Archive of Our Own

If I write it on paper, 

I wonder if you will you understand

If I put it into words, 

I wonder if you will be able to see it

Everything disappeared

Yet my body still felt heavy

~ ラブレターのかわりにこの詩を

Every superhero story has to end–that was a fact which Pavitr knew well. The stories he had heard ever since he was a child–in bed with his mother gently patting his back, voice never above a whisper; performed during festivals through shadow plays and retold generationally by a village; printed in books with vivid illustrations which leapt off the pages–all stories must come to an end. 

When Miguel announced the necessity of closing all portals–“for the sake of the universe”–Pavitr’s first reaction was to nod. Just another sacrifice in a long line of them, another slash in every Spider-man’s life. They were heroes first and foremost; their well-being is secondary to the world’s, to everyone else who they fought to protect. 

There was a huge party in the cafeteria which no one wanted to be the first to excuse themselves from. They thronged the rest of the rooms in HQ, webbing and swinging around; challenged each other to childish competitions (Pavitr would store the mental record of Spider-Ham beating Miguel in hand-to-hand combat beyond his death); the buzzing of chatter about the most asinine topics never ceased, yet never increased in volume. 

Every story has to end–and as everyone bid each other teary goodbyes, hugged one another till ribs threatened to crack; Pavitr had already started missing them. He did not bother hiding the free flow of tears streaming down his face as he made it his mission to wish everyone goodbye and good luck; even to the Spiders he had never interacted with before, or the Spiders who had tried to stop their merry little band from rescuing Miles. 

Their little band. Pavitr nursed a special affection for each of them, almost breaking down completely as he clutched onto Mayday one last time whom he soothed as best as he could with reassuring coos and loving pats. He was momentarily resentful of the situation when Peter B. extracted her softly from Pavitr’s grasp; but he understood. They all did.

He tackled Miles like an octopus, he swung Gwen around in circles–laughing yet pained the whole time. As for Hobie–he could not decide upon an appropriate goodbye at first. They were the best of friends, and the mere thought of never seeing the punk again–never puzzling over Cockney slang; never hearing the sarcastic lilt of his gravely tone; never re-enacting their high fives, their playful jabs, their casual touches–made Pavitr’s heart sink. 

Perhaps Hobie had freakishly heard Pavitr’s internal struggle by some means (Pavitr would chalk it up to the other’s observant nature, nothing more, there couldn’t be anything more), for he stuck out his hand to the dumbfounded younger Spider. “Gradley job we did, yeah? For a couple of nitwits.” 

“Absolutely!” Pavitr rallied all his remaining strength to say, forcing himself to maintain his usual chirpiness to not dampen the mood any further; everyone had their own baggage to deal with. Harshly, he screamed internally at himself to accept Hobie’s outstretched hand without causing a scene; no matter how much he longed to wrap the other into a hug and never let go. 

Their intertwined hands were warm. “I’ll miss you,” Pavitr verbalised, the words tumbling out with his shaky breaths, tears swimming behind his eyes again. The hand in his tightening was the only warning he received before Hobie roughly tugged him forwards, snaking lanky arms around his shoulders and waist; and Pavitr returned the hug just as desperately. Amidst his own sniffles, he detected the trembling in the other’s hands, the ragged breaths right next to his ear. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

Never. 

Hobie lifted a hand to caress the back of Pavitr’s head. “Goodbye, Pavitr.” 

Pavitr tried to hide how those two words–so inconsequential in quantity–managed to shred his heart into pieces. He gripped the back of Hobie’s jacket into fists, “Bye, Hobie.” 

Hobie gave him a final squeeze before pulling away; Pavitr allowed himself a beat longer before loosening his hold. Even then, Hobie still had a hand situated on his elbow, and he himself kept a grip on Hobie’s upper arm. The emptiness inside him gnawed painfully. “Well Pav, laters yeah?” Hobie smiled lopsided and confidently–his usual mark of reassurance for Pavitr appearing; and oh how Pavitr would bundle the exact curves of that smile into memory, to be viewed again and again in his most distressing hours. 

“Take care of yourself, Hobie,” Pavitr reminded him mock-sternly, slapped his shoulder to relieve the heavy tension between them. “Please don’t forget that cup noodles are horrendous, and you have to eat properly.” 

Hobie cocked a brow in amusement, “They’re made to be convenient, luv.” 

“Their carbon footprint is crazy, and the waxed paper releases toxins,” Pavitr rebutted with a long-suffering eye roll, eliciting barking laughter from the other which he wished he could bottle. 

“Hairy muff,” Hobie conceded with an incline of his head, his piercings glinting under the moody lights which Miguel insisted were set that way for a reason. Was it too late for Pavitr to want to count them all now? For him to brush his fingers over every silver piercing, to commit them to a memory so deep he would feel the shape of them anywhere? 

There were so many things he had said, and so many more that he needed to say still. But the hard lump which lodged itself in his throat cut off his ineloquent words; both a blessing and a curse. 

Pavitr startled when Hobie’s fingers alighted on his cheek, brushing away fresh tears uselessly. Hobie’s eyes were also glazed, wavering in red and blues from the lights. They heard Layla’s kind reminder for everyone to start wrapping it up. Shuffles of reluctant feet, portals opening and closing in flashes of colour; the fireworks which marked the end of every festival. 

“Taṟpōtu cēlkiṟēṉ,” he wrung out, aware of his cracked voice but uncaring; he only wished that his words would come true. Summoning the glow of all the good times they had had together, Pavitr channeled it all into the final smile he would ever be able to shoot Hobie, “See ya around, Hobie!” 

The punk’s eyes were wide, his mouth hung slightly agape; before recomposing his features into a facsimile of his usual self. “Yeah,” he agreed, purposely ruffling Pavitr’s hair, laughing through the younger’s indignant curses, “catch you later, my madlad Pav!” 

Fight the bad guys–redeem them if he can. Lock them in the slammer if he can’t. 

School. Hero stuff. Lunch, unfinished. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Tea time, now missing a place. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Dates with Gayatri, petered out into nothing. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Bed, more often than not on the roof; so he can react to emergencies quicker, so he doesn’t feel suffocated by the smallness of his room, his dimension. 

Hero stuff. 

The stars are hardly visible in the heart of Mumbattan, unable to compete with the land’s undying lights; but Pavitr imagines he sees them anyway, compares the silver pinpricks to piercings which glint as sharp as their owner’s smile. 

“Sondham, nalla irikiringala?” Maya Auntie’s tone walks on eggshells, her stance is wary; and Pavitr hates making her worry. 

“Nandru.” Pavitr realises his snappishness a beat too late, pivots on his heel with an apology to which Maya Auntie waves away. 

The cup of chai in Maya Auntie’s hands shakes a little, and Pavitr is reminded of how old she actually is. In the blue light of the morning, her wrinkles are dark lines etched into a tree; and Pavitr was crashed into by waves of sadness once again. He downed the cup of chai like a shot, much to his Auntie’s shock, then wrapped her tightly in his arms, burying his face in her thin shoulder.

Everything ends.

It isn’t fair. 

Maya Auntie’s worn hand runs up and down his back, and he wishes he could stop crying for once ever since the portals closed. 

The people he saves beam at him, shake his hands and thank him profusely. His city grows safer the more he patrols–which has increased exponentially. It feels good, swinging through the crowds and buildings, swinging his fists at people who deserve a wake-up call. It feels good to ignore the hollowness in his chest, its edges gradually moving outwards, cells devouring each other into nothing. 

“You can tell me what’s wrong, you know?” Gayatri’s eyes are full of concern, and she’s picking at her forefinger out of nervousness as she always does. “Pav, you’re still my friend. My best friend,” she emphasises with her hand on his; but the hand is too small and refined, too unblemished compared to the one Pavitr aches to have in his again. 

He knows he does Gayatri injustice, but the weight of being Spider-Man and all its secrets cement his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and he can only plaster on a reassuring smile to ease the pleading in Gayatri’s eyes. 

A clump of his hair falls out in his grip, the strands no longer as glossy as they used to be. 

He flushes it down the toilet with a disinterested gaze. 

He avoids glancing at the horror of his own face in mirrors. 

Sometimes, when the dark of night hides his expressions from even himself, when the humidity keeps him up; the thoughts of ‘what if’ flood his brain. 

What if they didn’t listen to Miguel–surely one or two, or three, or four portals open wouldn’t kill the universe? 

Of course it would. 

What if no one closed the portals in the first place? What if this time–just this one time–they put themselves first, and flip the universe off? 

Then no one would be able to call themselves Spider-Man. 

What if he had followed Hobie to his dimension? 

Glitching, duh. 

What if he had told Hobie at the very end, what he needed to say? 

He sits up abruptly at that last one always, and swings into another patrol immediately to push the  hole in his heart away. 

Pavitr had never seen this part of town before. Yes, the clutter of people diminishes at the outskirts of Mumbattan, but the street he was on tapered into a ghostly silence. A thin curtain of mist shrouded the area, grey and damp. The houses looked well-maintained and lived-in, but much too quiet. There were street lamps and telephone poles with black cables connected to the rest of the city however, and Pavitr could hear the low hums of conversation emanating from the abodes. 

His bare feet were silent on the paved road, and he came to a stop at an intersection with large white arrows painted on the ground in either direction. In front of it stood a shabby phone booth which piqued the hero’s interest. Even from here, Pavitr could tell that the booth was old–his assessment confirmed as he stepped up to its grimy glass walls, its swirl of plants wound like springs around the coils of the phone. 

Curious, Pavitr gingerly stepped inside the booth, wincing as the metal of the door creaked loud enough to jolt the whole neighbourhood awake. He eyed the black phone warily; the silver buttons and coil glinting despite the lack of light, and Pavitr wondered if someone polished them regularly. 

Well, he had learnt his lesson countless times over about touching things unknowingly. He had enough on his plate as of late, and he had the sneaking suspicion that all would go South if he even poked the receiver of the phone, so no. Maya Auntie would be proud of him for reining in his impulses. 

He had a foot on the threshold of the booth before the phone rang shrilly, causing him to bump his toe into the metal of the booth. Spider-Man would never be able to catch a break, could he? Pavitr cursed heartily as he clutched his foot, hopping on his uninjured one towards the phone. His hand hovered over it, hesitating. 

It could be a trap. 

Or it could be someone who needs help. 

Or it could be both. 

Pavitr sighed deeply into his mask, regretted the action instantly as the soured smell of biryani choked him. He pulled it up to the bridge of his nose in irritation, and picked up the receiver. “Hello, this is your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man speaking! If you’re a villain, could you send me your location through Troop Messenger? It’ll be so much faster for the both of us man– I mean miss– I mean– you get the idea,” he switched the receiver to his other hand. “So, where are you?” 

The harsh breaths on the other end of the line grew louder. 

“Look, if you’re not gonna tell me, the least you can do is–”

“Pavitr?” 

His heart brakes to a stop, physically lurching him forwards, his free hand falling onto the body of the phone. His lips move silently, mouthing the name which had made a home on them for months.

“Pavitr? It’s– You’re Pavitr, yeah?” the desperation leaks across the phone, across universes. 

“Hobie,” Pavitr finally chokes out, the receiver in a death grip. “Hobie,” he repeats, just to hear the sound of the other’s name again.

“Yeah,” Hobie’s mellow laugh travels through the speakers. “Yeah, Pav. It’s me.” 

There’s a traffic pile-up in his mind and chest which he currently doesn’t have the capacity to address, because it’s Hobie on the other end of the line, Hobie is here. He forces the knot of his tongue to unravel even as he winds the cord of the phone around his hand, as if the action could bring him physically closer. “How…?” 

He can hear Hobie’s shrug, can picture it in his mind’s eye as clearly as if the other were right in front of him. “I ain’t got Scooby-doo, luv. But I reckon you’re in a dilapidated phone booth in the middle of god-knows-where.” 

“Have you been there before? Where you are right now I mean,” Pavitr hastily corrects, his thoughts muddled still with the reality of Hobie speaking to him on the phone. 

“Nope,” Hobie lazily pops the ‘p’, and god Pavitr has missed that too. “Blends in though, if we’re not countin’ the ghastly haunted houses.” 

“Weird,” Pavitr agrees, only half his mind on the matter. It doesn’t help that Hobie merely hums at the word, and offers no reply. Pavitr clutches the receiver, hand sweating; but he cannot bear to be away from it for even a millisecond for fear of losing this tenuous connection. They do not speak, but the silence isn’t as deafening as it is has been when he was alone for the past few months now. Down the line, Pavitr can hear Hobie’s short breaths, the faint click of metal against plastic, his lip ring against the receiver. Pavitr ponders upon the science of feeling warmth through the cold wires of a telephone. 

“What are you doing…” Pavitr says apprehensively as the sounds of furious flipping reach his ear. 

Hobie hums again (and Pavitr swears the low sound of contentment will kill him one of these days), flipping continued. “Lookin’ at this currant bun I’ve got lyin’ around here. The ducks and geese be doin’ J. Arthur’s on the latest autocratic decree.” He clicks his tongue; and in this situation where both parties remain unseen, Pavitr could hear the other’s tongue piercing clicking against his teeth, the sound amplified through the phone speakers.

“You’re lucky I actually studied that book you gave me,” he switches tracks to calm himself down. 

A snort, Pavitr can see the smug look on Hobie’s face, “As expected of the star student.” The teasing lilt of Hobie’s tone seems to lift the younger’s spirits with every word, colour bleeding back into their worlds. “Care to solve our inter-dimensional wonder, then?” 

He really, really wished he could. In fact, part of his brain which functioned appropriately had already begun to chew on the hypotheticals which the situation garnered, and what possibilities may be generated. Could he see Hobie again? All his friends? Is this the universe’s sign? 

However, the majority of his cells were shaken by the interaction, and a large part of his energy reserves were commandeered to deal with the chaos churning in his heart. “Hobie…” 

“Yeah, luv?” 

He kicks the door of the phone booth lightly, repeatedly; both hands tightening on the receiver. Say it. Say it now, this could be your only chance, say it! Pavitr sucks in a ragged breath, “I’ve missed you.” 

Hobie’s inhale on the other line is sharp and stuttering, and Pavitr begins to worry if he should retract his confession as the seconds tick on. “Yeah,” Hobie croaks, “Yeah Pav. I’ve missed you too.” 

He hears quiet sniffles down the line which pierce his heart. “Hobie, aṉpē, are you crying?”

“Nah, just got a bug up my nose,” Hobie lies obviously, and Pavitr has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from the strange need to laugh. “Lucky it’s not a spider, don’t need to emulate Miguel’s lifestyle.” 

“Ooh, but Mayday would find it hilarious either way, naa? As long as you make funny faces!” 

“As long as she sees people in pain, you mean.” 

“Ciṟumi has good taste!” 

“Oh sure, this you defend her on. But when it comes to slathering questionable food stuffs into your hair–”

“–my hair is a national treasure!” 

“Don’t see the Brits hounding over it for display at the museum,” Hobie harrumphs. 

“I definitely know at least one Brit who appreciates how gorgeous my hair is,” Pavitr counters smoothly, running a hand through his locks even though Hobie can’t see him; though he suspects the other is as good as reading these unseen actions as he is. 

His hunch is proven almost immediately as Hobie drawls, “How could anyone escape your constant preening? Worse than a peacock during mating season. And what is the name of this British fellow– or lass, anyway? Must have brain damage, or be needin’ new bins.” 

“I’ll graciously offer you a hint,” Pavitr mimics the pretentious tone of upper classes which he knows Hobie despises, “said British person has the initials ‘H.B.’ .” 

“Howard Bates.” 

“No.” 

“Horace Bacon.” 

“Now I want bacon,” Pavitr breaks from his role, “but no.” 

“Aight luv, I know I’ve got it this time,” Hobie snaps his fingers, “Hayden-holden-hayes-hendrix Babbage-bacote-babcock,” he announces triumphantly, “the six hundred and twenty-fourth.” 

Pavitr hums nonchalantly, “Isn’t he governor of some quaint little English countryside where he met an ornery man, fell in love for some unfathomable reason, and now haunts the moors?” 

He could hear Hobie’s grin. “Intriguing news, that is. And who’s your source?” 

“A nice lady by the name of Brontë, though I can’t remember which of the three sisters it is. Not like it matters,” he shrugs, and Hobie’s arched brow is felt, “they all chose shitty husbands anyway.” 

Hobie breaks then, his cackling laughter shooting through the line and right into Pavitr’s spine, sending warmth and life back into him. The stream of laughter peters out to its natural end, and the comfortable silence descends between them once more. 

“Hey Pav–”

“Hm?”

“–I’m running out of John Dillons.”

Pavitr’s heart dropped, the sudden plunge too reminiscent of their final parting. Stay! Stay, please! I don’t want to lose you again! I can’t! 

“Pav, treacle,” Hobie’s steady voice cuts through the noise in his head, “you doing good, luv?” 

“Don’t go,” he blurts, hold on the receiver tight, as if he could transport himself to where Hobie is by force. 

Something in his voice must have alarmed the older Spider, for Hobie used his calmest tone, “I won’t leave forever,” he promises, “but we won’t figure anything out just by being here. I’ll come back, I swear to you Pav, I’ll come back–” 

“–What if you can’t?” Pavitr yells, his breathing harsh even to his own ears. He doesn’t want to look at how crazed his reflection is in the glass. “What if this is it? One phone call, and then no more! Hobie, you’re the one who told me that the universe is bloody fickle.” He lets the pregnant pause sit between them, full of unsaid possibilities. 

Hobie sighs, and Pavitr’s heart sinks to the floor. The punk sounds so defeated and torn, that Pavitr is reminded of their occupying the same boat. He blushes in shame. “Sorry. Hobie? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like–”

“–I know what you mean,” Hobie replies curtly, then seems to regret his snap instantly. Another drawn-out sigh, “It’s just– Pav, we could find out why, and maybe we could do something about it.” 

“Do what? Be phone buddies for the rest of our lives?”

“That’s not–”

“–Or in the worst case scenario we hang up, and never hear from each other again! Ever!” Pavitr shakes uncontrollably, his heels digging into the flimsy floor of the booth. He wants to smash the glass walls, tear the phone from its cord; equally as much as he needs to engulf Hobie in the tightest hug right now. “I don’t want to be discount pen pals, Hobie– That’s not funny.” 

Hobie rolls his eyes endearingly. “Only you could come up with the term ‘discount pen pals’ at a time like this, kanne.”

“Shut up,” Pavitr instinctively shields the stripe of blush which slashes across his ears and cheeks, from both the tease and term of endearment. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” Hobie hums, and Pavitr can hear how he switches the receiver to his shoulder by the way his piercings click against it. He clears his throat to put on his most obnoxious mimicry of a tech support employee. “Yes, I understand sir, that is an extremely valid concern. We understand that this is a frustrating situation for you, and will do our best to solve this problem promptly. Thank you for using our service, we always strive to provide you with the best.” 

“Are you done?” Pavitr deadpans. “Hobie, this is serious.” 

“It is, innit? But I have complete faith that we will reconnect as long as I feed this monstrous machine my hard earned spondoolies.” 

“Your what?” 

“Trust me, yeah Pav?” 

The abrupt click and dial tone rattles all the bones in Pavitr. The incessant doot-doot-doot like the banging of nails in a coffin, every marked second solidifying the knot of pain in his gut. 

The phone clicks again, “Hey there, my madlad Pav.” 

“YOU–!” Pavitr leaps from his crouched spot, nearly hitting the cramped ceiling of the booth. “Pōḻutu!” he spits, “Semma gaandu!” 

“Lovely to hear your voice again too. At the very least, this line of communication works,” he bangs a fist on the telephone box on his end, “as long as I rob a rattle and clank for funds, we’re golden.” 

Pavitr seethes, but can’t find it in himself to be mad; he blames the irrationally tender feelings which softens the spikes of his ire. “Maybe it works on my end too,” he begrudgingly investigates, dusting the phone box as he runs a free hand over it. He curses when he finds nothing. “No coin slot.” 

“So it’s only on mine,” Hobie taps his fingers on the plastic. “This some sick joke someone up there is playin’ eh? Set the anarchist up with the most capitalistic option?” 

“It’s called ‘irony’.” 

“It’s called ‘god being an absolute wanker with nothing else to do’, that’s what. What did we expect? All them toffs are from the same cloth. ” 

“Okay, so we need more information,” Pavitr steers them back lest they go down another rabbit hole. 

“Doc Ock in your dimension the friendly sort?” 

Pavitr winces at the memory of him subduing said villain not too long ago; he had jammed his bangles in the mechanisms, and ripped the scientist’s mechanical tentacles off. He says as much to Hobie, who hums appreciatively, and praises Pavitr for his unhinged skills. Pavitr tries to convince himself that he doesn’t preen under the attention like a starved puppy. 

“I’ll stalk the libraries and labs here,” Pavitr plots. “There must be some key to this we can uncover.” 

“Confident eh? I like it.” 

“It is Mumbattan,” Pavitr notes smugly, “and we all know most Indians are just better at Maths and Science.” 

Hobie stifles a chuckle in the shoulder of his vest. “Miles will bristle at that.” 

“It’s facts,” Pavitr snaps his fingers in rapid succession. “Oh! If you can get in touch with me, how about Miles? Or Gwen? Or–”

“Actually, yeah. We should give it a go.” 

“Cariyāka!” Hope swells in his chest, lifting him to his toes, “And we can all talk to each other again!” 

Hobie scratches at his neck, “If only there was a detailed manual in here entitled ‘Ways to Contact your Inter-Dimensional Friends’.” 

“How did you contact me then?” 

“Dunno.” Hobie pauses for a beat, and when he speaks again his voice is coloured with the heat of a blush. “Or maybe, it was cause I was… Iwasthinkingaboutyou.” 

Pavitr’s heart skips painfully, interrupting his oxygen intake. “Aww Hobie,” he forces in saccharine tones to mask the heat in his face, “so you do think of me.” 

“All the time,” comes the admission–soft, immediate, too quick to be anything but a reflex. The two sport matching blushes which paint their entire selves in dusky reds. 

Pavitr recovers first, clearing his throat noisily. “Try that?” he squeaks, clearing his throat again. 

Hobie nods frantically, before realising that Pavitr can’t see him. “Bet.” 

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Pavitr swallows through the lump in his throat, fizzling with hope. 

He hears the smile in Hobie’s voice. “Bet. Same time and place. Don’t be late, luv.” 

“I won’t,” he swears, and nothing will stop him from keeping this promise. “You’d better have a boatload of coins.” 

“Can’t believe I have to lug around a minging satchel for this.” 

“I personally can’t believe that the pockets of your jeans are merely decorative.” 

“Shut up mate, you dress like the pits of fashion. Those shorts do nothin’ for your pin pegs or bottle and glass.” 

“It’s a school uniform!” 

“It’s shite.” 

Shafts of sunlight swam through the mist as they bickered, transitioning from the deepest night into the brightest day. It was the first time since their last chapter in HQ that Pavitr felt alive again. 

Hero stuff. School. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Tea time. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Hero stuff. Homework. Hero stuff. 

Phone call with Hobie time. 

Exchanging information which he slaved for time. 

Bickering time. 

Bantering time. 

Blushing time. 

Laughing time. 

Hanging up and going back time. Bed time. Roof time. 

Crying time. 

Patch himself up again for another day time. 

He collects stories from his daily life like precious ingredients for a dhansak. 

The dog which had somehow entered the school and ran in and out of the classes–scattering papers and people everywhere until Pavitr sneakily webbed it at a stairwell. 

The gossip he trawls from the vibrant marketplace, the latest on domestic spats and political frivolity for Hobie to fume or comment wryly on. 

The pigeon which Inspector Singh accidentally adopted after feeding it once, and which Gayatri swears her father cuddles with on the sofa every night to shout at the television screen with. 

Maya Auntie’s victory for creating the best bean-based dish in the neighbourhood; Pavitr’s pride reflected in Hobie, with the latter saying that he had missed her and her cooking very much. 

The increase in couples…everywhere, since the weather began to cool a bit. Pavitr gushes about the romantic tensions happening in all these pockets of humanity around the fountains, the balconies, the hawker stalls; and Hobie listens fondly every time. 

He has to remind himself what a blessing these phone calls are, that he should be happy he could talk to Hobie. But he craves more; he hungers for it all. He wants Hobie here with him, right by his side. Wants to feel the warmth of the other’s arm slumped across his neck, wants to bury himself in the other’s embrace, wants to see his rare open smile light up on his face. 

He keeps the image of Hobie at the forefront of his mind; tracing and re-tracing the lines to ensure Hobie’s form remains the same, to get it right this time. 

“Did it help?” Pavitr questions, shuffling the myriad of papers in his lap, scrawled with calculations, and highlighted to the teeth. 

“No,” Hobie announces, fighting to keep his voice neutral as he spreads all his hand-written notes across the floor. “Sorry luv.” 

Pavitr scratches his scalp in frustration, uncaring of the strands of hair which float down onto the scribbled pages. Months of the calendar had been flipped to the back, white boxes the only milestones of their lack of achievement. 

No matter how hard he calls out–pushing his voice to hoarseness and shattering it–he could not reach them all. Their nexus was Hobie, and although he had fortunately made contact with most of their closest members; they were no nearer to deciphering the anomaly of the phone booths, nor had Pavitr heard a lick from the others. 

Some days he envied Hobie, then Hobie would grumble about the amount of handwritten notes he had to take; and Pavitr magically felt that envy disappear. When he brought it up to the other, Hobie deliberately put down his notes to argue on that point for two hours. It was the best two hours Pavitr had all week. 

“Okay,” he inhales then exhales heavily, tries to hide how much his shoulders slump from his voice. “Okay, I’ll try again tomorrow. I’m sure the Nanami Conglomerate has some geniuses in their science development centre! There has to be someone there who can explain all,” he gestures to the flurry of papers, “this.” 

Hobie grunts as a response, the frenetic flipping of papers akin to the wingbeats of a started flock of birds. 

“We’ll get there,” Pavitr reassures despite his own germinating seeds of doubt. “We have to.” 

There’s a pause on Hobie’s end. “Pav…”

“Hn? What’s up?” Pavitr leans his head back against one of the glass doors, closes his eyes to better hear the other’s voice, dulling his senses enough to pretend that Hobie sits right next to him, warm shoulder pressing against his. 

Hobie scuffs his boots on the floor, then huffs, “Nothing.” 

Pavitr warns, “Hobie. Remember we agreed that we would say what we’re thinking? No opinion is too controversial? Actual freedom of speech?” 

“Nothing, luv. I just–” he pinches the area between his brows, unknowingly mirroring Pavitr’s position. He could anticipate the other’s disappointment, and he didn’t want to be the one to make Pavitr angry or sad, ever. “What if this is it?” he gestures to no one with his hands spread wide, letting them fall back onto his crossed legs with a defeated smack. “There’s an extremely high possibility that this is a fluke” he treads carefully, mindful of how out of all them (perhaps excluding Miles), Pavitr was the one who took everyone’s separation the hardest. “If phone calls are the extent of it… Pav, would you be alright with it?” 

“Of course not!” Pavitr’s curled fists shake violently in his lap, the base of his skull throbbing with pain. “I want to see everyone again! I want to be able to talk to you all, I want to do stupid things together, to laugh together…” He roughly rubs his face, “Hobie, don’t you want that too?” 

“ ‘Course I do,” Hobie soothes despite the coil of dread nestled in his chest. He glares at the papers, the lack of solutions; and blanches. “But–”

“–Even if everyone else gives up, I won’t.” Pavitr declares, steely rod of determination in his voice. “I’ll keep trying– I know we can find a way. The universe is never so lazy for coincidences. Everything happens for a reason, so–!” he pounds a fist onto his semi-circle of papers, sending some of them flying. “I’ll do it. But Hobie, I’m not in a position to do it alone.” Hobie could have sworn that he saw the younger’s puppy eyes projected right at him through the phone line. “Will you help me?” 

How could Hobie ever say no? He hides his laugh instead, muffling it by smacking a paper into his face. 

“Hobie, you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Hobie waves away. “ ‘Course I will Pav.” He could almost see the beaming smile on the other’s face, wide, joyful, and sincere; the soft feelings in him ballooning till bursting. “Fuck the arbitrary rules of the world, everything is made up anyway! We hafta grab what we want, whenever we want.” He sits up straighter, tugging on the coils of the phone in excitement, the beat of his heart present in the cords of his throat, “I’d love to do it all with you.” 

Pavitr silences his gasp too late–the surprise evident, the messy bundle of nursed affection spilling. He takes a few moments to compose himself, distracts Hobie with the sound of shuffling papers, “I–” Though the words are bidden, they fail to arrive. He raises his head, sees his reflection in the glass; sees Hobie’s superimposed upon it, his lopsided grin confident and beautiful. 

Beyond the pane of glass, golden showers of petals rained down from the trees, cocooning him with their soft swishes. The back of Hobie’s vest is a dark black against all that gold, his silver piercings glinting in the light. He turns around on his heel, hands jammed in the small pockets of that vest, guitar swinging behind him, wicks bouncy, sharp eyes crinkling at the edges. Breathtaking. Beautiful. 

But as soon as the tips of Pavitr’s fingers reach out, they are left twitching at nothing but air. The loss of even a mirage of the other sends Pavitr’s head reeling, the pressure crushing his chest and ears. “Me too,” he confesses into the receiver, hoping simultaneously that Hobie could not and would not pick up on the tremors of his voice. “I’d like that a lot!” 

Hobie’s grip on his jeans relaxes partly, “Us against the world? That’s proper superhero stuff, innit?” 

“I know, right?” Pavitr chirps, laughs airy as the swiftest wings. 

“Clichéd–”

“–yet true,” Pavitr corrects, 

Hobie grins into the paper, wishing more than ever that Pavitr were in front of him; to be seen, to be held, to be cherished. “Your wish is my command,” he mimics the nasal yet cheerful lilt from the movie Pavitr made him watch several times while gorging on curly fries. 

“I wish for more wishes.” 

“Vetoed.” 

“I wish for… world peace?” 

“Impossible, and overrated. Next.” 

“Yeesh, some kind of genie you are.” 

“Take it or leave it, luv; you know the rules.” 

“I wish you were here with me.” 

Hobie has to manually kickstart his breathing again, pushing through the livid burns which douse his whole body in regret. “Soon,” he promises. 

“You better,” Pavitr laughs, the new strain in it constantly present now–and the regret in Hobie asphyxiates him. 

He needs to speed up the process before everyone descends into a new realm of crazy–already Peter B. has been pacing restlessly around his house so much that that he needs to buy new carpet. Noir was not faring any better, especially due to the technological restrictions of his dimension which drove him to seek out other ways to let off steam. 

Hobie’s head swims with numbers; he screws his eyes shut and wills himself not to fall asleep–it had been three days. He needs to figure this out soon; he’s the core of their impromptu network after all. He didn’t need Pavitr to choke out another forced smile. 

“We’ll be needin’ Margo,” Hobie relays, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leans against the phone. “She’s the only one I’ve yet to catch, and I bet she knows tons more about web spaces than any of us do.”

“Yeah, we gotta get her on board. Still no luck?” 

“Unfortunately, bruv.” 

Miles scratches his scalp, the frustrated sound palpable all the way in Hobie’s booth. “Do you even remember what she looks like, man?” 

“Oi, watch it you numpty–”

“I’m just sayin’!” Miles placates with both hands in surrender. “Honestly? It’s not like you were paying the rest of us that much attention, other than you know,” he sucks in his teeth, and Hobie just knows the younger’s eyes are squinted into slits, “Pav.” 

“You need an unscheduled meeting, young man.” 

“Actually,” Miles hesitates for a prolonged pause, and Hobie can hear how he keeps tapping his pencil on his notebook wildly. 

“Aaaaaannd I am ending this productive chat in 3, 2,–”

“–Okay, okay, wait!” Miles sighs into his hands. “Promise me you’re not gonna get mad.” 

“I could say yes, but you know I despise consistency.” 

Miles throws his hands up, pencil rolling across the floor of the booth. “Fine,” he seethes “you know what? I’m just gon’ say it. We need Miles from Earth-42.” 

Hobie pauses deliberately long. 

“He’s got something we need!” Miles’ motormouth revs up, “I know he was a bad guy who fought us but he’s not bad inside! Kinda weird I’m talkin’ about me that way, but he is my variant, and I can vouch for him? Sorta. Anyway, last time I was in his dimension, I saw this machine that looked like the collider, but it was weird that it didn’t seem to work that way. The controls for one–”

“All I hafta to do is channel grumpy you in my mind, yeah?” Hobie jabs his temple in a bid to rid his headache. “Your mum know how weird you look in braids?” 

“I thought they were cool!” Miles gasps, and Hobie’s long-standing wish to see all of them again ignites another burn on his body. 

“Alright, mate. So this’ll work even with the other party being a non-Spider?” 

“… I don’t know for sure. And we don’t know if it’ll backfire, cause you’re making the call. Maybe your sonic powers can transcend inter-dimensional barriers sure, but we don’t know what’ll happen if we push you past your limit, and I wonder if Miles-42 will help us…” 

Pavitr’s luminous smile silhouetted against the sunrise of a noisy Mumbattan temple rooftop, the one where he dragged everyone still half-asleep to, claiming that it would be one of the prettiest sunrises they would ever see in their lives. Hobie had to disagree. The prettiest sunrise would forever be Pavitr’s smile; and he was not about to give up on seeing it again. 

“Well then,” Hobie shrugs off the risks. They mattered nothing compared to the possibility of fulfilling everyone’s wishes, to the probability of seeing Pavitr up close once more. “Time to bring on the barney, innit?” 

Pavitr had not heard from Hobie again. Three weeks and counting, and he was going insane. At first, he reasoned that Hobie and the others must have found a solution or a clue, and were busy chasing that. But as each day sunk and rose with monotonous mundanity, Pavitr’s thoughts and emotions spiralled. 

Was Hobie okay? Did he collapse from exhaustion? He knew that the punk had a tendency to develop tunnel-vision on projects, the all-or-nothing mindset both a blessing and a bane. Pavitr hoped that he would take care of himself, would eat something other than meals scoured from the discount bin in dubious convenience stores. He wishes he was there to take care of him. 

Did Hobie find his calls annoying? Pavitr spoke too much all the time, that was what his friends told him. Sometimes he talks too loud too–did he tick Hobie off? He wished he didn’t; and even if he did, he wishes Hobie would call again so he could properly apologise. He doesn’t want to lose him. 

He could not stop the worst scenario playing in his mind’s eye with increasing frequency, the shattered image of unnaturally bent limbs and blood saturating his every hour; waking and barely asleep. He prayed–to whoever was listening; he begged. 

Keep him safe, please keep him safe. It’s okay if he doesn’t call me as often anymore, I just need some sign that he’s safe. I’ll learn to be content. I’ll stay away from him if that’s what you want. But please, please, don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt my heart, my life. 

The black phone remains silent. 

He nearly tears the receiver from its cord as he snatches it from its cradle, the shrill ring cut off quickly. “Hello?” he pants into the receiver. “Hello? Hobie? Hobie are you there?” His palms are sticky, the sweat beads across his headband despite the icy coolness of his skin. 

An unfamiliar metallic whirr, then a clicking of keys. “Pavitr,”

“Hobie!” 

“Pav, if you’re hearin’ this, that’s ace. Means we’ve got the hang of it, somewhat.” 

Pavitr’s heart sinks, but he keeps his steel grip on the receiver; eagerly committing every word, every lilt, every syllable to memory. 

“Bit weird doing this. One bread and cheese, and it could all go tits up very very quickly. But with all the data that everyone has compiled, our boy Miles and myself think we’ve got a good chance at blowing this all up. Figuratively,” Hobie tacked on hastily, eliciting an unbidden snort from Pavitr. 

“The math is bonkers, so I’ll graciously spare you from it for now. You’ll be hearin’ the unabridged version from Miles anyway–prepare to be bombarded with the full force of his nerd terminology by the way.” Pavitr would willingly sit through five hours of that if it meant the portals worked and he got to see Miles again. 

There’s a weighted pause, “Yeah. No need to worry, luv. We’ve recruited the other ultra-nerd to help us, Miles’ twin from 42–”

“Miles-42?” Pavitr gasps in shock, before quickly slapping a hand over his own mouth. 

“–so it’ll work out, lemon squeezey. Easier than pickin’ early hours for a significant other. Just sit tight, yeah Pav? We’ll come get you.” Another pause, Pavitr could see Hobie’s knitted brows, the way he would gnaw on his lip ring unconsciously, and shuffle his boots on the ground repeatedly whenever he was feeling nervous. He could hear the boots now. “If we don’t make it, though that’s impossible,” he laughs self-depreciatingly, “but if we don’t…” 

Pavitr’s knuckles are white, mindful not to crush the receiver. 

He hears the smile in Hobie’s voice, can picture that lopsided grin, hopes yet dreads what is coming next– 

“I love you, Pav.”

Pavitr’s pulse stops. 

“Pavitr, I really, really love you.” 

Pavitr’s heart restarts itself with a fury, kicking every cell into overdrive–Pavitr wanted to retch from the sensory overload.

“I’ll see you yeah? My madlad Pav.” Hobie’s voice dips low, drenched in affection, “I can’t wait to see you again.” 

The message clicks off, and Pavitr finds his fist hovering in the air, bloodied with little scratches from the shattered glass. 

Keep him safe, he repeats to the sky. Please, keep him safe. 

The days transitioned into hotter weather once more. The streets were still noisy, but everyone took up residence underneath the shade, handheld fans swiping furiously to keep cool. No one stepped a toe into the blazing heat, electing instead to play a morbid game of hide and seek with the sun by walking only in places of shadow. Pavitr would have been tickled by the sight, if not for the fact that it had been months since Hobie’s final phone call and message. 

He goes to the phone booth. He sits on the floor until daybreak. There is never anything. 

The joy of his people cannot reach him as it once did. He doesn’t want to be selfish. He wants to be good. He needs to be a hero. But heroes are humans too. 

He dies a little more every day. 

The razor in his hand taunts him with its glinting silver blades. He tosses it in the trash. 

Tries his best to coax his hair into bouncy waves. 

Looks in the mirror; hates what he sees. Tugs the edges of his lips up till he bleeds. 

The phone rings, and it is surreal. For a moment, Pavitr is frozen; but then he snatches it to his ear in equal parts hope and dread again. What will it be this time? Did anything bad happen? Please no, don’t let anyone get hurt. 

“H–” his voice is a web of glue in his throat, the pressure pressing down on his skull unrelenting. 

“Hey there, Pav,” Hobie’s voice travels down the line, shooting relief straight into his body. “You doin’ good, luv?”  He sounds tired and wrung out, voice rough and straining with overuse, but he is here. 

“Thank you thank you thank you,” Pavitr mumbles to the sky, holding the receiver away from him slightly. 

“Pav, are you there?” 

“Yes!” he replies with lightning speed, reaching a hand out of the broken glass wall to shape a ball of humid air in his hands, to do anything before he buzzed out of his skin. “Hobie, are you okay?” 

“ ‘Course,” comes the nonchalant reply. “What about you, treacle?” 

He would have loved to say yes, to ease the worry evident in the other’s tone, but he couldn’t bring himself to form the word. The past few months were agony. The waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Not knowing if Hobie was safe, or if he was even alive. The way he had to burn himself to exhaustion before he could drift off to sleep, without seeing the bright splashes of scarlet blood behind his eyelids. 

“You did it?” he asks instead, maintaining the level chirpiness of his own tone. 

But this was Hobie, too observant for his own good, who caught the waver in Pavitr’s voice easily. “Pav, on your left.” 

Pavitr spins around on command, but there’s nothing there. A metallic whirring sounds from behind him, bright colours alien to his dimension flash and sizzle, a portal opens; and Hobie steps out of it. Pavitr does not wait a second longer before launching himself right at the punk, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the other’s torso, burying his head in between Hobie’s neck and shoulder. 

Hobie stumbles from the force, swinging his own arms wildly until he caught balance against the phone booth. He winds his own arms around Pavitr, practically carrying him. “Always wondered what human-sized koalas would be like,” he teases, readjusting his hold as Pavitr nuzzles violently into him. 

Hobie is here. In person. The warmth Pavitr had chased after for so long engulfed him, the solidity of Hobie’s form grounded him. The low purr of his voice, imperceptible over the phone, was an orchestra here. Pavitr relishes in the feeling of Hobie’s hand sliding a soothing path up and down his back. 

“Missed me that much, eh?” Hobie quips, the supposed sarcasm dissolving in the softness of this tone. 

“Yes,” Pavitr admits easily, voice muffled. Hobie’s confession over the line rings in his ears. He peeks at Hobie coyly through the fringe of his hair, mischievous grin already in place. “So you love me?” He barks a laugh at how Hobie’s pulse rabbits instantly, the pounding of his heart doubles and rattles in his chest, right against Pavitr. 

Hobie grits his teeth and glares, the effect lost with the full-bodied blush he was sporting. Pavitr drops his feet onto the ground, and pulls Hobie in closer by cupping his cheeks. “Nī rompa aḻakāka irukkiṟāy,” he dotes, smushing Hobie’s cheeks this way and that. “Nāṉ uṉṉai tirumaṇam ceytu koḷḷa virumpukiṟēṉ!” 

He releases Hobie’s cheeks to wind his arms around his neck, to keep him there. He waits until Hobie looks straight at him, question halfway out of his lips; before he swoops in, throwing caution to the wind. Hobie tastes like coffee, and the sour soda lollipops he loves so much. Pavitr’s fingers crawl up the other’s neck to the base of his skull, grappling. His heart feels too big for him; feels like it has floated away from him, ballooning into the stratosphere. 

Pavitr pulls them apart just as abruptly, the stunned and adoring look on Hobie’s face messing up his insides further. “I love you too,” he breathes into the narrow space between them. The tears which had gathered in his eyes beginning to spill. “I love you so much,” he croaks. 

Hobie’s hands come up to brush the tears away; but he could not stop a smile from splitting open on his face. “Yeah?” His chest swells as Pavitr nods in confirmation even though he didn’t need to. He tugs Pavitr back into their hug, cradling the back of his head against his shoulder, sways them a bit. “Love you, Pavitr,” he confesses into Pavitr’s hair. “Love of my life,” he presses a kiss to Pavitr’s forehead; “Heart who swings outside of my body”, he plants a wet smack of his lips on Pavitr’s cheek; “The best person alive, except for his incessant need to check his hair.” 

Pavitr stops the kiss on the lips Hobie was going for, growling playfully. “And you, Mr. ‘I was this cool the whole time’, are no better. Stop freaking out over your guitar challenge.” 

“It needs to be protected!” 

“Then leave it at the sidelines when shit goes down?” 

“That is the worst idea I have ever heard–”

“Uh… guys? We’re here too?” Miles waves awkwardly from his perch beside the portal. 

Pavitr gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, you have Miles-42 with you!” 

Miles-42 spits a long line of something in Spanish, which Miles immediately clamps a hand over his variant’s mouth for. “Love that you guys figured stuff out!” Miles yells as Miles-42 attempts to scratch the other’s eyes out with his claws. “But can we like, table this for later?” He jumps away from Miles-42, landing aways from him. He grins wide at Hobie and Pavitr. “Let’s go get everyone else!” 

Hobie snakes his arm with Pavitr’s, linking their hands together. “You heard ‘im, chellam. Better get a move on, yeah?” 

“Yeah!” Pavitr beams as he pulls Hobie towards the portal, towards where all his friends are. “It’s rude to keep everyone waiting! Unlike some people, I’d rather not be rude.” 

“Oi, oi. What are you gettin’ at?” 

“Nothing,” Pavitr trills, eyes shining with his particular brand of innocent mischievousness which Hobie could never get enough of. Pavitr steps up to Hobie in one stride, yanking their linked hands from side to side. “Rude boys get punished,” he states breezily, smile never slipping from his face. 

Hobie felt the rug being upended from him, and he did not manage to stick the landing. “You–” he choked out,  hand in Pavitr’s squeezing hard. 

Pavitr hums, “Later naa, aṉpē?” he promises with a finger to his lips, bright laughter sloughing off the heavy fog of doom which had plagued him for so long. 

They were all here. 

Sometimes, stories can continue after the end.

Author’s Notes:  (placing this here cause the translations are below) 

• Did I self-reference my other fics? Yes I’m aware of how weird that is lol 
• Nanami Conglomerate — hello there Dr. Stone reference                           
• Golden shower tree (Kani Konna) are apparently one of the most common flowering trees in India
• Big ChaiPunk moment, so of course Hobie has to keep up his consistency of being inconsistent with directions 
  
  
• This fic is inspired by [this song] and [@alexxuun's] beautiful interpretations of Miles-42 (please check out their art!) 

In the spirit of this fic, and the recent hullabaloo about shipping, and character ages, and ship names, etc. 

GO WRITE WHAT YOU WANT AS LONG AS YOU ARE NOT DISRESPECTING OTHERS 

I cannot stress enough that what we write are works of fiction; and although words have power, discerning readers or appropriate disclaimers exist 

Stifling of creativity is not the way to go, unless you wanna become a policed state and have Spider-Punk lop off your head. 

So go off and write! 

Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!

Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated if you did <3