Chapter Text
When Hobie shows up in his room in his Spider-Man suit after dinner without saying a word, Miles doesn't question him. And when Hobie pulls on his hand to get Miles to follow him, he doesn't ask either. Just slips on a thick jacket to keep himself warm. Just lets Hobie loop an arm around his waist and lead him nowhere in a city unknown to Hobie himself, yet so familiar to Miles.
Hobie doesn't speak the entire time they swing in between buildings. He doesn't look at him either. So Miles keeps his eyes forward, slightly sweaty hands gripping the front of Hobie's jacket loosely, confident that the firm hold Hobie has around him wouldn't drop him as they zip past flashing billboards, agile and swift in the night chill.
When Hobie's webs latch onto a specifically tall building in the middle of Brooklyn, far away from where they started, for a moment when the webs pull them up, they soar in the sky. Miles lets out a breath at the view in front of them, lights illuminating the cityscape in an irregular pattern, painting a beautiful sight for the beholder. They land with a soft click of Hobie's heels on the rooftop of the building, and Hobie detangles himself from Miles slowly.
For a second, Miles' legs feel like jelly, and it takes him some time to stand up properly. But by the time he gets back on his feet, Hobie, maskless, is already standing on the edge of the rooftop, and Miles would be more worried if he didn't know Hobie was a Spider-Man. Miles stands behind while Hobie stares ahead, looking distracted.
Miles wants to ask. He wants to know why Hobie brought him out here, in a place he's unfamiliar with. He wants to know why Hobie won't speak.
But he doesn't.
All he does is let his eyes linger on the figure in front of him, admiring the way Hobie stands confidently with his lanky limbs, the way he manages to make every aspect of himself impossibly cool. He lets his mind wander, thinking about how Hobie radiates self-assurance in every step he takes and doesn't take, firm and immovable in what he believes. An attitude so unapologetically him, that if he were anything else he wouldn't be Hobie Brown.
Miles forgets he's staring, lost in his own thoughts until cold hands softly pull him out of his head. Snapped out of his trance, Miles removes the freezing hands from his cheeks and pulls them down, forcing Hobie to bend down to his height until his forehead rests on Miles' shoulder. The slight tension that pulls at Hobie's own shoulders relaxes, and Miles hears Hobie sigh tiredly. With one of his hands still tangled with Hobie's, the other comes up to rest on the back of Hobie's neck in a small attempt at comfort.
Hobie snakes his free hand around Miles' waist and pulls him close to the point Miles has to stand on his tiptoes a little, his position and their height difference making it into an awkward hug. But Miles fails to find it in him to care. He just buries his face into Hobie's jacket that smells faintly of smoke with an underlying scent of vanilla, and elicits a content noise from the warmth that they now share.
They stay that way for a second too long, judging by the way Miles' foot starts to cramp. When they step away from each other, there's a grin playing at Hobie's lips and a smile threatens to pull at Miles' as well because Hobie looks at him with an expression so fond, his sharp grin turning softer the longer they lock eyes. Miles' heart clenches in his chest.
The air turns colder as a heavy breeze sweeps over them, and Hobie looks away first. Pulling his mask back on, he holds out a hand for Miles to take. "Can't keep you out for too long, yeah? Got a curfew and all," Hobie says, unhurried despite the late hour.
Miles Morales doesn't pout, but when he grabs Hobie's hand, he almost does. "I don't have a curfew, but fine."
Hobie says nothing, but Miles is confident there's a smile under the mask as he pulls Miles into a firm grip before taking a leap and swinging them back home.