s body, looking for a phone. Wait, does Hobie even have a cellphone?

He turns his head and locates the origin of the sound: Hobie’s gizmo on the floor. He webs it into his hand, fumbles, catches it, and groggily blinks at the screen.

“Hob,” he rasps. Hobie is unmoving beneath him, chest rising and falling with each breath. Miles will have to pencil in some time to return to this mental image later. “Hobie,” he whispers again, nudging the other boy’s cheek with the wrist band. Hobie grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah.”

Miles grins faintly at the sound of Hobie’s morning voice. It’s a new sound. Maybe he’ll get the chance to become familiar with it.

“Y’got a message,” he says, waving the gizmo in front of the other’s eyes. Hobie glances from between his fingers. Then, he launches up and throws Miles off of him.

Miles yelps and catches himself on the tips of his fingers on the floor, arms straining to stop his body from hitting the ground and making a noise. He grunts and sits up on his knees, finding Hobie—not there. The punk leapt over his head and landed soundlessly on the floor behind him to collect his clothes.

“What—what!” Miles hisses, turning around. “What’s the problem?”

“We gotta’ go,” Hobie mumbles, slipping his gizmo onto his wrist.

“Now?”

“Yesterday, actually.” He scoops up his jeans and makes a tour around the bedroom, scanning the floor. “Seen my right webshooter?”

“Is this about Jess’s thing?” Miles says, sweeping his arms across the bed for Hobie’s shooter. His hand hits something hard and he tosses it over his shoulder for Hobie to snatch out of the air.

“Yeah. Gwen sent a distress call.”

Miles whips around on his knees to gawk at him. “What!”

Hobie presses his finger to his lips with a small smile. “Sh.”

“Why the hell—” Miles digs around his sidetable drawer, panic setting in when he can’t find his gizmo. He presses his face to the carpet and digs his arm under the bed. There! He breathes a sigh of relief as he hops to his feet and slips the band on his wrist. Hobie whips his hoodie at his head and tells him to get dressed.

“Apparently they went ahead without us last night and now they’re in a spot of trouble,” Hobie explains, far too calm.

Miles’ head gets tangled in his hoodie as he yanks it on. “If Gwen told you to come here—then why is she the one telling you to hurry up?!”

“Probably ‘cause she didn’t actually ask me to come here,” Hobie hums, locating his vest on the floor and webbing it into his hand. “I sorta jus’ did.”

His head pops out of the sweater just in time to snap toward Hobie. “What?” he breathes.

“When you asked if it could wait, an’ I said yes,” Hobie says, punctuated by each small hop to get his jeans on, “I might’ve undersold the level of peril.”

Miles is one pace behind Hobie toward the bedroom window. “Again, I gotta ask why.”

Hobie spins around, stumbling Miles to a halt. He taps the shorter boy on the tip of his nose.

“‘Cause of that face,” he says.

Miles blinks rapidly at that smile, and Hobie turns and slips out the window without another word.

Miles ducks his head, rueful at the grin tugging his lips.

“So stupid,” he whispers, and leaps out the window.