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The sky bled from a jarring golden to a blood orange, then to brilliant shades of a deep, pain-woven vermillion. Kicked dust circled the sky, masking the harsh hues that painted it, suffocating those underneath the pigments, sucking the life out of common folk.
They dropped dead, the citizens, one by one with an agonizing gasp, a sharp howl—then nothing. A scream, a lonely mewl for their webslinger to arrive and save them, but to no avail. How it pained him, listening to the sound echo throughout the city, the desperate plea for mercy enhancing doomsday with a new glory of anguish. How the lives of millions were shoved into the calloused hands of the punk kid in the red and blue onesie. How the weight of the world forced itself upon his shoulders. How his city, his Earth, his universe, fell apart.
How Hobie never felt more helpless.
With his mask torn to the point of unwearibility, he swung deligerently and exposed. Though, it's difficult to move, impossible to maneuver his shoulders when they were crushed under the trillion pound guilt. For, it was his fault, his fault—
He could not stop the sky as it reddened over, could not prevent the forces of nature and greed as they revealed their consequences. All he could do was swing, punch, and make death quicker with Miles by his side.
Except Miles was not by his side, at least not physically. He fought and did his work elsewhere, a couple blocks down, maybe, attempting to divert the immense mass of cruelty, Doctor Octopus . Miles could only do so much to stop her. He was only fifteen (Hobie wasn't much older, just barely off the mark of seventeen, just three months he knew he couldn't make), and Hobie had only so much time to hurry before Olivia would catch Miles when he inevitably slipped up, but maybe he could make it. Maybe he could make it.
He could not let Miles die, no. He could not let him die by hands that couldn't feel, hands that creaked and whirred when they moved, that stretched yards like pythons. He could not let the only boy that brought him any love and tranquility vanish under that of bleeding crimson.
But he could not let his people suffer, either. Hobie had to save everyone, even if saving meant rescuing them from the chaos, away from the toxic debris, and laying them down to die. It was better than nothing. It was better than leaving them in the heart of the storm.
So, he swung. He circled the city, and again and again, grabbing anyone he could and placing them elsewhere, somewhere safer. Hobie's lungs burned from the ash, and his eyes watered from the acidic air. Each heave came with an unwanted, exhausted wheeze that shook his core. His own heat and sweat suffocated him as if he were trapped in a steaming sauna.
Still, he pushed himself, because he had to. Because if not, his world would crumble, his people beneath the rubble.
Then, the unimaginable, but the unpreventable.
A harsh, puberty-stricken scream pierced through Hobie's senses. It was Miles, God , no. Never in Hobie's life had he thrown that agonizing weight off his back in such an effortless hurry, never had he swung to the speed to where his brain turned to mush. Never had he hoped to see the arms of Olivia's mech and pin-pointed her, only to swing and hide past her as she exited a tiny alleyway.
Hobie did not care for the world any longer. Its own self-inflicted wound opened up into the sky, and all he could do was prevent the diseases of the bacteria raining down upon it. He did not have stitches; he did not have antibiotics; he did not have a doctor; he had only the white, messy concoction in his wrists and the heart of a fighter. Though, exhaustion and pressure overworked that heart; it pounded and smashed desperately against his ribcage as he moved closer to the struggling silhouette collapsed onto the floor.
"Miles!"
Hobie had cried out. As Hobie raced toward him, Miles let out a muddled
"hh—aahghh?"
in response. Hobie dragged him up from the concrete and settled him against the brick wall. Miles' head lolled, his eyes unfocused, though he tried to sit himself up.
Hobie positioned himself directly in front of Miles and sat on his knees, and Miles gave room so Hobie could examine him. Miles breathed harshly and inconsistently, a long pause in between each wheeze, and it struck lightening into Hobie's heart.
He placed his hand against Miles' ribcage and felt his pulse, the texture of his breathing. Miles gently, painfully, placed his hand on top of his. He guided Hobie's hand downward to his stomach, and there his breathing was the harshest—a sharp intake that jutted his stomach inward before it mollified outward, and if Hobie touched it, his stomach twitched violently as Miles sucked in a whine.
"She..sh- she im-m-mpaled me."
It was a whisper, one of resigned guilt and inevitability. Hobie glanced at his hand. Dark blood stained his palms.
Then, Miles' voice grew even quieter.
"H— Hobie, " Miles whined, and Hobie inched closer to him. "I'm no-...not gonna make it. 'M' so sorry, Hobes, I'm s' sorry."
Hobie never considered himself a crier. He did not cry over big, emotional life-changers, nor did he sob at the little things. He did not weep upon seeing dead civilians, or funerals of loved ones. He did not, would not, could not sob, or whimper, or so much as let out a squeak when anything had happened to him, especially while he held himself under the vigilante label.
Though, now, he could not help but allow himself a few tears. Silent, aching tears that heated his cheeks, warmed the blood pumping into his throbbing heart.
"hey, hey, hey, no, don't- don't cry," Miles pushed out, and Hobie hated it. Miles' hands reached to cup Hobie's face, with the sticky blood and salty tears mixing together, yet Hobie did not care for the hot smudges. Then, Miles brought him closer, so close until Hobie could feel his breath, and whispered, "Sh, shh, shhh."
The tears fell down Hobie's face faster, and there were plenty of them. He let out a small, tiny squeak as he tried to calm his cries (God, he was pathetic) , and the little bastard had the audacity to smile. "It's-ss-s gon' na be alrigh', I promise, i prom' iss."
The agonizing guilt crept into Hobie's heart. Miles was dying , and yet he was comforting him.
Hobie could not bring himself to say a word, let alone a phrase. Even then, Miles still tiredly smiled, his hands aimlessly massaging through the buzzed hair above Hobie's ears. Hobie melted into his touch; his palms were so warm , but his fingertips were freezing.
"Everythin's goin' to shit," Hobie muttered, and Miles replied with a half-nod.
"You can man-n-nage. You always do."
"I just—" Hobie shook his head, though halted when Miles whined and gently pressed his thumbs against his cheeks. "I don't wanna save this world if the only person that makes me happy isn't in it, y'hear?"
Miles couldn't help but sadly chuckle, and his touch felt somehow fonder. "I'll see ya inna bit then, alrigh'?" he joked, and Hobie let out an odd sound that resembled a sad laugh mixed with a sob and a gasp.
"Okay, yeah, okay," Hobie breathed out. Miles smiled, tired, small, and resigned, as he rested his head against the brick wall as he let out a low hum. Chills shot down Hobie's spine. There was only so much time, he thought, and it caused his heart to tighten. "H—hey."
Miles' eyes fluttered open again, and Hobie took them in one final time; they were soft and bright, laced with the rays of the sun and the shine of caramel. how those eyes warmed his heart, brought more light into the world than any star in the universe ever could. How they shined brilliantly, so filled with love and youth that it seeped, dripped.
How they made Hobie's heart long every day, every dying day.
"Hmmnn?" Miles hummed, and Hobie was pulled back into reality. Hobie hesitated, his breath caught in his throat, though he managed to push it out.
"I love you."
"Com' 'ere," Miles whispered, and Hobie crawled desperately closer. Miles placed a gentle, weak kiss on the corner of Hobie's mouth. He froze. "I lov' you more."
That tinge of heartache sparked inside Hobie again. When Miles began to pull away, Hobie's lips chased after him. Miles let him, and when they interlocked, the hands on his cheeks withdrew to a soft, delicate touch that tickled him. Hobie placed his bloody hand against Miles' chest, against his ribcage, against his heart, and there he felt it beat. He could hardly feel it as it, and he felt as if he missed every other one. The pauses in between the beats grew longer and longer each time they passed.
Miles began to rest back against the wall, bringing Hobie with him. the slower his heart beat, the faster Hobie's did—he felt maybe he was stealing those beats from miles, snatching his breath away from him.
Then, Miles slowly pulled away, his heart beating slower and slower. His hands began to slide off of hobie's face, though Hobie managed to hold onto one. He kept it against his cheek as the other still rested on Miles' chest.
Still, it grew fainter, fainter, fainter ...