Chapter Text
‘I can tell you're not a fan’
If New York’s weather isn’t similar enough to Camden’s, he would gripe about the near-freezing temperature. And he’d be colder if it weren’t for the cigarette hanging from his lips.
A fucking cancer-stick, this thing is. It’s downright disgusting how these companies prey on marginalized groups. They get them hooked on this destructive shit. They preyed on him when he was a kid.
And here he is, four years later, depending on this little stick to keep his nerves from jumping and his body warm in the cold. He’s tried to quit. So many times. Too many to keep track of.
He’s lost count after the twelfth try.
It’s better than being a slave to vaping—his opinion. He cannot stand the fruity smoke. Shit gives him a headache.
His body shivers as a wave of goosebumps sweep over him. The buzz of conversation from other students is swarming all around him. It’s difficult to tune out, lest he focuses on solely one of them. None are worth eavesdropping in on.
He can’t bear to entertain himself with pointless conversations. Not today.
The hand in his pocket pinches lint from the wall of lining, rolling it into a ball. The other plucks the cig from his lips so that he may blow out.
He hears something, and his ears tune in to the sound.
“You gotta meet him. You’ll like him, I promise.”
Gwen.
He estimates that she’s a couple of yards away. School just finished. He was the first one out, desperate to crack open his new pack.
“Dude’s cool as fuck. He’s got the witty, dry humor-thing down packed. It’s great.”
Pavitr.
He doesn’t smile at the compliments. He takes another puff of his cigarette.
Who is this person they’re bringing to him? What does he sound like?
Gwen and Pavitr’s voices hit him again. He has yet to hear the other speak.
Does he have the typical New York accent? Is it harsh and pronounced? Or is it mild? Does it come out more when he’s excited?
The cigarette rests between his fingers. Inhaling it is too loud.
Their voices increase as they unknowingly get closer. He can finally spot them and a pleasant hum falls from his lips.
Sandwiched between his friends, the boy stands out among them as he’s just a couple of inches taller than the two.
“Hobie!” Gwen waves, finally catching him.
And then, he looks.
“The fuck?”
A smirk itches at Hobie’s lips.
The accent is strong on this one. His words were hushed, spoken under the cover of his breath. He’s sure Gwen didn’t hear it, nor did Pavi’, but he heard it. He pulls out the hand in his pocket to give Gwen a side hug.
“Wassup,” he mumbles, careful not to drop the cigarette dangling between his lips.
Pulling away, he gives Pavi’ a proper dap-up and that leaves him with the final introduction. He waits for someone— anyone —to say anything. But he’s not in a rush, so he takes his time to get a really good look at him.
The kid’s got some really brown eyes—kinda like honey. The ends of his braids barely touch the tops of his shoulders. And Hobie’s glad the boy’s chosen to wear this hairstyle, because it allows him to see the full scope of his face.
His face is stiff, and Hobie can see the faintest scowl on his face. And then, those honey brown eyes shift, looking down at something.
Hobie allows the smirk to slip and his button nose wrinkles.
“Hobbs, this is Miles.” Gwen is all smiles.
He plucks the stick from his lips and turns his head to blow out. Flicking the cigarette onto the floor, he smashes it below his boot, the soft crunch loud in his ear.
Looking up, he finds those honey brown eyes have been following his every movement.
“You good, mate?”
The question is rhetorical. A simple greeting. Still, he sees the mini fire ignited behind his eyes, burning up that honey brown.
One corner of his full lips sinks deeper than the other. He’s mean-mugging him.
There’s a wary feeling in the back of his head.
“I’m good.” Miles looks him up down, sizing him up.
Hobie chuckles. It’s dry and barely takes any of his energy. “You’re lookin’ at me like I pissed in your cereal mate.”
Miles jerks his head back, the scowl on his face only deepens.
It’s a shame, really. He’s too pretty to be doing all that frowning.
Pavitr leans in close to Gwen’s side, not taking his eyes off of the two. “The tension.” He’s a bit loud, but neither Hobie or Miles spare him a glance.
“Yeah,” she breathes out.
“So, uh, Hobie,” Pavi’ calls out, successfully gaining his attention. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, gotta … take care’a some shit back home,” he croaks. He eyes flick to Miles, just for a split second.
“Damn, we were gonna go hang out at Gino’s with Miles,” Gwen says.
That’s her idea of an invitation, hoping it’ll get him to say yes. He wants to, he’s actually quite curious about this frowning beauty. But, duty calls.
“Don’t lemme hold you back.”
She nods. Both friends bid Hobie a goodbye, Miles keeps quiet.
Leaning against the school’s iron gate, he keeps put, his ears picking up on their voices.
“That was … something. ” Pavi’.
“Yeah. What do you think about him, Miles?” Gwen.
It’s quiet. Hobie halts his breathing, not wanting to miss a single word.
“He’s aight .”
As their voices grow distant, heading towards Gino’s, Hobie’s tensed muscles relax. The hairs on his body fall and his goosebumps smoothen out.
‘Don't try to come around looking for love, it's not here’
He sees the way he looks at him. All scowls and glares. No smiles. Never in front of Gwen or Pavi’.
Best not to ruin the illusion, right?
Hobie doesn’t mind. Not too much, at least. He’s been a secret before.
But this one is different.
And he knows how stupid he sounds for believing in that notion. No one ever wants to be a secret, even when they say they do.
Yet, there isn’t a desire to be known.
His heart doesn’t clench painfully whenever he sees anyone else within five feet of him . That nasty, green feeling doesn’t cloud his better judgement when he even flirts with other people—girls.
Because he knows just as well as he does that Miles is incapable of love. Those other girls won’t even be able to obtain what little attention Miles gives him. Not even with enthusiasm.
Whatever this is, it starts and ends in the privacy of Miles’ bedroom. And Hobie is okay with that.
He doesn’t think he has the time to even love Miles in the way that most people conventionally practice it.
☠🌻
They only ever meet up at Miles’ place. Hobie knows why, and it’s funny. It’s so funny, that it’s fucking stupid. But if Miles needs to feel in control by doing things “on his terms” and “on his turf,” then Hobie will play into his little fantasy.
He’ll keep going, just as long as he’s getting what he wants out of this.
They sit feet apart, he on the bed— without his shoes this time—and Miles on the mini futon pushed into the corner of the room.
Hobie traded in his cig for a blunt. Miles hates them—the cigarettes. But Hobie doesn’t not smoke them for his sake. He only enables Miles’ weed addiction to keep from hearing him bitch about the smell. Even if Hobie wholeheartedly believes Miles’ weed smells worse. But, Miles’ nagging takes him out of the mood.
Staring up at the flaking popcorn ceiling, Hobie brings the blunt to his lips.
The weed does nothing to calm his spidey senses, which have been going off a lot in the last few weeks. But nothing’s happened, so he chalks it up to his mind and body confusing actual danger and anxiety.
“Hurry up. You had that shit for mad long.”
His eyes slide down to the futon, seeing that sour look on those sweet lips. A laugh pushes out from his mouth, allowing the smoke to escape.
He’s talking, when he’s the one who always has them smoke before they get into something. “Quickes” are never actually quick with this kid.
“Light another one.”
Years of smoking have a soft scratch to his voice. Sometimes he hates it. But sometimes, he notices how much Miles seems to like it himself, and he feels less self-conscious about it.
Miles doesn’t really give much of a hint. But his mask slips and it leaves his face bare for a spare second. Then he’s aware that it’s slipped, and he puts it back on, scowling ten times harder.
“M’not wastin’ my good shit on you.”
Hobie scoffs. That’s a lie. He knows that Miles just likes putting his lips on things his mouth has also been on. And he’s just scared of him leaving nothing left for him to taste.
Hobie will be the first to admit, it’s a little weird.
Pulling himself out of the bed, he crosses the distance keeping them apart.
Miles watches silently and he assumes Hobie would stop just before him.
Hobie kicks his legs apart, standing between them and right over him. The blunt burns out between his fingers.
He’s always been the tallest out of the two of them. The biggest. From this view, Miles only looks smaller. And Miles seems to know this by the way his face contorts.
Miles is just his type, and maybe that’s his problem. Always going for the guys who’ve got something to prove. They stand up straight and make themselves look bigger to distract you from the fact that they’re much smaller. They make their voices all deeper, and wear the nicest gold jewelry they can afford.
They do all of that silly bullshit, only for it to have the opposite effect on Hobie. No, maybe that’s his problem—thinking they do it for his approval. Regardless, it doesn’t impress him. It only makes him want to put them in their place. Under him—so he believes.
Hobie takes another hit and he takes a moment to stare at the other boy beneath him.
He sinks to his knees. Those honey brown eyes follow him. The simple act of submission appeases him, he sees it in the way his face smoothes out.
He blows smoke in the space between them. It’s thick. The sharp hiss of Miles sucking his teeth cuts through the air.
It’s a waste of weed, he knows that. But Miles has more stashed around here somewhere.
He hears him say something, it’s in Spanish and he doesn’t understand. He can tell it’s an insult, because he can count on Miles to never run out of those, but he doesn’t care.
His hand strikes like a viper, reaching out into the dancing smoke and grasping. He smiles, feeling the other’s neck in his hold. It’s not super thin, but he knows he can crush his windpipe too easily.
“Hob—”
Hobie squeezes.
Any harder and he’ll break him. His pulse beats against the pads of his fingers.
“H-Hobie—”
It’s strangled and weak.
The smoke has cleared and he has the perfect view of that mask falling, shattering as it hits the ground. He won’t kill him, both he and Miles know that. But it’s fun, seeing the mounting fear in his eyes.
He supposes he’s a shithead for that.
With a muted smile, Hobie shoves the right side of the blunt between those thick lips and lets go.
His rising anger is apparent and Hobie feels himself grow excited.
Miles isn’t quick to curse him out, he instead takes a deep inhale of the blunt.
“Happy now?” Hobie smirks.
Miles snatches what’s practically a roach from his lips, throwing it in the ashtray on the side table. “Fuck you,” he spits.
Hobie hums. “After.” He reaches for his belt and half-heartedly frowns at the gaudy thing—BB Simon.
Miles says nothing. He doesn’t complain, nor does he try to argue when Hobie takes care of him just how he likes.
‘Any time you hit me, I was never not there’
It was only a matter of time before things would go to shit. He should’ve expected it, really.
He knew he was on thin ice with his mother. They’re relationship hasn’t been good in a long time, not since he was about nine.
But she’s been doing so good these past few years. They moved here, to the states, and things were so much better . He believed it.
He comes home late from a night of patrolling. Using all the power left in his body, he tries to keep the door from slamming. He winces as a bolt of pain strikes throughout his side.
His guitar is left by the door as he hobbles through the short hallway to get to the living room. And he feels like he’s a kid all over again.
“Mum?”
His voice is the smallest it’s been in a long time. He doesn’t even hear himself say it.
She’s hunched over on their dingy couch. A sliver of light from the street lamps spilling into their window allows him to see her marginal movement. But it’s still too dark.
A car drives by and a stray bit of light runs over their coffee table and her hands. He sees it, the fine powder on the bare space of the glass.
He hesitates to turn on the lights.
“Shit ,” she whispers harshly.
“What’s this?”
She sighs out. “Hobie—”
“What is this?”
She leans into the couch, throwing her head against its back. “You know what this shit it is.”
Her voice cuts into him better than the glass shards from that store display window he was thrown into earlier. He struggles to breathe in fully, his ribs ache.
“Y-you said—”
“That I was done?” She frowns. “Yeah…. I lied.” She hasn’t looked at him since he’s made his presence known. “I fuckin’ lied. S’that what you want to hear?” she slurs.
Finally, she musters the ability to catch his gaze. There’s heavy bags underneath her glassy eyes. It’s true, she’s looking at him, yet he might as well be invisible.
No shock about his suit or even that he’s a fucking wreck—suit tattered and stained with dry blood. No doubt, his face looks worse. She’s so high she doesn’t even realize who her son is.
“Your pathetic mother couldn’t stop herself. That’s what you want me to say, right?” She smiles, but the expression makes him feel dirty.
His body moves on autopilot as he crosses the room to head into the eye of the storm. He tells himself he’s not a little kid anymore, who could do nothing but watch his mother do this to herself.
He’ll do something this time. Anything.
“NO!”
She screeches as he swipes the powder off of the table haphazardly.
“STOP! STOP IT!”
She springs to her feet, using all her might to push him away.
He stumbles back, hissing as he holds his bruised side.
“You fuckin’ idiot!”
His senses are blaring in his mind and without even questioning it, he ducks. He narrowly misses the glass cup that whizzes past him. It explodes against the wall behind him.
He heads back into the storm and snatches up the baggy of what’s left. Her fists collide with any part of him that’s open. All he does is shield his face.
She punches, slaps, even scratches.
He can stop her, subdue her. But right now he’s Hobie, not Spider-Punk. And she’s his mother, not some villain of the week. The real villain is in his hand, and he knows how he’ll get rid of it.
For the first time in his life, he pushes his mother. It’s only a fraction of his strength and the couch breaks her fall.
Still, it gets her off of him and gives him enough time to get to the bathroom.
She’s up in seconds, tailing him.
The baggy is dropped in the bowl and she screams.
“Please, please Hobie! Please, baby, don’t do it!”
He reaches out for the lever but there’s a hand on his forearm, fingernails digging into his skin. She tries to pull his hand back, all of her weight on his back.
He wrenches his arm free and pushes on the lever.
Her cries drown out the sound of the flushing. They only grow louder and angrier. And she’s hitting him again, hurling insults at him. He doesn’t hear all of it. But he catches a death threat.
There’s a second where she’s off of him and there’s a narrow window of opportunity. An escape. He ducks and slips past her legs. She isn’t fast enough to catch him.
The only safe place is his room and he almost doesn’t make it. But he shuts the door just as her body collides with it.
“ OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR!” He watches the door barely keep on its hinges as she bangs against it “ OPEN IT!”
His breaths are ragged and it doesn’t help as he tries to keep calm. Her yelling is his background music as he limps towards his bed to tend to his wounds.
By the time they’re all dressed and he’s out of his suit, the screaming stopped. He snatches up a bag, throwing in anything he holds valuable enough to bring with him.
Zipping it up, he heads towards the door and as he clutches the door knob. He inhales deeply before throwing it open.
His first step out of the room is cautious. And then he hears it, the low wails. He follows the noise into the living room and finds her.
She’s on her knees, attempting to scrape together just enough grains of the powder. It’s not enough and the realization makes her burst into tears.
“ This is all I had ,” she sobs, burying her head in her hands. “It’s a-all I have ,” she whines, sniffling.
He clenches his jaw tight and looks to the front door. On his way out, he snatches up his guitar and shuts the heavy door behind him.
☠🌻
The mask shields his face from the harsh winds. His eyes still water.
He doesn’t pull any of his fancy flips or tricks on this swing session. He’s only concerned with getting to his destination.
Landing on the rooftop of the old apartment building, he yanks off the mask and pockets it. Traveling down the fire escape is quick. Finally, at his stop, he knocks on the window’s thick glass. Without his jacket or cigarettes to keep him warm, he’s shivering.
He knocks again.
God, he could really go for a smoke right now.
Another knock.
Where the fuck is he?
By now, he’s pounding against the glass and has to stop once he realizes he can very well break it. That won’t be good.
His call is answered when the window pane slides up. A durag-covered head pokes out of the darkness.
“Hobie?” Miles croaks out.
He swallows. “I need a place.”
Miles stares at him for a moment. There’s an extra thrum of energy in his body, which is uncharacteristic for Hobie.
“I wouldn’t come if I wasn’t desperate, Miles.” He averts his eyes. “I just—I need a place for the night, my mum—”
“Come in.”
His mouth hangs open as Miles backs away from the window sill. Blinking back into focus, he climbs in, shutting the window behind him.
“Take the couch,” Miles mumbles, getting back into bed.
Hobie nods, just as a shiver wracks his body. He drops his things near the futon before crashing onto it. Turning on his side, he back faces the bed.
For Miles’ sake (he tells himself) he closes his eyes and pretends to try falling asleep. He knows he can’t. Not when his skin burns in uncomfortable spots all over his body. Not when the hairs on his arms or the back of his neck are standing at attention.
His senses have been on alert all night. There’s danger everywhere, his body perceives. It buzzes with adrenaline, and it’s getting worse. His heart is ready to leap out of his chest and his leg twitches as he defeats the urge to kick out.
Something’s here. Something is—
A heavy fabric softly shrouds him and he freezes.
A blanket.
Hobie blinks, feeling the drops of tears roll down his face. Releasing a breath, he forces his eyes closed.
There’s school in the morning. He needs all of the sleep he can get.