Work Text:
Glaikit
(n) stupid, foolish, or thoughtless
“A little more to the left!” Pavitr yelled into Hobie’s ear, competing with the wind gushing past them as Hobie swings them from one vibrant building to the next. “Idathu! Idathu!” Pavitr nearly crushes Hobie’s waist between his thighs as the older Spider deliberately ignores his instructions, swerving them dangerously close to a pile of rattan baskets in front of a shop lot. They swing away by a hair’s breadth–if they crashed Pavitr was positive there would be a basket on his head, because the universe loves to bully them that much–Hobie’s cackling laughter flickering with the force of the wind.
Pavitr chalks up the sudden spike of his heartbeat and the heat in his face to their near accident; though he knows better. “Muṭṭāḷ maṉitaṉ!” he chastises instead, locking Hobie’s neck into a chokehold despite the larger danger it posed as they were literally suspended by nothing but web and momentum. He always gets a little reckless around Hobie.
Hobie quickly deposits them on the side of one of the buildings–they tried to skirt the wide-eyed awe of some children who caught their descent in the opposite window as they swung past them–and bats at Pavitr’s death hold, “Not exactly the finest time for exploring new kinks, luv.”
Pavitr rolls his eyes but releases him; crossing his arms while maintaining his piggyback position via the strength of his thighs alone. “You almost crashed us–”
“ –‘Almost’,” Hobie stresses, head angled to Pavitr who was latching onto him like a koala on a tree; not minding it in the slightest. He schools his features into one of exaggerated shock, “Would you Adam and Eve it? I’m Spider-Man, which means I know what I’m doing as we perform acrobatic acts worthy of being shunned by healthcare insurance companies from.”
Pavitr raises an unimpressed brow; then realising the other could not properly see the full force of it, proceeds to prod Hobie on the cheek. “You crashed into a flock of pigeons before,” he deadpans.
“Oi, we don’t talk about that, remember?”
“We’re gonna talk about it till we’re dead,” Pavitr retorts immediately, winding his arms loosely around Hobie’s neck to press closer, resting his chin on Hobie’s shoulder. “I wish I filmed that glorious moment of Hobie-Always-This-Cool-Brown being attacked by a cloud of pigeons!” he teases, eyes glinting with mischief. “Such a meme-worthy moment, lost forever!”
Hobie grunts as he nudges Pavitr’s face away from his, “You’re a menace to society.”
“I thought you liked troublemakers?” Pavitr challenges, puppy eyes on full display which Hobie could never bear to look at head on.
“Lovely lot, would side with them any day,” he acquiesces with a sigh and a hand on his hip. “Are you done trying to kill us both by twisting off my Gregory Peck? We’re wastin’ moonlight.”
“As if we can see the moon from here,” Pavitr sticks out his tongue as he waves a hand around them, the colourful pulses of the city blotting any other light source out.
Hobie abruptly tips backwards, and the clamp of Pavitr’s thighs around his waist tightens painfully. “See it now?”
“Ooh I can definitely see stars,” Pavitr croons mockingly, “I’ll see the moon soon enough if you keep dangling us upside down.”
“A right comedian you are, yeah? Proper crowd-rousing stuff. Ace of the aces, king of the funnies!” he claps enthusiastically despite his flat tone.
“Then you must be the bastard of sarcasm,” Pavitr wrenches them into an upright position–well upright in their sense anyway, with their feet oriented to the side of the building. “Come on, let’s go already.”
“That’s what I’ve been sayin’ this whole time,” Hobie grouses, reaching back to reposition Pavitr into a proper piggyback.
Pavitr hums, fingering the strap of Hobie’s guitar across his chest. “Pull another stunt like that, and I just might accidentally drop your precious baby.”
Hobie squints at him, the angle making it hard to channel his threat, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Gravity can be such a pain,” Pavitr grins devilishly.
“It’s amazin’ how no one trusts the brass tacks that you’re an utter knob.”
“Good genes,” Pavitr shrugs, relishing in the way he managed to rile Hobie up, to elicit anything other than the aloofness the other wears as armour. Hobie rarely showed this side of him to anyone; and Pavitr’s chest ballooned with warmth from the fact. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he speaks over Hobie who was about to launch into another line of banter, “or else we’ll be too late!”
“Sure, sure, eṉ aracar,” Hobie hoists Pavitr higher up as he shakes his head fondly, his wicks slapping Pavitr in the face as revenge. “Anything you wish.”
Hobie lands them a little ways away from the narrow steps, unceremoniously shaking Pavitr off. He reaches out for his guitar, practically snatching it back from the younger Spider.
“Do you actually love your guitar more than the rest of us?” Pavitr queries with a grimace at Hobie’s unconscious caressing of his guitar, as the punk slips it back onto his own shoulder.
It’s close, but no. I love you more. “Depends,” Hobie says nonchalantly, boots scuffing on the semi-dried grass. “Whichever I’m feelin’ more fond of on the day.”
“Fickle as Orsino,” Pavitr sighs with upturned palms, shaking his head solemnly as a sage. “Your mind is a very opal!”
“Quotin’ the big man himself,” Hobie whistles. “See you’ve finally gotten around to it, eh? Thought you despised required readin’ so much you’d pull another escape trick via diving off the roof like last time.”
There is colour high on Pavitr’s cheeks as he hastily turns his head to the side for a breather, then swivels it back again; a dare for Hobie to challenge him burning in his eyes, “I’d rather not do required reading,” he admits, “but you said that it was your favourite comedy play. So,” he flings curled fists into splayed palms to underline the importance of it all.
Hobie’s breath hitches, and it becomes painful to swallow. “So,” he repeats mindlessly, the surge of warmth which flooded him from head to toe morphed him into mush.
“So,” Pavitr confirms, and there’s a clenching in his chest which threatens to axe him at the kneecaps. How he missed this, and would continue missing this. Stop. Stop dwelling, you’re wasting time. He plasters a smile on his face, tugs Hobie forward by the arm down the stairs of the stepwell. “Follow,” he urges, pretends the undercurrent of pleading in it doesn’t sound too desperate.
“Anywhere,” Hobie breathes, affection suffusing so much it made Pavitr want to cry.
They bound down the narrow stone stairs right until they reach the water line, toes ghosting over the edge of the step right above it, the cool surface of the water palpable without actually being touched. So close.
“There’s your moon,” Hobie nods up to the sky, and sure enough there it was. A faintly luminous disk nestled in dark velvet, clusters of even fainter stars surrounding it. Near the bottom of the stepwell, enclosed by the four walls of identical stairs and the stone architecture which echoed with the tears of his ancestors, gazing upwards into the sky which seemed father away than usual; Pavitr could only identify the heavy pressure which engulfed him as loneliness.
It was quiet of human voices; only the low symphony of bugs resounded within the four walls. The water was deathly still; barely any wind reached them here. Secluded. Blanketed away from the world, from the pain of living. He doesn’t register his hand shaking until Hobie closes his own over it–too gentle in his touch, too kind.
He wants to fling it away. He wants to chain their wrists together.
So close, yet so far.
Hobie uncurls Pavitr’s hand from his wrist, to intertwine their fingers together. “Beautiful down here, innit?” he forces his tone to be airy, to mask the wetness welling in his eyes. He grips Pavitr’s hand tighter. “Bloody shame other people aren’t as appreciative of this place.”
“Stepwells are actually very popular,” Pavitr grips back just as tight, “in the day mostly. Look, no one wants to risk slipping and snapping their neck in the middle of the night,” he answers Hobie’s quirked brow, silver piercings tiny stars close enough to touch. Pavitr has to stop his fingers from impulsively reaching out.
“Frankie Howards, the lot of them,” Hobie hums, lightly swinging their joined hands and leaning forwards over the dark water. “Most anyone could prolly lose are their ones and twos.”
Or their life––but Pavitr bites his tongue to prevent the thought from slipping. They didn’t need this right now. They were short on time enough as it is. Hobie is here with him now, and he couldn’t– The weight of Hobie’s arm presses into his, and the other’s cheek smushes against Pavitr’s hair. Hobie’s fingers rub soothing circles into the centre of his palm; he should’ve known the punk would pick up on his unruly thoughts. It had always been this way.
Hobie doesn’t pull away, and neither does Pavitr. They stay like that, two statues frozen in this pocket of time with only the buzz of insects and the shift of the moon to mark the passing of time. Time which they never had enough of.
The guttural low of a cow spooks them–almost tripping into the water as they jumped from the sound, each one instinctively webbing the stairs for support. Back on their feet, their wide eyes met, their rabbiting pulses pounded in their crushing grasp–bubbles of laughter burst from their lungs, high and reedy.
“Kaṭavuḷē!” Pavitr clutched at his heart with his free hand. “That came outta nowhere!”
“Don’t you live here?” Hobie wheezes as he straightens up, removes his hand in Pavitr’s only to pull the other in by the shoulders, to playfully ruffle his perfect hair. “Aren’t you supposed to be accustomed to it by now?”
Pavitr clicks his tongue, secretly delighting in their further diminished distance. “Haven’t your ears gone deaf from playing your guitar on max volume every time?”
“Ain’t a mutton yet, don’t go labelling me with assumed ages, you wanker.”
“Pardon me, O Great Coloniser,” Pavitr pitches his voice, “I meant no disrespect to the elderly who certainly have severe hearing problems.”
“Who are you callin’–”
“–You haven’t been hearing Gwen and Miles’ hollers well for a while now right?” Pavitr retorted with hands on Hobie’s forearm, smirking. “Case in point.”
Hobie glares half-heartedly at the boy in his arms. “Okamaaru.”
Pavitr’s loud gasp bounced off the walls of the stepwell, “How dare you use my own language against me!”
“You utilise my slang liberally in that area as well; don’t act like you’re guilt-free on that point china plate.”
“I don’t use it to swear at people!”
“Of course you don’t,” Hobie smoothly agreed. “And you don’t use it in wildly wrong contexts either.”
Pavitr bristled, “Name one time–”
“–Luv, you called Miguel an ‘almond rock’ instead of, I dunno if that was what you were going for; but a ‘sweaty sock’.”
“You’re the one who said that it’s about the intention of the words, not the words itself which matters!” Pavitr exclaimed with his hands up in disbelief.
Hobie’s rebuttal of identifying slang contexts properly died on his tongue, as he tilted his head to the side in thought. “Actually, yeah. You make a wonderful point, luv. Miguel does look like a grumpy soggy sock.”
“Thank you good sir,” Pavitr exaggerates in relief, barely gating the laugh behind his teeth. “At least one Brit gets it.”
“For now,” Hobie baits with his nose in the air, “I don’t believe in consistency, yeah? Might change my mind about it right about now.” He was not prepared for how Pavitr immediately pulled him downwards by cupping his cheeks.
“You’d better not,” Pavitr warns, smushing Hobie’s face. “There surely are some things which you’re never inconsistent on.”
Saving people. Enjoying the company of friends. You.
Never changing my mind about you.
Hobie doesn’t verbalise his thoughts.
Pavitr catches the melancholy in his eyes anyway; and he can’t stand it. So he surges upwards, sealing his lips with Hobie’s, the slightly cold metal of his piercings pinpricks of ice against his skin; the thud of their hearts reverberating as one.
“Pav,” Hobie breathes into the heated cavern of his mouth, and Pavitr shushes him, presses his forehead against Hobie’s, screws his eyes shut.
“Let us have this,” he swallows, grip around Hobie’s arms punishingly tight, “even if it’s for one moment, let us have this.” From this close, he can feel the frown which graces Hobie’s visage without needing to see it. “Please,” he begs, “please kiss me again.”
Hobie obeys easily, despite the clamour of warnings inside his head. He pulls Pavitr in by the waist, lifts him slightly off the ground, as his lips meet his; as they clutch desperately at each other while drowning. Pavitr says ‘follow’, and Hobie will go anywhere, will keep following Pavitr even if he says–
“Stop,” Pavitr whispers, reluctantly pulling their faces away.
Weak rays of pinkish-orange sunlight peek through the clouds, diffusing the dark. The tops of the stairs were already bathed in warm colours; both Hobie and Pavitr’s hearts sank. “Don’t go,” they blurt simultaneously–in ordinary circumstances a happenstance to laugh about, but…
The light keeps advancing, slowly sliding down the stairs.
“Don’t grind your teeth like that,” Pavitr berates softly, hand cupping Hobie’s jaw and soothing the knot there.
Hobie snorts, jerks his head back roughly enough to make his wicks bounce, but never detaching himself from the warmth of Pavitr’s touch. “Like it matters.” He brings up his own hands to smudge the other’s welling tears, streaking them over his cheeks. “Don’t cry, chellam,” his voice is softer than it has ever been, shakier than he has ever known. “We’ll see each other again. I swear.”
The strangled bark of a laugh which clawed itself up from Pavitr’s throat dragged shards of glass with it. “No one knows when it’ll happen again, Hobie. You can’t just–”
“–so we wait.” Hobie announced resolutely. He leans down to meet Pavitr straight in the eyes. “I’m not gonna flake on you, and I know you won’t do the same to me, so,” he shrugs, thumbs caressing the sides of Pavitr’s face.
“So,” Pavitr echoes, hands enclosed around Hobie’s own.
The steady block of light had scanned down to the wicks of Hobie’s hair, had stealthily pounced at their feet.
Pavitr cannot breathe. Hobie’s eyes are so kind, and loving; and they have to part again. He lunges into Hobie’s embrace, wishing that they could be entangled so throughly that nothing would ever be able to separate them. He wishes.
Hobie presses tender kisses to the crown of Pavitr’s head, his hold equally as tight. The light washes over them, painting them in burning hues. He gently extracts Pavitr from his buried stance, kisses him for a final time, for now. “Laters Pavitr,” he breathes his promise into the other’s trembling lips.
Pavitr dips his head to stow away the remains of his shredded heart. “Yeah,” he whispers, gathering strength from their embrace. He inhales deeply, hoists his head, and smiles as sincerely as he can. “See you, Hobie!”
Hobie smiles back; keeps smiling even as Pavitr’s colours bleed out into the scenery, fade away and disappear. His arms remain suspended in midair.
It was quiet until the city began waking up, greeting a new dawn. Engines revving, animals yowling, faint shouts of people in both delight and anger–all so faraway yet much too close at the bottom of the stepwell; a painful reminder of what he doesn’t have.
He drops his arms uselessly to the sides. The temperature of the sun-kissed area around him rises, but his fingers are cold. The water–once a nebulous black–now glowed moss green in the light, revealing all its imperfections.
Hobie sinks to his knees on the steps, half of his jeans soaking up the cool water–neither here nor there. I’m not crazy. Pavitr was here. He’s gone but he’s here. I’m not crazy. Pavitr is real. He’s real. He’s real.
“I’m not crazy!” he bites out loudly–to no one. His yell pinged against the walls, shot upwards and out of the well, into nowhere special.
His breaths came–shallow and frantic, and why am I alive? It should’ve been me. Fuck, it should’ve been me. He ducks his head, jams curled fists into his eyes; the stale green smell of water and vegetation choking him.
Pavitr.
Strong, bright, stupidly brave, reckless Pavitr.
Pavitr whose Spider-senses were more attuned in that moment, while the rest of them were distracted–drunk too early on a victory that hadn’t been earned.
Pavitr who tackled the villain instinctively.
Pavitr whose whole abdomen was blown clean off.
Spider-healing couldn’t save him now.
Hobie retches violently into the water, heaving drily. Tears blur his vision, and his clogged nose combined with the nausea threatens to asphyxiate him. He would have let it; if it were up to him.
Don’t do that, the care in Pavitr’s voice not something he deserved.
But he stays on. He roots himself to this plane as penance. He waits for Pavitr. When the keeper of his heart does show up thanks to some arbitrary rules of the universe; he takes him everywhere, does everything. Pours out all his love, all the things he was too late in saying, all the things he still wanted to say. Spends as much time with Pavitr as possible; never lets a single moment go by where he is not tethered to to the other.
It is never enough; but it is something.
It is his fault for not being more aware. For not confessing his overflowing feelings earlier. For not giving them time.
They could have had so much more time.
The sunlight blazes a sickly yellow, a film of disgust draped over everything. There is no more moon in the sky.
Pōḻutu. The moon is always in the sky; didn’t you learn basic science? It’s there, even if we can’t see it. Hobie felt the ghost of a nudge against his cheek; he followed. And sometimes, it’s right in front of us.
A faint disk of white, floating in the water. Delicate, fragile; but there.
Hobie huffs a laugh to alleviate the excruciating pressure in his lungs. The moon is there. The water ripples. He crosses his legs to face the watery image, slides his guitar to the front, and strums whatever his fingers lead him to–whatever note to fill the silence until Pavitr’s return.
“There is heartbreak in the forgetting of heartbreak,
In the forgetting of pain,
Which returns bright and pulsing
Regardless of the seconds it has been put
Aside.”
~ Sophie Mackintosh
Author’s Notes:
- Stepwells in India are so bloody beautiful, please check them out [here]!
- Actually planned for this fic to be part of the Palimpsest series, but it felt off and a bit lazy to stick-on a Hobie death to it as an alternate ending. So this happened lol
- If you managed to infer which one of them is the one who’s still alive and vice-versa, KUDOS to you dear reader!
- Hobie’s comment about his age. Yeah, I’m looking at you parts of this fandom. No concrete number has been confirmed, so please stop freaking out.
- Why must ghosts be cold and pale and mystic? *humanises your ghosts*
- The character Orsino and the quote are from Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”, which is renowned for its questioning of gender, gender roles, class hierarchy, and social norms. The title itself refers to a time of festivity where social roles would be ‘topsy-turvy’; which are points I think Hobie would enjoy. Pavitr reading the play just for him; that’s love people!
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!
Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated if you did <3