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Hobart “Hobie” Brown is fifteen years old. Among the grimy desks in overcrowded rooms, he spots the boy beside the window. The first thing he notices is the way the boy scrunches his nose. He’s laser-focused on the paper in front of him. Curious, Hobie ditches whatever the uninterested teacher was trying to say, pushing past the chatting students she no longer tries to contain. Hobie sits on the desk behind the boy, trying to get a look at what he’s working on.
It’s him.
It’s Spider-Punk. His roughest outline drawn as the most rudimentary sketch, but the carefully brushed ink lines portray clear prodigy with technique. Behind the figure, words and shapes in joyful bold brightness spill out. In graffiti-style, fluorescent pink and blue is written
I hate the AM
I hate the PM
Osbourne, DM me and I’ll say
Fuck you!
The fuck-you’s are written in a spinning halo above Spider-punk’s head, and the pose he’s in is somehow reminiscent of both a mid-concert jump to the beat and the set-up to a particularly vicious swing-kick. The words themselves are from Hobie’s own band. This boy stringing a connection should be concerning, but it amuses him more than anything.
“You a fan of him then?”
The boy jumps a mile in the air at the tickle of Hobie’s low voice on his shoulder, dropping his pen to the floor.
“Um-“
Hobie grabs the page, intent on getting a closer look. Even closer-up he can see the pencil sketch underneath the ink, the meticulous attention to detail.
“Hey, give me that!”
“You’re quite good.”
The boy grabs the page back, ripping it slightly in his grip.
“Yes” he announces coldly.
“Yes, you’re a fan or yes you’re quite good?”
“No, I’m not- I mean- mean’t- yes. To both. Yes, to both.”
Hobie can’t help but chuckle as he stumbles his way through the words, intended meaning catching through his teeth on the way out.
“I’m Hobie. Are those my lyrics?”
“I know-“ the words rush out “I caught your performance last week- I mean the protest. It meant a lot you know. To a lot of people.”
His eyebrows turn downcast, and he turns away slightly. Hobie understands. President Osbourne’s latest declaration came as hard news. The protests and the riots that followed will hopefully hit him harder.
The bell rings, and this strange boy shoves his page into his backpack and gives him one last glance before rushing off and Hobie has to call to him.
“Hey, I didn’t get your name!”
“I didn’t give it to you!”
The boy who’s desk he was sitting on, gives him an eyeroll before getting up and strolling afterwards.
“He’s Miles. Miles Morales.”
After that one conversation, Hobie often finds Morales lingering at the edge of his vision, sitting in his blind spot, trailing after him like a breeze. They have a lot of classes together. He sees him walking home late at night, while Spider-punk trails far above him. He sees Miles Morales at every single conscription protest. And he finds Miles one memorable night, spray-painting an Osbourne campaign sign.
“You a fan mate?”
It’s amusing how consistently Miles jumps. How easy it is to sneak up on him.
“You should really watch your surroundings when you’re pulling illegal stunts like this.”
Miles raises an eyebrow.
“I am. Maybe you should be more worried-“
“Spider-sense, see? No bloody V.E.N.O.M cops sneaking up on me.”
He walks down the side, looking curiously at how Miles is painting the sign. What was once a crisp dark green billboard with white lettering and a clean picture of Harry Osbourne has been completely defaced. Now, blood-red tears spill from Osbourne’s eyes, black web and barbed wire has coated the green paint top to bottom and the white lettering has been painted over in red and sprayed back on.
“Save all our people. Fight the Conscription Declaration”
He hops down beside Miles, nodding his approval.
“Yes, by the way.”
Hobie looks at him, watching him pick up another can of spray paint.
“You what?”
“Yes, I’m a fan. How do you even do that stuff anyway?”
“I was bitten by a radioactive spider.“
“Not your trading card bullshit, your real story.”
Hobie hesitates. He hasn’t told anyone the real story. Maybe it’s his pride, but he just wanted to come off a little bit more glamorous than he actually was.
“You know the dump by Alchemax, the one that poisoned the Thames? I used to squat there, sleeping underneath a makeshift tent, fighting off the loonies with a pocket knife.”
It’s hard to say. Harder to recall. Miles Morales doesn’t look at him, shading one of the barbed wires on the billboard, adding a vicious shine to the intimidating spikes.
“I thought I’d become a loony when it happened. I got sick, throwing up on my hands and knees and had to crawl shivering into my hiding spot. Then the next morning, I woke up completely fine, bulked out (if you can believe it) sticking to various inane shit. I had to sneak in to Alchemax to figure out what happened. They were experimenting on spider venom, irradiating it with nuclear waste. It didn’t work, I guess, so they scrapped the project and threw it in my spot. I slept a little too close and bam! You’ve got yourself a Spider-punk.”
Miles Morales turns around to look at him and there’s something in his brown eyes that Hobie can’t name.
“Do you still have to squat there?” he asks.
“No” Hobie lies. “That was years ago.”
He leans against the sign, looking Miles Morales up and down.
“What do you think?”
Hobie looks up at the artwork and gives it a solid nod.
“Not as effective as punching a cop, but it’ll do.”
Miles shrugs. “You can do both.” He begins to pack up his paint cans.
“So. What’s your story then?”
“I don’t have a story.”
‘Everyone has a story” Hobie counters. He is burningly curious about this guy, who is both loud and withdrawn, clumsy and precise, stutteringly eloquent Miles Morales.
Miles frowns “My dad got conscripted in. It was Osbourne’s policy for any immigrant family heads even before the latest declaration. Now, I think about rioting against the V.E.N.O.M cops, and I have to think if the one I’m punching is my dad. If the one who broke my Tia’s window was my dad. If the one who got killed when you set off those fireworks was my dad. It’s not fair” his voice breaks on the last word. “He only wanted a better life for me.”
‘And I reckon you’re doing him pretty proud then.”
Spider-punk stares at him. From across the rooftop, Miles Morales stares back. Somewhere behind Hobie, a huge explosion has broken out. He should be seeing to it, but he’s busy locked in a bloody staring contest with a kid from school, watching the way the fire is reflecting in his brown irises. In this light, they look like the wrinkled leather of the bible he used to study in the worn-down catholic school he attended as a child. Holy eyes. And as the arms of the explosion grow upwards, his irises grow golden petals.
“How are you so much cooler in real life?” Miles asks in astonishment.
“I was always this cool” Hobie retorts. He swings off.
***
Hobart “Hobie” Brown is almost sixteen years old. He’s been Spider-Punk for a year, and he’s getting a pretty good hang of it. He got some money working as a model for some indie fashion shop. He’s got a small shitty apartment. He had to quit school to run from the government, and he hasn’t seen Morales since. Until tonight.
It’s a rough bar, hidden underneath a laundromat with a complex route of staircases and passwords to enter. Those who do are rougher, scars laden on their hard-worked bodies, faces twisted with the war that still rages and dust has sunken into their wrinkles, but tonight they smile. They clank drinks, they clutch hands, they sing to Hobie’s crooned lyrics and even among the rowdy crowd, Hobie spots Miles Morales.
He’s sitting perched on the bar stool, holding a beer in his hand like he’s not quite sure what do with it. He’s wearing one of Hobie’s band shirts and tapping his foot to the tune. Hobie grins at him and when the set finishes, he runs over.
“Miles Morales, my man!” he chuckles cheerfully and Morales clutches his arm and smiles just as brightly.
“Nice set.”
“Right? I hope my friend Babble here hasn’t ripped you off for that piss” Hobie grabs his beer playfully and sniffs it. The bartender rolls his eyes but pours two new glasses of his better brew and shoves them over. He’d better. Hobie’s saved his ass more than thrice.
The world is only getting harder. Protests against the conscription notice fell through in a big way, and Harry Osbourne’s V.E.N.O.M corps are only getting larger the more innocent men get drafted into it. Those who run, who dodge the draft, are trying to form their own secret army, but get killed or captured more often than not. Hobie notes the dark rings under Morales’s eyes and wonders if he’s running as well.
“No” he says, straining to be heard above the droning speakers. “I haven’t been called yet. And if I had- I’m not sure if I could- um, my dad-“
“Yeah” Hobie responds. “You told me remember?”
Miles eyebrows deepen but he nods.
“C’mon man, you should join us” Hobie slings an arm around his shoulder.
“I’m not really sure. I don’t even know what I’m doing in this place. Ganke dragged me-“
“I’ll tell you what you do, mate” Hobie croons again. “You dance”
And he drags Miles to the dance floor, to the centre of the mosh pit. Miles keeps clutching onto his forearm, so they don’t get separated and sure, Hobie is amused by his naiveté but keeps him close anyway. Hobie shows him how to dance in a hidden anarchist bar.
Miles drops by a lot more after that. And then some nights he gets so drunk, Hobie really has no choice but to let him stay the night and some nights Hobie is so drunk he has no choice but to flop on top of his body, and he awakes from a blackout fit with Miles dozing on his chest.
Hobie has a ringing headache, and a suspicion that it’s time to pull on his spider-suit and jet off but for once, the sun is shining through his shitty dusty window and Hobie gives himself ten minutes.
With a guitar-calloused finger, he traces the outline of Miles lips. He brushes his eyelids gently, feels the texture of his eyebrows and with the lightest touch, brushes the tips of his eyelashes where they rest on his skin. He comforts the deep indents of his dark eye-rings, becomes familiar with every dimple, and finally runs his fingers through Miles neglected hair and as he does, begins to feel a deep burning hunger.
He runs off then, terrified at the thought of falling in love.
But it’s too late.
Miles Morales has already tagged his crumbling heart and stained there.
***
Hobie Brown is sixteen years old. Miles Morales is helping him set up the drums before a set, and he’s created a beautiful spray-painted backdrop on a white sheet. They’re arguing.
“I hate that stupid problem”
“It’s a good problem. Makes you think”
“No, it doesn’t”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Because if you pull the lever-“
“Shut up, Brown”
“If you pull the lever, you’re responsible for that individuals death but if you-“
“Oh my god”
“But if you don’t, you’re not technically responsible but more people die.”
“I would pull the lever and run” Miles grumbles.
“Then two people would die” Hobie counters evenly.
“Not if you run fast enough”
“You can’t always save everyone.” He would know.
“You can try. You should always try.”
They’re arguing because last week, Miles got cornered while he was out painting. There was a moment- Hobie saw it before he swung in- where Miles had the gun. He had a chance to shoot. To save himself. He took the chance and tried to knock the cop out instead.
“Look man, I know your dad is out there. But not every cop is your dad and if it’s between you and him-“
“I choose both of us.”
If there’s one thing Hobie can appreciate, it’s Miles stubbornness. He tilts his head at an angle, watching his boy through his eyelashes.
“Besides” Mile smiles, changing the vibe. “You’ll always be there to save me.”
Hobie smiles back. “Yeah” he promises. “I will. And we’ll save your dad too one day.”
Miles sighs and sinks onto his back. Eager to continue the conversation, he changes the topic.
“So, what’s with the yankee accent? Haven’t you lived here long enough yet?”
“Nope. I will never develop your dumbass cockney bullshit”.
“Oi!” He laughs. “What was it like in the states, anyway?”
“Worse than here, if you can imagine it. After the nukes, everything just . . . died. Every green thing. But when I was little . . . you can’t imagine it Hobie. The sun shone- every day. The sky was so blue it could make your eyes hurt. And people- well they weren’t friends but they smiled at you. They asked you how you were, we were a community. We were proud of our country.”
“Huh. Well, for what it’s worth I’m proud of my country too, you know.”
“No way”
“Yeah way. I’m proud of us man. I’m proud of this. Our music, our people, our art. And I like having you here.”
Hobie gestures around the bar. The chatter of friendly conversation as patrons get their afternoon drinks, listen to the comforting sound of rain.
“You like the chaos too”
“I can’t lie, I like the chaos too. I like it unpredictable, a new adventure every day, a new baddie around every corner. I like it when nothing ever stops, like a boom beat of city-life. Man, I can’t get enough of this place. I just wish people could live here, you know?”
‘I know”
Miles turns and smiles at him and for a second, everything feels so right.
Until the sound of gunfire turns the world red.
His bar has been raided.
It doesn’t take long to pull on the spider-suit but in that time, Babble has already become red-bullet-ridden-wetness, scattered in pieces across his beloved bar. There is no time to dwell on it. Hobie has to save who he can save, yanking guns away with his web, shielding the survivors with debris. He thinks he’s basically gotten everyone out, before he realises he has to go back in for Miles, and for the first time in a long time- panic constricts his throat.
Not him.
He runs through the fire. Finds his sketchbook, tucks it into his vest. Calls out.
‘MORALES!”
He hears a weak answering cry in response. The V.E.N.O.M soldier has his throat in a vice-like grip and the symbiote flesh is quickly wrapping up his cheeks, starting to climb up to his eyes. Hobie’s in, but he didn’t see the second soldier just out view and is stunned by the force of its blow against his head. He crumples to the ground.
Miles eyes darken, and he raises a hand and goes for the soldier’s eyes, it rails back with a shriek and in a second of weakness-
Hobie strikes.
He leaps upwards, using his web to pull Miles up with him, climbing higher and higher as the foundation crumbles beneath them. And then
They are soaring.
High above the London skyline. Morales clutching tight to Spider-Punk’s chest. Hobie looks at his eyes, at his golden-petals and rich earth and for a second is lost in that memory of sunlight in the morning. But the ground is hurtling for them rapidly and Hobie breaks off to get them both safely down.
“Um” Miles says awkwardly.
‘Yeah, I know, I saved your life again, you’re very welcome”
“No, your mask” the words come out in a stilted way. Morales is looking at him- with- almost with fear. “There’s a rip.”
As if to prove his point, the goddam thing slides off entirely and lands between them with a thunk.
“I can explain.” Hobie says quickly, but Miles is shaking his head, he’s quaking.
He’s laughing.
“I knew man” he giggles out finally. “You’re not subtle.”
“I’m very subtle.” Hobie says indignantly. But he’s relieved. He grabs Miles in his arms and checks him. “Are you hurt?”
Miles shakes his head again. “I’m good man. You promised.”
There’s a beat. Hobie’s wondering if he should just throw caution to the winds and kiss him, but maybe it’s a bad time- when Miles beats him to it. He throws his hands around Hobie’s neck and kisses with a recklessness that gives him a run for his money.
A grimy alleyway, with his- well, now-boyfriend bleeding out of a small wound on his forehead is not how Hobie pictured this moment but fuck it, not even Brooklyn could beat sunshine like this.
They chuckle when they break apart and hold each other close.
“How are you so much cooler without the mask?” Miles breathes.
“I was this cool the whole time” Hobie retorts.
And he’s so relieved and overjoyed, that for a second he lets overworked spider-sense slide and doesn’t quite register the enemy until the gunshot. It’s one-second. Hobie has the symbiote on the ground in a movement, his skull smashed in and littered on the ground. But it’s not enough.
Miles moved quicker.
Miles took the bullet.
The hole in his chest is too large for Hobie’s hands to stem. The blood flows in lines as he falls to the ground and look like nothing much more than a godforsaken spider against his black shirt. His eyes grow and in another second they become dull and indistinguishable from the ground around him.
Hobie screams.
***
For a second- for one second. Hobie turns cruel. He picks up the gun the V.E.N.O.M soldier left behind and marches with the intent to turn it on every single cog in the system that lead to that moment.
But something stops him.
The seed that Miles planted in his heart, grows into one word and it fires Hobie Brown into action like every screamed lyric in his punk-rock band.
Enough.
Enough.
That’s enough!
That’s what he screams when he launches his guitar directly into President Osbourne’s stupid face.
He tosses up between attending Mile’s short funeral as Spider-Punk or Hobie Brown but eventually elects not to attend at all.He does swing by to hand off the sketchbook to Rio however. He thought about keeping it. Spent night after sleepless night crouched alone in a toxic dump, looking for Miles Morales. Instead he only finds himself.
Spider-Punk swinging above the rooftops. Spider-Punk, rocking it down a run-way. Spider-Punk, covered in blood. Spider-punk on a dark rooftop, smouldering face lit up by an explosion set off behind him.
Hobie Brown is there. Hobie holding the microphone like a kiss. Hobie slouched over on a desk, drumming on the wood. Hobie Brown dancing in the bar. Hobie Brown collapsed on his bedroom floor, lit up by moonlight coming in through a shitty, dusty window.
Hobie has never hated himself more than looking at those pictures. He wishes Miles had drawn a self-portrait even once. He dreams of bibles, of petals, of fires. Never once does he dream of his eyes as they once were, and the memory is getting away from him, bit by bit.
He tries drawing the boy himself once. The rough pencil sketch is thrown to the wind.
***
Hobie “Spider-Punk” Brown is seventeen years old. He’s only taken his mask off for two people. One for the boy who slipped away. And the other time, for a V.E.N.O.M cop. For his sworn enemy. For what he once joyously described as a “capitalist-entrenched pig”. It’s hard to feel joyous at what lies before him. A man who came to a country for a better life and died. A man who didn’t choose this life.
Captain Jeff of the Symbiote brigade. When Osbourne’s home base broke down, the symbiote’s died, taking their hosts with them. Hobie is desperately trying to save who he can save.
“It’s alright boy” the captain mumbles.
“It’s not-“ Hobie half-sobs, trying desperately to resuscitate him. “I promised.”
“Boy” the captain says, stronger this time. “This is not your responsibility.”
“Shut up” Hobie demands.
“Promised who.”
“Someone I loved very much” Hobie mumbles, but it’s not working. Even he can see that.
“And what exactly did you promise?” The captain asks. He offers his hand. Hobie takes it.
“I promised him I would try to save everybody.”
“Then I reckon you’ve done him proud.” And then Captain Jeff is gone. Hobie bows his head and makes to leave.
There’s a figure behind him, Hobie whips around, webs at the ready.
But then his spider-sense goes off in a different way. The figure is taller than him and on his blue chest is branded the red spider-symbol.
“You’re like me” It comes out more as accusation.
“This had to happen” the figure says. “Let me show you.”
***
Spider-Punk is seventeen years old and his universe was always a little loose at the seams but now it’s seriously coming apart and Hobie likes it that way. A new adventure every day, a new baddie around every corner, a life unpredictable, the city thrumming like the beat of a boom box. Hobie doesn’t trust Miguel as far as he can throw him, but there’s more than just Miguel to this society and no-one said Spider-Punk has to dislike being around people again. He restarts the band with this punk-rock chick, Spider-Woman. She’s been kicked out, she says. Hobie’s been there, and he’s not gonna let a kid like him choose a dump so he opens his apartment to her. And his arms.
He watches her look with something burning at Mile’s old graffiti. Hobie still makes an effort to upkeep it when he can. He asks her if she’s got a Miles Morales in her universe. She shrugs. He leaves it there.
***
And then one day, another beat, another line down the song, he travels across the universe at her call. He bursts through the cracked shield and hears Gwen call for
“Miles!”
And in a flash, he knows who it is. Younger and spider-ier and americaner, absolutely. But him. Maybe Hobie is being a fool, but he quiets the song of the graffiti tag in his heart and follows this strange boy into the elevator.
Hobie has been in spider-society for a while now. He knows a thousand Peter Parkers, all with a thousand different faces but this Miles . . .is the exact same. Down to the way he scrunches his nose as he surveys his surroundings.
But there are no golden petals in his holy eyes. Instead, there are full-grown sunflowers.
“How are you even cooler underneath your mask?” He asks in disbelief.
Hobie gives him a sly half-smile, like he’s ribbing an old friend.