Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lights are off and the projector is on when Miles enters the classroom; several students look at him, a few glaring and at least one grinning mockingly. Miles hesitates for a second, then scurries inside, walking crouched to avoid blocking the video cast on the whiteboard. His seat is close to the front — he can totally make it there without the teacher noticing.

The audio cuts off with a click. 

"Mr. Morales, moving in the dark," Ms. Calleros says, tone unimpressed. "You're late again." 

Miles straightens, squinting against the harsh projector light, and says, "Einstein said time was relative, right? Maybe I'm not late — maybe you guys are early." 

Crickets. Quiet, judgmental crickets. Not even a smile. Miles is contemplating changing his name and moving to New Zealand when a guy in the second row cracks and chuckles. A few of their classmates side-eye the guy, but he shows no sign of caring. 

Unamused, Ms. Calleros asks Miles if he's planning on sitting down anytime soon, restarting the video without waiting for his reply. Frowning, Miles makes it to his seat, thumping his stack of books on the desk and sliding into the chair. He was, in fact, going to sit, and would've done it faster if she hadn't interrupted him. Why do adults love to blame you for things they cause? 

Silence returns as the scientist lady in the video continues her lecture on... parallel universes? Miles isn't really listening, because the guy who laughed is sitting right next to him. He must be new — newer than Miles, that is, because Miles doesn’t remember seeing him in this class before. And he would've seen him, because this guy stands out. 

He's tall, first of all, so much that he's towering even while sitting slouched, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his legs stretched and sprawling. Secondly, he looks older than everyone else, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Lastly, he looks badass. His hair is in twists, long enough to touch his shoulders, and he's got several rings in his ears and one in his nose. He's also wearing neither the school-issued tie nor the sweater... and possibly not the pants either? It's difficult to tell in the darkness, but his appear to have a faint plaid pattern rather than be plain gray. He's basically a walking dress code violation. 

He looks awesome. 

And, he's looking straight at Miles. 

Miles tenses, cheeks heating up at getting caught staring. Smirking, the cool guy leans across the aisle and whispers:

"Ace joke, mate." 

Miles blinks twice. "Really?" 

"Yeah. Not funny." He shrugs. "But clever." There's a lilt to the guy's words that Miles has only heard on TV prior to now. He's British? Maybe he just moved here. 

"I don't think I've seen you before—" 

Ms. Calleros shushes them; Miles snaps his attention back to the whiteboard, back ramrod-stiff. The cool guy sighs, but also returns to watching the video. It's actually a pretty interesting topic, now that Miles is paying attention. Still, he can't help but glance at the cool guy. As if he knows, as if he feels Miles' gaze on him, he glances back… and shoots Miles a wink. Not pissed at Miles about getting reprimanded for talking, then. That's relieving. Miles grins in response, but doesn’t attempt to restart the conversation right under Ms. Calleros' nose — they spend the rest of class in silence. 

"What's up with school?" Uncle Aaron asks from over by the sink. 

"Going great!" Miles says as he pummels the punching bag, the chains it hangs on clinking. "Got tons of friends."

Uncle Aaron shuts off the water and removes the yellow dishwashing gloves. "You can't tell me it's all that bad there. Smart girls is where it's at. Place must be full of 'em."

Chuckling, he grabs the bag, keeping it still. Out of all the laughs Miles has heard, Uncle Aaron's is the most infectious, so he laughs too even as he shakes his head. 

"Nooo... there's no one."

The microwave dings; Miles gives the punching bag one last kick while Uncle Aaron goes to get the popcorn.

"Yo, I can't have no nephew of mine on the streets with no game."

"Hey, I got game! It's not that. It's just" — he snatches the sketchbook off the table and sinks onto the plush sofa — "everyone there so stuck up and boring."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone." Flipping open the book, Miles readies his marker, but hesitates to touch the paper. "Actually..." he says, "there was a new guy in physics today? He seemed okay."

Taking a seat, Uncle Aaron hums encouragingly, like he wants to hear more. So Miles tells him. About the guy's clothes and piercings, and how he was cool but also friendly. Uncle Aaron nods along, approving of the description in the way Miles' father never will. 

"Sounds like a good guy. The kind you want in your corner. You got his name?" 

"Nah, didn't catch it."

Uncle Aaron shrugs. "Do it tomorrow." 

"I dunno... What if he don't wanna hang with me?" 

"Why not? You cool."

"Yeah, but..."

But Miles is cool in an average way. Physics guy, though? Beyond average. He's cool like he doesn't know how not to be, like he just wakes up like that. And just because he was nice to Miles once doesn't mean he's got a further interest in him. What if Miles approaches him and physics guy thinks he's weird? What if he doesn't even remember Miles? Miles not making friends with all the snooty overachievers is one thing, but getting snubbed by an actually cool person would be devastating. 

Chuckling, Uncle Aaron clamps his hand around Miles' shoulder. 

"I'ma give you a few tips, 'kay?" 

Hours later, Miles goes to bed with a whirlwind in his head: images of the graffiti place, his empty essay, his dad glaring in the driver's seat, physics guy winking at him, and more play over and over again on his retinas.

Tomorrow, he's going to use what Uncle Aaron told him and learn physics guy's name, at the least. 

He falls asleep with spray paint fumes in his nose and a slight itch around the bite on his hand.

Chapter Text

Today is already a terrible day, and class hasn't even started yet. Miles stumbles through the hallway, trying to walk and adjust his pants leg at the same time. He really needs to get new pants. And maybe a new body, while he's at it. 

Seriously, how can one overnight growth spurt be so disruptive? Miles feels… not bad, but off. His senses are all out of whack — the fluorescents are brighter on his eyes, his classmates' perfumes are sharper in his nose, his clothes scratchier against his skin, and his balance is just. Not working with him. He's never claimed to be graceful, but the way he's floundering even while walking normally is ridiculous. Part of it's the added height, but it might also be because of his head; his brain is somehow fuzzy yet the clearest it's ever been. 

And his thoughts. 

Are. 

So loud! 

Has he actually been talking for all to hear this entire time? Is that why it booms in his ears? He scans the crowd to see if anyone's looking at him like he's a weirdo who's talking aloud when he bumps into someone. Miles whips around, and comes face to face with Cool Physics Guy. 

Who looks even cooler in the natural sunshine pouring in through the skylights.

He's definitely breaking dress code in all the ways Miles noted yesterday, but what Miles didn't see in the dark classroom were the studded leather accessories, including a choker. So awesome. And to top it off? He's not carrying a bag or any books, but an electric guitar on his back. He's also unexpectedly bright. Not as in his hair and clothes being colorful, but as in him being vivid. He has a luster to his skin, his hair, his eyes, his shoelaces. As if he discovered something beyond high definition and saturated himself in it. The sight makes Miles' head tingle.

This is the moment Miles should break out Uncle Aaron's advice and get the dude's name, establish the base for a friendship.What does happen is Miles takes one look at Cool Physics Guy and jumps a foot into the air with a squeak. 

Cool Physics Guy raises an eyebrow. "Safe. Are you… okay?" 

"What?" Miles says, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He's sweating so much!  

"Cuz you're sweating a lot." 

"It's puberty!" Miles blurts, and oooh he needs to melt into a puddle. He continues talking instead. "Or, not puberty. I don't know why I said that. I'm not going through puberty. I did, but I'm done. I... I'm a man," he finishes, instantly regretting deepening his voice at the end.

Cool Physics Guy stares at him, not laughing or baffled but rather concerned. Which is fair! It's fair to be concerned when you have a seemingly crazy person in front of you.

Miles breathes. Calm down. This is still salvageable. "So you're, like, new here, right? We got that in common." 

"Uh huh…" Cool Physics Guy says, appearing unconvinced that Miles will stay normal and bracing himself for when the shit hits the fan. 

"Yeah, cool. I'm Miles." 

"I'm Ho-uuuuhhhh-owell." 

Miles tilts his head as he deciphers the guy's accent. "Howell?" 

"Yep. Family name." 

"From England?" 

"Yyyyyyep." 

"Oh. So, what brought you here?" 

Howell snorts. "Wonderin' that myself."

 "Umm?" 

Howell leans forward, whispering, "Let you in on a secret, mate: I ain't supposed to be here." 

Miles frowns. "At Visions? Then… why are you?" 

"Why not?" 

"I mean. If you gonna infiltrate a place, why pick the elitist institution that cares more about catering to the 'superior class' than students who have the brains and work ethic and deserves it?" 

Howell's eyebrows are at his hairline. He huffs a laugh. "Why are you here, then?"

Miles groans. "Won a lottery. I'm the annual charity case so they can pat themselves on the back and pretend the system's fair." 

Howell beams, all teeth on display. 

"Tell you what, Miles: you're bare nang."

Miles perks up. He's no idea what that means, but it sounds like a good thing? 

"Thanks! Hey, d'you wanna—" he says, patting Howell's upper arm. But when he tries to retract his hand, he finds it stuck to Howell's jacket. "Uhhhhh…" He sends Howell a questioning look, but he's as surprised as Miles is. It's not him who's dipped his own clothes in glue, then. Miles tugs; the fabric stretches. "I—I don't know what—" 

"Oi, it's fine." Howell grabs his wrist. "Just relax—" 

Miles tugs again, harder. Howell staggers forward, bumping into Miles with a muttered, "Stronger than you look, innit". Miles backs away, jerking his hand loose, but the hand doesn’t come loose, and Howell is dragged along with every panicked pull. 

"Mierda, mierda, mierda!" Miles hisses as he leads them in a roundabout dance. "I dunno what—" 

"Hey, hey!" Howell snaps. "Mate, calm down. Miles, you have to let go—" 

"I'm trying!" Miles snaps back, and yanks as hard as he can. 

The rip echoes. 

Miles and Howell both freeze. In sync, they look to the source of the sound. The white of Howell's shirt peeks out at his shoulder, a few measly threads all that connect the sleeve to the rest of the garment. Howell silently slides his arm out of the sleeve. Gulping, Miles offers up the torn fabric, still attached to his hand. Howell withdraws, hands held up in rejection. 

"Don't worry 'bout it, bruv." 

Miles nods, arm falling to his side. He clutches the sleeve until his knuckles crack. Every inch of him burns — his face, his stomach, his throat, his eyes. Around them, people are whispering. Someone in the crowd laughs; the burn is replaced with ice. They're laughing at him, because everyone saw him act like a total freak, andandand—

Miles turns on his heel and runs. 

This day can't get any worse. 

The day gets worse. And so does the day after that, and the day after that, culminating in him hanging on a branch dressed like a knockoff Spider-Man with a glitching Peter B Parker and a hard drive slipping from Miles' grip. The hard drive falls, as do they when the branch breaks; Doctor Octavius swiftly snatches up the drive with one of her tentacles. 

This is it, Miles thinks as he beholds the rapidly approaching ground. Not only will they lose what they worked so hard to get, but they'll probably die too. In less than a week Miles got both himself and two Spider-Man mentors killed. This is the end. 

And that's when the crisp note of an electric guitar reverberates in the distance. 

Snow-covered slopes and fiery-leafed trees woosh past the bus windows. A faint silvery glow outlines Hobie's body as he surveys the broken override key. The effect is ethereal, making him appear out of this world. Which he technically is... just not like that. 

"He broke this?" he asks Miles, eyes flicking back to where Peter has stretched himself across four seats. 

"Yeah." Miles lowers his voice. "He's actually really embarrassed about it, so just keep it between us, okay?"

Hobie smiles and shrugs his assent. "Shit happens. We'll make another ting." 

He tosses the key upward and snatches it out of the air twice. The third time he tosses it to Miles, who fumbles inelegantly before catching it. Warmth prickles over his face as Hobie smiles at his clumsiness. It's not cruel, though, just amused. And cool. Miles would love to be a little less embarrassingly awestruck over the guy, but it's hard. Wherever Hobie goes, awe seems to follow. He does this thing when he smiles where one corner of his mouth stretches higher than the other, pushing his lips into a pucker, and together with those cutting cheekbones and hooded eyes he looks ready for the front cover. How are you supposed to not stare at him? 

Miles clears his throat and slips the key into his pocket. 

"It's great having you aboard, by the way," he says, and wow, really? 'Having you aboard'? Is he fifty? Ugh, quick, say something else! "Hey, um, did you know, that day in class, that I was gonna… And that's why you…?" 

"Nope. Serendipity, bruv. I thought your joke was clever and wanted you to know it. Places like that suck the life outta man. If I could make your day less shite, I was gonna do it. Was the day after I sensed you was special."

"Oh, okay."

Something soft and warm flutters around Miles' chest. Special. He's special now. Like Hobie, like Peter. 

"You got people?" Hobie asks. "Friends? Nice parents?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Good. Doing this ain't easy. Doing it alone is worse. You need people around even if you don't tell them who you are. But telling someone is better, innit."

"You told anyone?" 

"A couple of mates know. They help me out."

"That's safe? I mean… if they're not like us, how do they not get hurt?" Miles asks, and immediately regrets it, because. Something happens to Hobie's body. 

His face remains unruffled, but his vivid colors drain like an emptying bathtub, leaving him dull and newspaper-gray. Words in a harshly impersonal font appear on his skin, swirling, creeping, though the letters are too small for Miles to make out. 

Hobie says, "Sometimes they don't."

Miles worries his lip. He must swallow past a lump in his throat before he can respond. "Oh, um. I— I'm sorry—" 

"Nah." Hobie waves dismissively. "S'a good question. I don't like them being at risk, but I ain't never stopping them from fighting for a cause they believe in. It's their lives, their world, and their fight just as much as mine. And I'd rather fight with them than apart from them."

He smiles disarmingly at Miles. The color doesn't return to him, though, and part of the text boldens. Miles reads 'filth' and 'sorry' and 'my fault' before realizing just because he can read it doesn't mean he should; he averts his gaze. Opposite him, Hobie sighs. 

"Look, Miles, I'll only tell you once: this world wants you to hate yourself and mistrust the people around you. It wants you isolated, cuz it can exploit you easier. Kill you easier. Never let it. Be generous with your love and give others the chance to love you back. Take care of yourself and the ones that matter, and let them return the favor. And whoever tries beating you down, you give your biggest fucking middle finger, you get me? You're stronger than that."

Miles blinks twice. "Um. Yeah?" 

Hobie squints at him, eyes roving over his face as if to check he actually does understand. At last, he nods, satisfied. 

"Good."

Silence falls. Miles shifts in his seat while Hobie slumps comfortably in his, head tilted back to consider the ceiling. The bus is near empty, save for the driver, some old people in the front, and the napping Peter in the back. The scenery outside is the same as earlier. They have 30 more minutes before they're getting off. Miles clears his throat. 

"Sooo… What kind of…" he racks his brain for Hobie's exact wording, "'unpermitted political performance art pieces' you usually make?"

Hobie flashes pink and yellow; he grins.

Chapter Text

Chilly air nips at his exposed nose and cheeks; Miles breathes it greedily, his lungs expanding until his ribs ache. He peers over the building's edge, past his dangling legs. Skyscrapers loom beneath him. A bolt of lightning cuts across the light-polluted sky, a split-second fissure that reflects in crystalline windows.

The world is radiant.

Miles pulls the mask down his face, then plants his feet against the glass and perches on it, facing downward. New York is but flashing lights and blurry movements from this far up. Any signs of life are merely whispers in the darkness. He breathes in, and he breathes out. 

Peter told him to leap. Hobie told him to love.

Miles looks at the expanse of his fall, and he sees his mother's face. He listens to the wind whipping around his head, and he hears his father's voice. He flexes his fingers, and he feels the grip of his uncle's hand. 

His thoughts are occupied by his family and his friends, and the resulting warmth envelops his racing heart, chasing off the terror that wants to settle in his bones. 

He pushes off. 

He falls. 

He flies. 

His entrance is spectacular, if he may say so himself. 

Miles will savor the baffled look on Doc Ock's face as he punches her into the ceiling for as long as he lives; he'll savor Peter's jubilant declaration of pride and love even longer. Unfortunately, the celebration is cut short by the ceiling tiles whooshing past them, not to mention the collider that's crackling with energy below. It's intense, his spider-sense alerting him of constant danger from every direction. 

But Miles isn't worried. He's got Peter on his left and Hobie on his right, and he can count on them as much as they can count on him. He's figured it out, and he's going to send his friends home and walk away with life intact. The only time his heart reaches his mouth is when Hobie glitches at the worst possible moment, getting caught by a tentacle and slammed into a building that cracks from the impact of his body. Peeling off like a sticker, Hobie drops and tumbles through the air toward the center of the collider-beam. Miles bolts after, zooming past semis and dodging debris until he's close enough to grab Hobie's hand. 

Hobie, coming to, blinks at him. "Did you spray paint your suit?"

"Hah, yeah!" 

"That's peng, bruv."

"Thanks!" Miles says, since it sounds like a good thing, and shoots a web for Peter to pull them to safety with. 

A few punches and one wallop with an electric guitar later, they've got Doc Ock beaten. Miles' first villain smackdown! Sure, that truck helped them out, but still. They won!

Miles is bubbling, euphoria mixed with adrenaline making him a little delirious. Emboldened, he lifts the goober off Peter and swings up to the panel the same crazy-awesome way his Peter Parker did an eternity ago. 

This is it — he's sending them home. 

"Oi," Hobie says after Peni, Noir, and Ham have all vanished in the beam and Miles has stuffed the mallet in his pocket (it does fit). He — now sepia-toned, his vest bright orange — pulls his mask off and levels his gaze with Miles'. "You make sure you ain't alone in this ting, yeah?" 

Miles chuckles. "I'll never be alone — I've got you."

Hobie's expression shutters. For a second, Miles thinks he said something wrong. Then a long arm wraps around Miles' waist and hauls him into Hobie's chest. Miles squawks, scrambling for purchase on Hobie's vest lapels, as Hobie presses their bodies flush and buries his face in the crook of Miles' neck. 

"M'gonna miss you, bruv," he says; it vibrates over Miles' skin, so gentle and warm. 

Miles pulls back. He hangs freely, his hands and feet completely unstuck from the ceiling tile, Hobie's hold all that keeps him from falling. He still feels the safest he's ever been in this chamber. 

Hobie's twists are spilling forth, the ends caressing Miles' face. Miles sweeps his eyes over Hobie's pink (literally — all of him is glowing rose pink) face, mapping every inch of it, memorizing the shape of his eyes and the slant of his nose and the angle of his cheekbones. He must remember all of it forever. 

"I'll miss you too," he says. 

Hobie grins at him. Miles grins back. Peter clears his throat. 

"Boys, this is sweet, but…" 

He gestures to the chaos surrounding them. Hobie, fading into silvery gray, nods and puts Miles back. 

"Sorry about the jacket, by the way," Miles says. Hobie barks a surprised laughter, regaining his color. 

"Don't be. Was more punk rock after you was done with it," he says, smiling so wide his eyes taper. He offers a two-finger salute. "In a bit, Spider-Man." 

With that, he lets go. Diving into the beam, it morphs the emitting light into the spread of a punk zine; paper clippings, cut out letters, crude drawings, and anarchist slogans momentarily dance before Miles' eyes. 

And that's the last he ever sees of Hobie Brown.

Chapter Text

The contents of the box clatter and clink as they're forced side to side. There are buttons, zippers, safety pins, studs, spikes, spools of thread, spools of wire, sewing needles and straight pins in boxes that are closed and secured, a fork for some reason, several seam rippers (most of which are broken), and more. No sign of any chain link, though. 

Hobie narrows his eyes at the box. He knows the link is in there; he saw it just a few days ago, can't have been more than a week, and he didn't remove it. It has to still be there. Rather than rummage a third time, he turns the box upside down and dumps everything on his bed. Spreading it out on the duvet, his gaze quickly zooms in on the desired object; he snatches up the link and plonks back into his chair, leaving the mess behind in favor of his task: modifying the school blazer he stole from BVA so long ago. 

This is the final touch — attach the link to the sleeve and the garm will be complete, finally. At eight months, it's his longest project to date. Part of the reason is he's been busy Spider-Manning lately. Another part is he simply felt like taking his time with it, never wanting it to end just yet. 

But everything has to end at some point. 

She's going to be blinding, though. Impressive for something that started out so dull and drab. He didn't even intend to keep it, only nicking it to blend in. But then, as they prepared to infiltrate Fisk Tower and return home, he stowed away the blazer. A memento of his weirdest adventure yet. Didn't hurt that the torn off sleeve really did make it look more punk rock, just like he'd told Miles…

Miles. 

Miles Morales. 

What a guy, especially for someone with a fucking pig for a dad. A smile tugs at Hobie's lips as he sews on the chain. He knew the kid could come through, and he's thrilled that Miles realized it, too. He learned fast, and Hobie can only hope he'll get to one day see Miles at his full potential. 

Most likely, he won't. But he can hope. 

Hobie forces a heavy breath through his nose. He won't think about it now; he's meant to be relaxing. It's been a long, fruitful day of stealing supplies and handing them out to the needy. But now it's time to wind down and shut off his brain before he kips. 

He reaches over to lower the volume on the radio until the music is barely audible. The distorted hum helps lull him into a daze as he focuses on the needle and the thread, creating small but sturdy stitches over and over and over and over and over again, until

It's finished. 

Hobie holds the blazer aloft, scanning his handiwork. It's unrecognizable. He's added buttons to the pockets so they'll close, and the shoulders are now covered in spikes and studs. Home-made pins deck the lapels, and he's sewn patches onto the front and on the sleeve Miles didn't tear off. The link, shining silverly, hangs loosely across a patch. On the back, the words WITH GREAT POWER COMES NO FUTURE are written in blocky letters, the white paint striking against the navy cloth.

Rising from the rickety chair, he then heads over to the full-length mirror that stands propped against the wall. He shrugs on the blazer, adjusts the lapels and the collar, and surveys his stained reflection. It looks pretty fucking sick. 

Smiling, he twirls to view it from every possible angle, striking different poses as he goes. 

"Look what we did, Miles," he says aloud, because it's not just his work. Hobie merely finished what Miles started. A collaborative effort. Just a shame only one of them will see it. 

Over at his workstation, the faint music on the radio cuts off. If Hobie had been a regular boy, he never would've noticed. But he's not regular. 

In a flash, he's back at the desk, turning the volume knob. The disc jockeys on the clandestine radio only interrupt tracks when something happens — and those somethings are usually bad. Tonight is no exception. 

"—was a dodgy occurrence in Regent's Park: a bright, glowy gate-thingy, and someone might've exited it? I haven't a scooby what—" 

Hobie's thoughts race as he wriggles out of the blazer and rips off the rest of his clothes. He'll never forget the portal that dragged him through time and space, and 'bright and glowy gate' sounds just like it. Could it be? Or is it something else?

Only one way to find out. 

Suit on and guitar-strap secured, he shuts off the radio and gives Karl's helmet a tap goodbye before swinging out. 

Regent's Park is dark and empty when he arrives. According to the DJ, the gate was near Bedford College, but there's no guarantee whoever used the gate stuck around. Still, Hobie heads there first in the search for clues. 

There is, as expected, no gate or portal or any stuff like that to be seen. However, the closer he gets to the college, the stronger the tingling in his head becomes. He's only felt it a few times prior to this, and they was all when… 

"I hoped you'd find me!"

Hobie whirls toward the voice, and the source of the tingling , one hand gripping his guitar just in case. A tall figure steps from the shadows, the full moon illuminating the red of his mask and the silhouetted spider on his chest. 

Hobie lets go of the guitar's neck. "Parker?"

"It's me!" Laughing, Peter spreads his arms wide. "Great to see you!"

"What's up? Why are you here?"

"Straight to business; Miguel's going to love that. All right, I'll cut to the chase: I came here with this."

He extends his arm. Hobie leans forward to squint at the slick metal-thingybob attached to his wrist.

"A watch?"

"Eeeh, bit more advanced than that, but yeah! Pretty much." Peter's head darts to and fro, scanning their surroundings. "Listen, this is a bit too exposed for my tastes. Let's go somewhere else and I'll explain everything."

Hobie nods, readying his web-shooter. "Follow me." 

He leads them to a secluded rooftop, and then Peter talks — he talks so Hobie's head spins with it. About being practically kicked into the collider-beam by Miles, about reuniting with MJ and patching things up, about being approached by yet another Spider-Man from an even distant-er future, about multiverse-jumping gizmos, about-

"—so now there's this society of Spider-People. It started out as this small strike team, but…" Peter trails off, his enthused hand-talking motions faltering. "Something happened a while back. We realized there are bigger threats to the multiverse than we expected, and we need more people. Soooo," he pokes Hobie's chest, "I threw your name into the mix — I told the others all about you, and they were impressed! And now I'm here."

Hobie releases the breath he's been holding for what feels like forever. There's a society of Spider-People. Dozens, or hundreds, or millions of people like them. Fighting for freedom and justice and truth. And now they've banded together. 

He wraps his arms around himself in a tight hug. Inhales slowly, savors it, and exhales. He could become part of all that. Of the Spider Community. 

He's going to vibrate out of his own skin. 

"Wow."

"I know, right?" Peter says. "Okay, so there'll be a trial period — gotta make sure you're a good fit — but I'm confident you'll do great. You know I'd let you in right away, but Miguel — he's our leader, I said that, right? — is strict about—"

"Are the rest of us joining?"

"We're considering Peni; she'll probably make the cut. No idea about Noir or Ham yet, thou—"

"What about Miles?"

Peter goes completely silent, and stays silent for a whole half-minute. Hobie waits. Clearing his throat, Peter awkwardly kicks at the floor. Although it's impossible to tell with his mask on, Hobie's gut says Peter is avoiding looking him in the eye. 

"Miles won't be joining," Peter says at last. 

Hobie frowns. "Why? He can't have said no."

"He... He didn't. We're not asking him."

The frown deepens. "Why?"

"He's too young-"

"I'm hardly older than him—"

"But you've been doing this for almost three years now. He has for less than a year. He needs to find his place as Spider-Man in his own dimension first. It's a shame, but... it, it's for his own good."

Hobie gawks. What kind of logic is that? He wants to grab Peter by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to scream 'that's why he should join! He should be where he can find guidance and support! This is when he needs it the most! He should be with us.'

What he does is ask, "Is that all?"

"No," Peter says. "There's more. But it's best if Miguel explains it. So. You in?"

Five minutes ago the answer would be a resounding 'yes'. But since then, a seed of doubt got planted. Why not invite inexperienced Spider-Mans? Does Miles even know the society exists? Will he be informed or will he be cut off completely? And this Miguel — is he the leader in the sense that he guides everyone as the most knowledgeable, or is he actually 'I make the shots'-in charge?

Only one way to find out. 

"I'm in," he says. 

With a quiet cheer, Peter opens another portal; Hobie follows into it without hesitating. He's going to uncover the truth of Spider Society, and he's going to get his own watch. And then… well.

Seems like Miles will get to see their jacket after all. 

Chapter Text

Less than two weeks into the new year and January is already turning into one of the bitterest months. Miles expected it of December, since that's when straight up all the worst things (and some of the best, to be fair) of his life happened. But he managed to breeze through them all.

The anniversary of Uncle Aaron's death, while not fun, wasn't as bad as his birthday had been. It actually took until Miles' mom texted him, asking how he was holding up, for him to remember what day it was. Uncle Aaron's birthday coming and going without him there, though? Yeah, Miles shed a few tears then. Comparatively, the death date was fine. 

The anniversary of Peter Parker's death was weird — New York made a celebration of it, to which Spider-Man II was formally invited. Pushing away whatever feelings he might still have (all those what-ifs that singe his insides when he's trying to sleep) was easy when there was a Spider-Man shaped balloon in the sky and a marching band with fake legs attached to their backs on the ground. Not to mention all the spider-themed food. 

And the anniversary of his bite? He also struggled to remember. The anniversary of sending the others home and officially becoming Spider-Man? Surrounded by conflicting feelings that his mountain of homework forced him to Not Deal With yet. And then came the holidays, with parties and presents, effectively distracting him. 

But that's over now. The wrapping paper has been torn open, the lechón asado has been eaten, the sparklers have fizzled out. It's finally hitting him that a year has passed since he last saw Peter, Hobie, Noir, Peni, and Ham. His first year of never seeing them again. 

Yeah, January is turning into the bitterest month.

He can still hear Peter's voice rhythmically telling him to thwip and release, thwip and release when he swings. It, plus that teeth-rattling riff Hobie played in the woods, has become the soundtrack to Miles' patrols. He tried to combat it by listening to music while swinging, but then something awful happened — it started working. Miles realized then that he didn't want to forget. So, he doesn't listen to music while on the clock anymore. It's okay for him to hold onto this tiny bit of the past, right? It's not like he's got anything else. Sure, he's added all of their faces to Uncle Aaron's graffiti spot, as well as sketched each of them a couple of times. But that's it. Otherwise, he don't dwell.

Soaring over Downtown Brooklyn, he's keeping his senses peeled. There's nothing, however. All day, there's been nothing. You see, some days, seemingly every criminal in New York decides to strike. One particularly memorable day saw Shocker robbing a bank in the morning, Joystick attempt a kidnapping at lunch, Screwball creating mindless havoc during the afternoon rush hour, and Black Tarantula launching a smuggling operation that night. 

Other days? Dead quiet. He might break up a few fights, stop a car chase, scare off a scumbag that's harassing a homeless person for daring to exist (and then have a chat and a tripleta with the homeless person), and/or give some kids who're tagging trees in the park a lecture on environmentalism before recommending them a better spot. But that's it. The rest of the time, he spends swinging, listening to his soundtrack, and thinking. 

Right now, he's thinking about his parents. He's no idea what to do with them. They're on his case; apparently, he's gotten 'distant' lately. Miles thinks that's bullshit — he's as present as always. And even if he's not, can you blame him? School is starting again! December was stressful! January is so fucking bitter. And crime in NYC, quiet days notwithstanding, runs rampant. 

Perhaps it'd be easier if they knew he's Spider-Man.

Miles thought about telling them, he truly did. He remembers Hobie's advice as if he heard it yesterday: don't isolate yourself, love generously, 'telling someone is better, innit'. However, just the same, he remembers what Peter Parker told him in a pained, strangled voice:

'You don't tell anyone who you are.'

'No one can know.'

'He's got everyone in his pocket.' 

No offense to Hobie, but Peter Parker should know what's best in this dimension. Obviously, Miles trusts his parents — neither would expose his identity or betray him. What worries him is them trusting the wrong person or accidentally letting something slip and getting hurt due to their connection to him. That's the worst-case scenario. Other, less lethal but still bad, scenarios include them forbidding him from being Spider-Man, them grounding him until he moves out, them losing trust in him, them being angry and disappointed for the rest of their lives… the list goes on. 

And really, it's been a year. Telling them now would be awkward, wouldn't it? Better to simply let them live in blissful ignorance. It's for their sake as much as his. 

Besides, it's not like he ignored what Hobie said… he told Ganke! Of course, Ganke is a friend to Miles, not Spider-Man. At times that's nice, having something that belongs solely to Miles. At other times, it'd be great if Spider-Man too had a friend. Ganke probably wouldn't be it, though — he wouldn't get it (can't get it) on account of being a normal dude. Spider-Man's friend would have to be someone like… 

A tingling in his head. 

Miles turns mid-swing, rotating a full circle before his next thwip. There's no danger brewing — when in danger he gets a buzz, like what a doorbell or an alarm clock would feel like if it vibrated across your body. The tingling is similar, but softer and warmer; a gentle caress from his skull to his tailbone. The last time he felt it was a year ago. 

Far away in his peripheral, a vibrant figure swings in tandem with him.

Miles loses his rhythm, thwipping a second later than usual, and falls behind the other Spider. He stares as they speed away, movements effortlessly fluid. 

Is that… ? 

He pursues. Whoever it is, it's another Spider. Here! In his dimension! And they wanted to catch his attention. Another Spider here, for him. 

Miles swings faster than ever before. The rush of the wind fades behind his hammering pulse, a drumbeat added to the remixed soundtrack: thwipandrelease, thwipandrelease, thwipandrelease. His hands are perspiring in his gloves and his vision is blackening at the edges; his lungs are working so fast they can't extract any oxygen before pushing the air back out. 

It's another Spider (thwipandrelease) Come here for him? (thwipandrelease) Could it be— (thwipandrelease) Could it—

The other Spider lands on top of a residential building. With one final thwip, Miles hauls himself over, vaulting through the air before touching down on the roof. Panting, he lays eyes on the other Spider. They're tall and lanky, wearing a leather vest and with spikes lining the mask like a Mohawk, and holy shit. 

Miles sprints at him. Hobie shifts, as if to meet him halfway, but Miles is possessed by superspeed and slams into Hobie sooner than he's taken five steps. Grunting in surprise, he quickly envelops Miles with those long, rose-pink arms. Hobie's bony frame and firm hold feel identical to last year; Miles settles in the embrace like he's the piece which finalizes the puzzle.

"Is it really you?" he asks, breathless. 

Hobie chuckles; it sounds exactly the same. "Why don't you find out."

Reality alters, rendering Miles incapable of moving in anything but slow motion as he reaches up to grab hold of Hobie's mask. He gingerly pulls it off, revealing Hobie's face. Miles' jaw drops. The Hobie he remembers had been good-looking, but this… 

This is something else. 

His hair is the eye-catcher — gone are the twists, replaced with beautiful locs, in the middle of maturing. His face has also changed, having gained piercings in his lip and in both his eyebrows. But further scrutiny reveals it's more than that: his facial structure itself is more chiseled, cheekbones sharper and jaw stronger. It looks complete, proving he's taken the final step from boy to man. 

He's gorgeous. 

Lips curling into a smirk, Hobie raises his brows in question. Right, Miles should probably stop gawking and say something.

"W—Wow!" He's so smooth. "Uh, you changed your hair? A—And got more piercings?" 

"Sick, innit?" 

"Dude, it's so fresh!"

"Are you gonna let me have a butcher's at you?" Hobie asks, fingers toying with the edge of Miles' mask. 

"Um." 

On the one hand, Miles doesn't really want to. See, he hasn't changed at all. Still the same hair, still the same face. While he was plain next to Hobie one year ago, Hobie's glow-up has reduced him to pitiful. On the other hand, it's Hobie. He won't care! He's the dude who crossed dimensions just to see Miles — he'll be pleased no matter how Miles looks, as long as he's Miles. 

"Yeah, 'course you can…" 

Grinning, Hobie slides the mask off Miles' head. Miles runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, fluffing it back up after being compressed by the spandex, then plasters on a smile. Hobie's eyes widen a fraction; he flickers from pink to crimson. 

"Oh," he says, the word whooshing out of him. "Hey." 

Miles' tiny smile grows into a beam. Of course, he didn't need to worry. Of course, Hobie would be just as awed by Miles' face as Miles was by Hobie's — they're friends who haven't seen each other in ages. 

"Hey," he says, giggling. 

"Hey," Hobie repeats softly. His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps. "You…" 

"Me?" 

"Uh, y— you— you're taller. You grew." 

"Oh, yeah!"

Miles preens, pleased that Hobie noticed. Hard not to, honestly; he's grown five inches since last year. Hobie still towers over him, however. Miles can't sulk over it, because they're at perfect hugging-height now. Taking advantage of it while he can, Miles nestles back underneath Hobie's chin.

"I thought I'd never see you again. How're you here?" 

Hobie hums while stroking his back. "It's thanks to this ting." 

"A watch?" Miles turns Hobie's wrist to get a look from every angle. The watch is cobbled together with a random assortment of pieces, not meant to be combined but done so anyway. It's 100% Hobie. "You built a watch that travels across dimensions?!" he asks, staring at Hobie in awe. Being the coolest person in the multiverse wasn't enough, but he gotta be a genius too? He's so awesome. 

Except Hobie, rubbing his neck, says, "Not exactly… I'll explain everything. D'you've time to show me 'round?"

"Yeah! You came on the right day — it's dead quiet here."

Grinning, Hobie hands Miles' mask back to him. "Then let's cut." 

Hobie precedes his explanation with a warning that it'll sound better than it is. And at first, it does. Like, a society of Spider-People? Traveling through the multiverse to team up to fight bad guys? That's bomb. How could that not be as great as it sounds? 

Then Hobie, after Miles asks what exactly he's gotta do to get noticed by and be offered a membership, says:

"They ain't gonna let you join."

Miles frowns. "Why?"

"Kingpin's collider," Hobie says, throwing himself off the roof they parkoured across. Miles dives after and they free-fall until halfway down, then break their fall with a web-shot and swing along the busy traffic. "We thought we ended it, innit? We didn't." He drops his web, hitching a ride on the side of a semi. Miles lands to stand opposite him, too engrossed to do anything but follow Hobie's lead. "Tears appeared all over the multiverse, portals opening and sending people to the wrong dimensions. Spider Society calls them 'anomalies'."

"But what's that to do with me?"

Hobie shoots off the truck. "Miguel says you're also a anomaly."

Miles does a double-take, barely avoiding clipping the edge of the building they're swinging around. "What? No. I can't be. I never left this universe!"

"Ain't cuz of you. The spider that bit you came from another universe. You wasn't 'supposed' to get bitten by it. You wasn't 'supposed' to be Spider-Man." He glides between two buses driving parallel to each other. Leaning backward so far it looks like he'll tip over and somersault in the air, he captures Miles' gaze and says with a gravitas that sends chills to Miles' tailbone: "You're a proper wild card, and they dunno what to do with you. That's why you can't join; that's why nobody ain't allowed to come here."

Before Miles can process that and formulate a reply, Hobie's moving again. Shooting two webs at once, he yanks himself into the sky. Then, toward a tight alleyway, boots thumping on the bricks as he hops between two buildings and onto the rooftop. He bounds forth and jumps, leaping from roof to roof, sliding along railings and vaulting around poles. Not once does he look back to check if Miles is keeping up — he simply forges ahead, spilling his guts and trusting Miles is close enough to hear it. 

Out in the open again, Miles draws nearer so they're sailing through the city shoulder to shoulder. 

"But you did," he says, his belly warm and his voice fond. It's not like he's surprised that it's Hobie who came. Is he disappointed that Peter and the others didn't also? Yes. Mad disappointed, truth be told. Like, did they even consider it? Did they try? He doesn't want to spoil the mood by asking. Because Hobie is there, breaking the rules for Miles. 

Hobie, who's been coldly gray and blue while explaining, now flickers pink and yellow, bubblegum and canaries. He shrugs a shoulder and dips his head, as if shy. 

"Had to find a way around them. This? Not my official watch. Built it from parts I half-inched from HQ." 

Miles laughs, incredulous and impressed. That's Hobie for you. 

"Other watch's barred from getting here. Would never use it even if it wasn't — HQ tracks 'em. They haven't said it, secretive bastards, but man know they do."

"Probably listens in on your conversations too," Miles says; Hobie nods vigorously, graying once more. 

"I had to get parts, figure out the mechanisms, put the ting together. It was long. I would've come earlier but-"

"Hey, I get it." Miles boxes Hobie lightly on the chest in the hopes the tactility will wash away the gray. It does — Hobie pinkens. "You're here now."

"Could've been here five months ago if not for HQ. Hate that place." And there's the gray again. "When they approached me, I was excited! A collective of Spider-People? The potential is…" Hobie trails off with an aggravated click of his tongue. 

In sync, they make a turn in an intersection and fly over a bustling sidewalk. One guy in the crowd is obviously up to something, skulking close to an elderly woman with his hood up. He's probably gonna snatch her purse; Miles keeps his eyes on them and his ears on Hobie's voice. 

"I thought it'd be bare dench," Hobie says. "But it's the same. Act like they're doing the right thing when they're just a buncha totalitarian wankers."

The guy strikes, ripping the purse out of the woman's hand with such force she topples. Miles is by the side in a flash, catching her before she faceplants, while Hobie stops the thief. 

"They're that bad?" Miles asks after they've webbed the attempted purse snatcher to a lamppost and resumed swinging.

"There are stuff called 'canon events'," Hobie says in lieu of answering. 

"Do I even wanna know?"

"Events destined to occur to Spider-People, basically."

They're nearing Manhattan. Shortcutting through a construction site, hurdling over cranes and zigzagging between scaffolding, they then make it to Brooklyn Bridge.

Hobie whizzes past the steel beams, sights seemingly set on the tower. With a thwip and a pull he's going up, up, up. He spins in the air, then slams onto the top of the tower. Miles joins him a second later, just in time to see him pull off his mask, the locs springing free. Hands on his hips, Hobie ambles by the tower's edge, his gaze roaming the hazy sky above and afternoon rush below. Miles hangs back to catch his breath and, well, simply admire the view. Hobie is more graceful than he appears — the slouching posture, gangling limbs, and slight bow-leggedness don't exactly exude elegance, but when he moves, he does so nimbly and confidently. Watching him, Miles can't help but smile. 

"Some are good, some are bad," Hobie says, snapping the lid on Miles' reverie shut. "Your uncle dying was a canon event. Happens to all of us — a loved one dying to help on our journey. Spider Society has made it their mission to make sure canon events occur… including the worst ones."

Miles blinks. He replays everything Hobie just told him. It settles in his gut like a rock. "Wait, they deliberately let tragedies happen when they could stop them? They— They let people die?"

"It's a 'necessity'. Miguel's like: 'breaking the canon has consequences'."

"Like what?"

Hobie glances at Miles from over his shoulder. "Worlds ending, apparently."

Miles scoffs.

"Bullshit," he spits. Something ignites in his stomach; when it climbs it inflames his throat and leaves a pungent taste in his mouth. A poison that stiffens his muscles and has his pulse thumping in his head. "Like some messed up butterfly effect? Bullshit! To be Spider-Man is to help people. It's to get back up. We don't roll over and give up 'cause destiny say so. Was Uncle Aaron dying supposed to make me a better Spider-Man? It didn't! I made me a better Spider-Man. Because I wanted to be and I worked for it. Canon can fuck itself! It don't make no decisions for me — I choose what goes down in my life!"

His volume increases as he rants, and his breathing grows rapid. He twists his mask in his hands, wanting to rip it to pieces, wanting to punch a hole in the stone beneath his feet. How can this society of heroes and protectors sit idly by when they have the answers? How can they think saving innocent lives would have any negative consequences? 

Heavy steps approach him. When Miles' gaze snaps up he almost reels back in surprise. The expression on Hobie's face, which was jagged with frustration mere moments ago, is now tender, almost reverent.

"I knew you'd get it," Hobie says softly. 

The rage washes off Miles. He gets it. Hobie thinks he gets it. Miles doesn't really know what there is to get — everything he just said is obvious to him. But maybe that's it. Maybe they just understand each other in a way no one else can. 

"Didya ever doubt me?" Miles asks, donning his most winning smile. 

"Nah. Is just refreshing. Everyone at HQ is brainwashed by this authoritarian control freak tosser. But not you — never you. I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Hobie's eyes are dark and bright, fireworks against a night sky. He reaches out, hand hovering by Miles' cheek. For a moment, Miles thinks he's going to caress it. 

He catches Miles in a headlock instead.

"Oi! Going soft on me, are you?" 

"Me?! You started it!"

They roughhouse a while, peals of laughter echoing for only them to hear. Once Miles finally escapes, he collapses to sit cross-legged on the floor. Hobie, still energized, starts pacing as he delves into his own tirade.

"Honestly, bruv, I dunno how I made it without you! Every day at HQ man's surrounded by people who're happily spoon-fed propaganda. They don't question anything, they don't think!" 

He taps his head, his other arm flailing wildly. He's a flurry of jerky movements, pivoting on the spot and interrupting himself whenever a new thought hits him, lurching from grievance to grievance. Miles wonders just how long Hobie's been sitting on all this. 

"Miguel's theories don't make sense, innit! Yet all of these people are content with believing these safe lies. Finding the truth is hard, and they're scared of what it might be. What makes a anomaly? Why're some changes fine, but not others? Like us!" Throwing himself down, Hobie slides to his knees in front of Miles. "D'you've any idea how many Peter bloody Parkers man's met the past months?" 

"I'ma guess at least twelve."

"Hundreds." 

"Hey, I wasn't wrong!" 

"Hundreds of Peter Parker variations," Hobie continues, the tiny uptick of his lips the only acknowledgment of Miles' joke. "They're the majority. Does that mean we're wrong for not being Peters? Are we anomalies cuz we're black?" 

"Maybe the multiverse realized having the same basic white boy as the hero was problematic and decided to diversify," Miles says, beaming when Hobie snorts a laugh through his nose. "The multiverse's woke now." 

Chuckling, Hobie shakes his head. "My bad. You solved the mystery." 

Giggling, Miles pats the spot next to him. Hobie obligingly sits there, slumping against Miles' side as he stretches his legs. He sighs from the depths of his soul. 

"Is it a problem that I'm not from New York?" he asks, quieter now, having run out of manic energy. "That I never got no uncle? You did, but according to the model he died the wrong way."

Miles chews on the inside of his cheek. Although he's not sure he wants to talk about it, he prompts, "The wrong way?"

"Not caused by you. Peter's Uncle Ben? Hundreds of Uncle Bens? Died cuz of Peter's actions and choices. But you was just there." 

Miles shifts uncomfortably. His insides bubble and his skin itches. "I mean. I did lead 'em to the house…" 

"Not the same. Your uncle — bless his soul — chose to work for a villain. And he chose to pursue you with killing intent." 

The bubbles turn sour in Miles' chest; scowling, he bites out, "He didn't know it was me!"

"I know!" Hobie raises his hands placatingly. "I know. Your uncle died when he spared your life and Kingpin killed him for it. It was their actions and choices, innit. Not your negligence, or selfishness, or spitefulness. Your uncle died cuz he was in a well dangerous business. Not cuz he walked down the street at the wrong time." 

His words linger in the air, the rest of the world seeming so much more silent than before. Releasing a shaky breath, Miles nods and tries swallowing the lump in his throat. He looks out over the brumous sky, so piercingly white it hurts the eyes. He tells himself that's why they sting, why they're watering. 

"I'm sorry, Miles," Hobie whispers. "I didn't come here to upset you." 

"No, no." Abandoning the pretense, Miles rubs away the tears. It's just Hobie, anyway. "Just hard. Thinking 'bout him." 

Hobie nods understandingly. His hand settles on Miles' shoulder, rubbing gently; when Miles willingly tips into his chest, Hobie wraps both arms around him. Hobie's not an especially cuddly person — he's too skinny and angular, and his body temperature has to be in the negatives. Yet, he manages to give the best hugs. Perhaps it's thanks to the enthusiasm with which he gives them. Either way, it's hard to pull away. So Miles doesn’t, savoring the contact and doing his best to ignore the toxic voice deep inside sneering that it's weird to hug your bro for so long. No one else is around to interrupt or judge them — Miles sure as hell won’t either. 

Even the best hugs have to end, though; Miles extracts himself as un-awkwardly as he can. "Anyway, um. Sounds like Spider Society really sucks. But hey — you got your watch now! You can quit." 

Hobie shakes his head. Miles expects him to say something about bringing down the institution from the inside (and to be fair, he's probably planning that too), but what he says is:

"Need more parts for your watch." 

Miles' eyes widen. "You're making me one?" 

"'Course. You should be free to go wherever you want. Also…" he says, scratching at his chin. "There's someone there that needs looking after." 

Miles gestures for him to go on. 

"Her name's Gwen. She's been through the wringer — can't go home to her dimension so she crashes at my place sometimes. Sweet girl; you'd like her. Problem is she bought everything Miguel preaches. I been trying to show her it's all bollocks, but it's a long ting. I can't leave her there alone." 

"Oh," Miles says. "Right..." 

His mind drifts. Does Gwen realize how lucky she is? Not only does she have a watch she can travel the multiverse with, but she's got the opportunity to hang with Hobie whenever she wants. She's been in his dimension. She slept at his place! Miles would kill for a chance to do that. How often does she get to? Every night? Does she enjoy having Hobie as her roommate? Maybe they're not roommates, though. Maybe they're… more than that. 

Not that it's Miles' business.

"What a hero." He nudges Hobie with his elbow. Hobie screws up his nose, mirth dancing in his eyes. 

"Gross. Don't call me that."

Evening arrives too fast, and with it comes the time to say goodbye. Descending the bridge, they return to Brooklyn to find an empty rooftop in a quiet neighborhood for Hobie to safely travel from. Miles' stomach aches the entire way there. It's worse than last time, no adrenaline nor any threats of glitchy death to distract from the sadness. At least the chaotic portal unfurling like an old-school zine is a cool visual.

They share another long hug before Hobie enters the portal. Hobie goes all in, leaning forward while clutching Miles tightly. Miles ends up with his knees bent and hands gripping Hobie's shoulders, like a woman getting dipped while salsaing. 

"You acting like I'm not seeing you again for another year," he says, aiming for jokey but hitting anxious instead. Hobie can't stay away for a year; not when he's given Miles a taste of this. 

"Nah, you'll never be rid of me now. I'll be back in… no more than a week." Hobie nods decisively. "Yeah. I'll see you in one week."

Miles releases a relieved breath, tension streaming out with it. Hobie smirks at him, the smug jerk; Miles rolls his eyes but doesn't fight when Hobie pulls him into another hug, laughing and swaying them side to side. 

Pulling apart, but only so far, they look at each other. Hobie's eyes dart all over Miles' face, like he's mapping it out, memorizing every feature until next time. It hits Miles that while he's immortalized Hobie in his art, Hobie might not have the same option. 

Hobie clears his throat. He jerks a thumb to the portal behind him. 

"I can't leave it open for too long or they might notice…"

Miles' heart drops into his stomach; his fingers flex where they're gripping Hobie's biceps. He wants to shout: 'Don't leave! Never leave! Live here. My parents will adopt you. You can have my room and I'll sleep on the couch'. 

He relaxes his fingers and shrugs. "Well. I don't want to jeopardize your covert operation. Get outta here."

Hobie starts backing away. The brightness of the portal makes his crimson-colored body glow like molten lava. His gaze burns so sweetly as it locks with Miles'. 

"One week, I swear down," he says. "I'm already missing you."

"Shut up." Miles rolls his eyes, grinning. "You corny."

Hobie's deep laughter rings out… and then vanishes. The portal has closed. Miles is left in an unforgiving darkness on an empty rooftop, alone. 

Sighing, he pulls on his mask and thwips a web; he should head to the dorm and do his homework. It's a fine distraction, he figures as he swings away without glancing at the spot Hobie stood before disappearing. 

He will be back. 

In one week, he'll be back. 

Chapter Text

Winter passes, spring arrives. April arrives. It's been three months, or twelve weeks and three days, since Hobie's first, deliberate, visit to Earth-1610 (apparently the designation for Miles' dimension. When Miles asked who numbered the different Earths, Hobie simply shrugged).

In those twelve weeks and three days, they've seen each other six times. The last time was three weeks and five days ago. That's twenty-six days of radio silence. Twenty-six days of Miles wanting to tear every single hair from his body. 

He doesn't want to be unreasonable about it. Nor be self-centered. Hobie's life doesn't revolve around him, and he did warn Miles at the end of January that he wouldn't be able to do weekly visits for a while. The gaps aren't unexpected. Besides, three weeks (and five days) is nothing compared to the year they went without each other. Logically, Miles knows all this. But that doesn't mean he hasn't spent the last twenty-six days asking himself just where the hell Hobie is. And why has it taken him so long? Has something… Has something happened? Probably not. But he can't know for sure, can he. 

It'd be easier if Miles could come to Hobie, or contact him. The times Hobie can't leave his dimension, Miles could make the trip instead. When it's been too long, he could send a message asking what's up. 

Yeah, Miles really needs his own watch. 

Hobie says he's building him one, and Miles is confident he intends to follow through. However. Relying on Hobie for this feels… not right. Hobie doing all the work for him is kind — Miles appreciates it! But, dang. Miles kinda wants to figure out a way to, well, figure it out by himself. Take charge of his life and solve his own problems. He actually already had plans to do it before Hobie re-entered his life (they're moving electrons across dimensional thresholds at Princeton; Miles could be part of that as long as he keeps up his GPA). He's shared these plans with Hobie, to the latter's amusement.

("You're that eager to explore the multiverse, are you?" Hobie had asked. 

They'd taken a break from swinging, sitting in the cupola on top of 75 Livingston Street, and the setting sun enhanced the teasing glint in his eye as much as it did his kaleidoscopic skin. He looked beautiful, a star being born within Miles' reach; he nearly forgot to reply, brain memorizing the image and fingers itching for markers. 

Ears growing warm, he looked away while rubbing his neck. 

"I mostly want to see the others, even if they think I'm an anomaly. And you! I want to be able to see you whenever I want. Don't worry," he hurried to say when Hobie opened his mouth, the furrow on his forehead more pronounced than usual. "I ain't gonna show up all the time. But I want the option to come to you, not just wait for you." Miles sighed, tracing the sheet metal roof with his foot. "Y'know, every time you leave I get so afraid it'll be the last time. And sometimes, when it's been a while, I miss you so much it's hard to breathe." 

Hobie sent him a heartbreaking look. Then he fell forward, gently thumping his head onto the top of Miles'. 

"You gotta stop saying them things to me, treacle," he murmured, his warm breath hitting the shell of Miles' ear and sending shivers along his spine. 

Miles had frowned. "I'm… sorry?" 

"No. No, don't… I didn't mean it like that. I miss you like that too. And now I'm gonna miss you even more.")

That's how it's like now. Ice clumps in his airways, a constant blockage. He thaws it by reminiscing. Puts even the smallest and quietest moments on a loop in his mind. Like when they cut the swinging short, both exhausted, to instead chill in Miles' dorm room. They ended up falling asleep in his bunk bed, still in their uniforms. That was nice. Normal. Something they might've done if Hobie truly had been a BVA student and they hung out all the time.

Afterwards, he suggested they hang at the dorm when Ganke was also there, but Hobie's reaction was lukewarm. Miles respected his hesitance, secretly pleased by it. Obviously he wants his two best friends to eventually meet and get along. But at the moment? He enjoys having Hobie all to himself. At least when Hobie visits Earth-1610; Miles holds no illusions of him occupying as much of Hobie's mind as Hobie does Miles'. It makes sense, you know? Busy as he might be, Miles still doesn't have nearly as much going on in life as Hobie does, nor does he know as many people. Based on Hobie's talk, he typically crams 72 hours worth of tasks into one day and interacts with thousands of people each week, Gwen being one of the regulars. 

Ugh, Gwen. 

Not 'ugh' as in he hates her or thinks she's a bad person or anything. She can't be a bad person if Hobie likes her. That's the reason for the 'ugh' — Hobie likes her, a lot. It worries Miles.

After further investigation (aka listening to Hobie mention her at least once during every visit), he's determined that Hobie and Gwen aren't a couple, but might become one soon. She sounds just like his type, and Miles can't imagine Hobie not being any girl's type, so… yeah, she gotta be crushing hard on him. Unfortunately, the thought makes Miles a little nauseous. 

Look: it's not like he doesn't want Hobie to have a sweet, punk rock girlfriend. He absolutely deserves one! It's just. If they get together, it'll be another thing for Hobie to spend time on. He might have to cut back on something else. And when the options are: 

1. Spider-Man 

2. Activism 

3. Music 

4. Spider Society 

5. Girlfriend 

and 6. Miles… it's obvious that Miles will be the one getting the shaft. Because that's what happens when your homies start dating someone new — they spend every leftover moment with her, until either they've moved past the honeymoon phase or they break up. Then you might be able to see him again. Hobie might go against the grain, as he's so often wont to do, but if he doesn't? It'd suck. 

Miles just doesn't want to lose more time with Hobie — doesn't want to lose Hobie, period. But seeing as it's been almost four damned weeks of nothing… shit. Maybe he already has. Maybe the 'might become a couple soon' turned into 'did become a couple recently', and that's why… 

No. No, that's ridiculous. Hobie wouldn't forget or avoid Miles just because he's got a girlfriend. If anything, he'd bring Gwen with him; God knows he's eager for Miles to meet her. Hobie hasn't explicitly said it, but Miles knows he is — he can tell. Like, why else would Hobie be so adamant they'd like each other? 

No, the only explanation is Hobie's been mad busy. If Miles had a watch, he could help. So. When his parents suggested they meet with the school counselor to discuss college, he agreed enthusiastically. Because while he'd love to have a watch Hobie built, he can't depend on that. While he trusts Hobie's word, you never know what outside forces will be at play. Twenty-six days might become another year, might become a decade, might become forever. It's Miles' responsibility to get where he wants to go; he can do it, especially if he gets into Princeton. And sure — it won't be fast. It might be years. But so be it. 

He's doing it.

The bedroom door slams once as it shuts, then again when Miles throws his body at it. Kicking off his shoes, he thumps his head back with a sigh. 

Grounded. For two months. Just for being late! So what? People are late sometimes. And they didn't even try to hear him out, just immediately jumped to conclusions. Has he ever given them reason to think he's out doing seriously bad and dangerous things with bad and dangerous crowds? No! And yet. God, his parents are the worst. Two whole months… yeah, no way. He's Spider-Man; he's not grounded. He'll be out of this room whenever he needs or wants. 

Shedding his jacket and flinging it aside, he then slumps onto his bed so heavily his sketchbook tumbles from the bunched-up bedspread and lands on the floor. When he picks it up, it's Hobie's face staring at him, wearing that lopsided cover model smile. Miles runs his thumb over the edge of the drawing. 

Where are you, man? I need you. 

Ice in his throat. A sting in his eyes. Knots upon knots in his stomach. Okay, okay… deep breath. He's Spider-Man — he's not gonna fall apart because he hasn't seen his friend in a while. He's just not. Falling apart won't bring Hobie here, anyway. 

Miles allows himself one sigh, then grabs his headphones. In half an hour or so his parents should've cooled down, at least enough for him to sneak out and load a plate with food without them biting his head off. Until then, he'll lose himself to the music. Cranking up the volume, he kicks back and closes his eyes. 

Would I sign up again?

And the night was so strong

Forget the time like life is long

Wings beating a thousand strong…

The song's at the best part, he's humming along and everything, when something heavy lands on Miles' midsection and knocks the wind out of him. Startled, he rips off the headphones, his eyes flying open to see dark hair, glinting metal, and a lopsided grin. 

He can taste his own pulse. 

"Oi, what're you listenin' to?" Hobie snatches the headphones and holds them to his ear, listening to a couple of beats before tossing them back on the bed. "Been knocking on your window for ages, mate. Had to let myself in—oof!" 

He grunts as Miles throws himself at him. As far as hugs go, it's the worst they've had — the angle is completely off because Hobie is lying half on top of Miles, hindering him from sitting all the way, and neither can really find a good place to embrace. His abdominal muscles growing tired of holding him up, Miles solves the issue by falling backwards. Hobie follows along, tucking his hands in under Miles' back and resting his cheek on Miles' sternum. He's deceptively heavy for such a skinny dude, but the weight is comfortable, grounding. Even more so when Miles scratches his fingernails on Hobie's scalp and Hobie melts, his heart beating steadily against Miles' stomach. He murmurs something that Miles interprets as approval, so he continues caressing the thick, rosewater-scented locs. 

"It's been so long," he whispers, quiet so as not to… not break the moment — it's not brittle enough to break. But it can be interrupted, and he won’t forgive himself if he does. "Where you been, man?" 

Sighing, Hobie nuzzles into Miles' jersey. "S'a shit show back home. Been brewing for a while. This Roxxon corporation tried evicting dozens of families so they could demolish the neighborhood and build… I dunno, luxury flats or summat. People wouldn't leave so the fucking feds broke down the doors and dragged 'em out."

Miles' hand stills. "What the actual fuck." 

"Yeah. Been squatting, rioting, stomping every copper I seen to paste. Think I spent three weeks straight out on the streets." 

"Holy shit?" 

"Mhm. But it calmed down a bit. Could finally leave to see you." 

"Wait, you didn't…? Immediately?! You should be resting!" 

"I did rest! Slept for two days! Had to ask Gwendy to patrol for me." 

Miles huffs out a clipped laugh. He can't even be annoyed about the Gwen-mention (the Gwention?); he's too relieved that Hobie wasn't alone in all this. 

"You shoulda rested more. I'd've waited longer…" 

Hobie pokes his side, in a spot where he knows Miles is ticklish, snickering when Miles yelps and tries to escape. He's still trapped beneath Hobie, though, capable of doing little other than jostle them where they lie. Showing mercy, Hobie doesn't tickle him further, merely laying his hand along Miles' torso, long fingers splayed. 

"I didn't wanna wait no more; I wanted to come," Hobie says. "Needed y— Needed to get away. And, I got something for you." 

"What?" 

"A gizmo, custom made. Bootlegged, to be technical, but…" 

Miles gasps. "The watch?!" 

Hobie pushes off him with a chuckle, and reaches into his jacket pocket. After rummaging around, he pulls out a device. Miles accepts it with trembling hands. It is a watch. 

His watch.

A thick armband and a bulky screen, mismatched buttons around it. The metal is painted black at the base, stripes of red on top. And, underneath the watch head, an angular heart in sunshine yellow. A reminder to love generously, and to allow others to love him back. A reminder that he's not alone. It won’t be visible when worn, because it'll be pressed against his wrist, but he'll know it's there. He'll never forget.

He looks up to find Hobie watching him, face as coolly nonchalant as always. However, his eyes shine with anticipation and his leg bounces. Miles wants to tell him it's perfect, wants to thank him until he's hoarse. Unfortunately, when he opens his mouth, the only thing emerging is a breathless:

"Dude."

Hobie beams, flashing yellow and pink. Perhaps Miles don't have to actually say it — it's implicit. 

"I'll show you how to use it when we're out," Hobie says. Then, his gaze drifts sideways to sweep across the decor. "Sooo… this is your room." 

"Um, yeah." Crap. If he'd known Hobie would be in here today, he would've… avoided having Hobie in here. Honestly, it's a lost cause. The amount of embarrassing childhood stuff is too big; the only way to keep his dignity intact is not let Hobie inside. Too late now, though. The most he can do is shove a stuffed animal beneath his pillow and kick the nerdiest toys under his bed. He doesn't bother tossing the dirty laundry into the hamper. "I can't believe you opened a portal here and I didn't notice." 

"I didn't," Hobie says from where he's studying the posters on Miles' walls. "I'm here on official Spider Society business and had to use my other watch. Didn't wanna risk them realizing I'm with you, so I portaled to the bridge, switched watches, and swung here." 

"Oh. What kinda business?" 

"Suspicious activity — some villain makin' a minor disturbance in the multiverse." 

Shrugging, he turns to inspect the bookcase, but halts when his boot bumps into something on the ground. Dread washes over Miles as he realizes it's the sketchbook, open wide for the whole world to see. They must've knocked it off the bed while roughhousing. Rendered immobile by his traitorous body, he can only watch as Hobie picks it up; his eyebrows shoot to his hairline and his body dyes a deep pink when he sees the pages. 

Please, dear God, let it be the drawing of Spider-Ham grilling his history teacher on a spit roast. He can explain that one, no problem. 

Hobie huffs out a laugh (it could be the Ham drawing) and looks at Miles with a smirk (oooh, it's so not the Ham drawing). 

"Looks good, innit," he says syrupy-sweet, handing the book back. 

"Th—Thanks… "

Miles barely dares to glance at the spread, fearing the worst. Then he does anyway, and phew! It could've been much worse! While the drawing of Hobie playing his guitar is huge and detailed, the opposing page has an equally detailed sketch of SP//dr, plus a smaller doodle of Noir in the corner. It would've been mortifying if only Hobie was on the pages. Miles has several spreads like that. 

(It's not actually weird — it was practice, Miles trying to pin down Hobie's features by drawing him over and over again. He's done it with tons of people. It's not weird at all. But from Hobie's perspective, it'd be weird, so it's good he didn't see it.)

Of course, it's not great either — Hobie's gleeful expression is evidence of that, promising eternal ribbing.  

Miles puts the sketchbook on his desk, tittering nervously. "I didn't want to forget what you guys look like…" 

"Ah, I see."

Hobie nods understandingly, then pounces, grabbing and hoisting Miles into the air for a hug.  

"You're bloody adorable," Hobie croons, whirling them around the room in a deranged dance. Miles just hangs on, feet dangling. "Bare sentimental." 

Miles' face is on fire. He'd like to hide it (his first instinct is the crook of Hobie's neck), but doing so will only make his embarrassment obvious. Hobie already has enough ammunition to tease him. 

"Oh my God! Shut up!" He scowls at Hobie's grin. It's shit-eating, completely reveling in Miles' pain. That fucker. "Sorry for not being as cool and unbothered as you, I guess."

Hobie cackles in response. Grumbling, Miles frees himself from the embrace, brushing himself off and adjusting his clothes. The shape of Hobie's hands is still on his back, a phantom touch heating him from neck to tailbone. Weird how a dude that's always cold can leave behind such warm traces. 

"Oi, don't be like that," Hobie says blithely. "I'd draw you, if I could."

"What's stopping you?" 

"Lack of artistic talent, I reckon. We can't all be paint-slingers."

"Lemme guess: you've written, like, hundreds of songs about me instead?"

Hobie cocks his head askew. Sauntering up until they're so close Miles must crane his neck to hold the eye contact, he says, "Millions." 

"Oh yeah?" Miles raises his eyebrows. "Swear down?" 

"No cap." 

Miles snorts. It's meant to be derisive, but turns amused halfway through; soon he's laughing. It's impossible to stay annoyed with Hobie, even when he's acting like an idiot. 

(How cool wouldn't it be if he's actually written a song about Miles, though? Just a verse would be enough.)

Hobie watches him laugh with a well-pleased smile and fireworks in his eyes. Hands in his pockets, he backs toward the agape window.

"Let's cut, yeah?" 

Wiping a tear from his eye, Miles sobers enough to say, "I'm actually grounded." 

Hobie gives him a Look™ that warrants no words. Giggling, Miles yanks off his clothes to reveal the Spider-Man suit underneath. 

And then they're off. 

First stop is Bedford Ave., where Hobie has Miles camouflage himself before pulling out another, sleeker but blander, watch. With the press of a button, a literal bug emerges and attaches to the steel pillar, aimed at a nearby building. 

"That's all you came here for?" Miles asks once they're swinging again. 

"Basically, I'm here to monitor him. See if he's a threat or not." 

"So, he's not an anomaly?" 

"Nah, not here. But he popped up in another universe before leaving on his own. HQ wants to know how, why… so I convinced 'em to send me. Can't risk another Spider spotting us together, y’know? Couldn't wait another day to see you either."

They fall back into their usual rhythm, web-slinging around Brooklyn and updating each other on everything that's happened since last. Hobie vents about the last hellish weeks in his universe and the bullshit Spider Society pulls, while Miles relays his considerably tamer vigilantisms and private school shenanigans. 

Miles also subtly inquires about Gwen, concluding that, nope, Hobie and she haven't gotten together yet. It's almost as disappointing as it's relieving — can't they see the tension is killing Miles? Just quit the 'will they, won't they' already!

And, of course, Hobie asks about Miles' parents. Only how they're doing, not if they know who Spider-Man is yet — he already knows the answer. Miles confessed months ago, while they were hitching a ride on a J train. The passengers of the car they clung to had gawked at them, some taking pictures and knocking on the window for their attention. 

(Miles had spared them a wave and a peace sign, but Hobie's focus remained on Miles.)

Part of him worried Hobie would be irritated Miles didn't follow his advice. However, once Miles finished explaining, Hobie simply said:

"I understand." 

Because of course he did — Hobie always understands. He then went on to rationalize Miles' fears without dismissing them (yes them knowing brought risks, but those risks were less likely to happen than Miles thought), encourage him to eventually tell the truth, and reassure him he didn't need to rush. 

"Do it at your pace. You're ready when you're ready. Just don't wait for yourself to be 'good enough' — you've always been good enough, just bein' you." 

And then he jumped off the train, hurtling over a hotel like he hadn't just broken Miles' brain with his observations. 

So, today, Miles tells Hobie both his parents are good, and leaves it at that. The fight, he figures, isn't worth mentioning. Not when their time is limited and there are more fun things to talk about. 

 "—he's spent over $100 on that stupid game and is finally gonna ask if she wants to have coffee when her shift's over, when she says it's really sweet of him to win so many prizes for his boyfriend. Ganke tried convincing her we ain't dating for like twenty minutes, but she didn't believe him."

Hobie snorts. "Poor sod."

"Yeah. In her defense, he did give me every single plushie he won without second thought." 

"Mhm. More importantly… " 

Hobie tears his gaze from the dome of the Williamsburg Bank Building, which they're strolling vertically on, to cast it upon the spectacular view. Miles follows his line of sight, lips tugging upward. Brooklyn is always pretty from above, but she's especially beautiful when illuminated by dusk. The minutes before the sun dips below the horizon, the buildings get to bathe in this hazy light and the clouds are painted lilac. It suits Brooklyn well, this ethereal gossamer veil. 

"...why'd it take you this long to bring me here, hm? You been holding out on me!" 

Miles chuckles, shrugging one shoulder. "I can't play all my best cards at once, man. Gotta give you incentive to come back." 

"Oh, I got incentive. Don't worry 'bout that." 

Extending his long arm, he flicks Miles in the middle of his forehead. Miles swats him away and tries to flick back, but Hobie evades by leaping off the dome. 

"You're it!" he shouts as he swings under the ledge. 

"Bet!" 

Miles leaps after him, and then they're swinging, jumping, running laps around the tower as they play catch. They're tied at two points (although Hobie tried to argue the initial flick counts as a point and he's actually in the lead; Miles wouldn't concede), Miles having been 'it' for almost five whole minutes. Every time he's close to catching Hobie, he slips away, clearly determined not to let Miles have another point. He's slower than Miles, but his web-slinging is chaotic and difficult to predict, plus he's got two more years' worth of experience. He's starting to seem impossible to catch. 

But Miles never lets the impossible stop him. 

Focusing on Hobie's movements rather than catching up, Miles tries to find any sort of pattern, any weakness to exploit. And he might've found one: Hobie's size means he takes up space even when he attempts not to, and he has a tendency to spread his long limbs. There's a lot of him to grab, including the guitar. While Miles can't predict the erraticness, maybe he won’t have to. Maybe simply chancing it will suffice. 

He shoots his webs. The first try misses, but the second hits Hobie's shoulder blade; Miles yanks, then places two other well-shot webs on the tower ledge's lower side. Pulling Hobie along, Miles thrusts him against the stone. Then he uses his own body to cage him in, and that's it — caught. 

"You're it," he pants. 

Hobie laughs between wheezes. "Nang. Aight, man's had enough. You win."

"I know I win. I got more points."

"Actually, we're tied." 

"We're not tied—!"

Guffawing, Hobie wriggles free and stands up — or down, since they're hanging from the bottom of the ledge. For a moment he looks comical as gravity pulls at his hair and guitar. Then he shifts so he's backlit by the fading light and the comedy turns into beauty: his silvery outline reflects the twilight and his locs shine like obsidian. He's radiant. 

"You win either way, cuz I quit. Walkover, or whatever. Ain't got no stuffed toy for you, though — sorry."

"That's fine. I got my prize." 

Miles flaunts the watch on his wrist. Hobie grins at him, body flushing and eyes flaring with fondness. God, Miles has missed being on the receiving end of that look. He's so happy he doesn't mind the itchy sweat drying on his skin or the blood rushing to his head, and he needs Hobie to know it. 

He says, "I'm so happy you're back, man. It's always so great hanging with you. Like, I'm lucky I get to do this; wouldn't give this up for anything in the world. But sometimes… it gets lonely. I don't got no one who understands. You're the only one I can talk to — really talk to."

"You got Ganke, innit?"

Miles shakes his head. "That's different. You and me… we're the same. What I have with you I'll never have with anybody else."

Hobie nods, his smile small and slanted. 

"Same here," he says, knocking their shoulders together as he passes by Miles to vault onto the tower's wall. 

The words swirl in Miles' chest. Hobie isn't the type to lie. That means despite having met so many Spider-People — so many people like them — he still considers his and Miles' bond special. Miles will remember that next time he worries about being left behind; Hobie would never. 

They wander up the tower in companionable silence. Cold blue paints the sky, and below the city lights are turning on. In a place like this, the passage of time kinda ceases to exist. Hunger doesn't, however; Miles' stomach growls. He never did sneak back for food. 

Flash of genius striking, he grabs one of Hobie's suspenders and tugs lightly. Hobie elegantly pivots in the middle of a step and deliberately crashes himself into Miles. Digging his heels in, Miles catches him with a grunt as Hobie sags against him. 

"Man, c'mon," Miles huffs, supporting the dead weight to the best of his abilities. 

"Hmm. This not what you wanted?" 

"No." 

"Huh. Coulda sworn." 

"You're impossible."

"But you love me anyways," Hobie drawls. 

It's true, but Miles won't feed his ego by admitting it aloud. He rolls his eyes. "I was gonna ask: you hungry? My family's hosting a party on our rooftop — there's a ton of food there."

"Ain't the first time I crash a party."

"Sorry, no crashing — I just invited you."

"What's the occasion?"

"My dad..." Miles trails off.

"His birthday?"

"No, he… " 

He's being promoted. But does Hobie want to know that? He's made his opinion on cops clear, although he's never criticized Miles' dad specifically. He's left that to Miles, always lending a sympathetic ear whenever Miles needs to vent. With saintlike patience, he's listened to Miles describe in-depth the frustration of having a cop-dad. Of visiting police stations as a kid, basically growing up in them, and being treated kindly by officers who'd let him play with the fingerprint ink, with the handcuffs, with fucking guns. Of arriving at school in the front seat of cop cars and how his peers would glare at him, judging him and calling him a race traitor until he begged his dad to let him walk to school. Of watching the news and seeing boys that look like him getting murdered by men dressed like his dad. Of wanting the approval of someone so badly, but never quite succeeding to approve of them in return. 

("I try being proud of him," he'd said once through the thickness of his throat, "because I know he does this to protect people. But sometimes I just wish he had another job."

Hobie had laced their fingers together and told him it made perfect sense.) 

But if talking about it is uncomfortable for Miles, hearing it gotta be even worse for Hobie. The things he's told about his dimension… Earth-1610 is utopic in comparison. While he's willing to listen, it doesn't mean Miles has to inflict it on him. The less they think of cops when together, the better. 

"It's just for him. We don't gotta talk to him or Mom, though. But we can head over and have some authentic Puerto Rican cuisine!"

"And we'll keep to ourselves?"

"Yeah! Just us, alone together in the crowd. What d'you say?"

Hobie pulls his mask from his pocket and puts it on.

The rooftop is as loud and crowded as when Miles left it, maybe even more. But the water tower is unoccupied and theirs to claim after webbing a little bit of everything onto a plate. Staying far away from everyone else is a necessity, because while it's dark out now the stringlights are doing their job illuminating the rooftop; no one can notice Hobie's color-changing habit or there'll be questions. Although right now there's nothing unusual about him, his clothes muted and his bare arms a vibrant russet brown. 

On the way, they stopped to change into civilian clothing. Their methods differ: Miles adds clothes on top of his suit while Hobie removes his suit, wearing only his vest, patched pants, and tattered shirt. Perhaps it's Miles who's inobservant, but he never noticed that the blue top Hobie wears over his Spider-Man suit is, uh, kinda cropped? Not very, but paired with the pants that (despite two belts) hang low on his hips, several inches of Hobie's abdomen peek forth between the bottom hem and waistband, revealing a dusting of hair heading down his belt. 

Envy stirs deep in Miles' belly — the spider bite made him taller and slightly buffer, but didn't do nothing to his voice or hair growth (exhibit A: the puny, pubey mustache). He'll probably be middle-aged before he has more than three hairs on his chest, and his voice is unlikely to drop any further. Some days (all right, fine, most days) he'd give anything to look and sound like Hobie. But who wouldn't? Who wouldn't want to be tall and handsome, and have a deep, sexy voice? No one, that's who. He won the attractiveness lottery.

Miles can't stay bitter about it. Especially not when Hobie is simultaneously stuffing his face with pinchos and pasteles, explaining how Miles' watch works, and recounting his hilariously disastrous mishaps while reverse-engineering the first watch. 

(They involve copious itty-bitty parts going missing and umpteen instances of accidentally zapping himself.) 

Seriously, who could resent Hobie for long? He truly is the coolest person Miles has met. But the thing is: he's cool in ways Miles never would've imagined. He's passionate. And principled. Steadfast in his beliefs. One hundred percent secure in himself but never to the point of arrogance. Level-headed to such an extent he becomes a calming presence for everyone in every situation. And he cares so much, about the big things, about the little things. Knowing him has Miles wanting to be better, try harder, do more than he already does. 

But telling Hobie that might swell his head to a dangerous size. So Miles instead says:

"I can't believe I used to think you cool."

Hobie's chatter cuts off, the hand that emphatically waved Miles' watch around falling to his side. He levels Miles with the blankest of stares.

"I am cool."

"You're a nerd. And a dork."

"Yeah? What of it?"

"Nothing. It ain't a bad thing; it's cute."

Hobie giggles, shyly ducking his head. Aw, is he flustered? That's a first. It's not like Miles hasn't complimented him before. Maybe it's the choice of compliment — he can't remember calling Hobie 'cute' prior to this. 

Filing the theory away (for utterly benign reasons, of course), he props his chin in the palm of his hand and raptly watches Hobie pulsate shades of red and listens to his dulcet laughter. A sappy smile cuts across Miles' cheeks. He's having the time of his life: his belly full, the pleasant hum of people in the background, and the melody of him amusing his friend in the foreground. Nothing beats this. 

Recovered from his fit, chest still heaving but laughter abated, Hobie turns to gaze at him with soft eyes. Tugging on the lip ring with his teeth, he closes the distance between them by gliding along the railing until their hands bump. 

"Hey," he says, soft-toned, "are we—"

And that's the moment Miles' mom pops up between them. 

"Hello!" 

Startling, they break apart, recoiling to opposite ends of the enclosed space. Miles' neck burns like he's done something forbidden, which doesn't make any sense — he's just been talking to his friend. Sure, he snuck out when grounded, but who gives a shit? He wasn't going to stay cooped up in there anyway. And it's actually so rude of his mom to do this. Is she trying to embarrass him? Does she want him to not have a social life? The devil on his shoulder makes a compelling argument to push her off the water tower; the angel convinces him to suffer silently. 

"Hi! I'm Miles' mom," she says, cheerful even as she falls into Miles' arms after clambering over the railing. 

Hobie, to his credit, isn't thrown. Straightening from his usual slouch, he grants her a decorous smile. "Of course, he looks just like you. Good evening, I've heard so many lovely things about you. Excellent food tonight."

"Oh!" She perks up, charmed and surprised about it. "Well, thank you!"

Behind her, Miles' father announces his presence by bonking his head on the ceiling. His entrance sobers his mom's expression, her demeanor turning businesslike. 

"You boys have been out, huh?" she says. "Miles didn't tell us."

Miles says, "Sorry, I forgot—"

Concurrently, Hobie says, "It's a spontaneous visit…"

Their not-so-consistent explanations linger in the air like sweat in a locker room. His mom glares at him. It's definitely going to be four months after this. 

"You're a friend of Miles then?" She gives Hobie an appraising once-over. 

"Um, yeah," Miles says. "Mom and Dad, this is Howell, that I told you about. And these are my parents."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Morales." Hobie shakes her hand, then turns to Miles' dad, posture marginally tenser. "Lieutenant Morales, innit?"

His dad preens, grabbing Hobie's hand and giving it two solid pumps. "Soon to be Captain, actually!"

Hobie stiffens and grayens. His typical sleepy expression is shocked awake, the hooded eyes bugging out. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. 

"Congratulations," he says at last, sounding strangled.

His dad raises a confused eyebrow. Hobie retracts his hand, going to shove both of them into his pockets but changing his mind at the last second and lets his arms hang limp by his sides instead. He offers no explanation or change of topic to smooth over his reaction. Miles' parents look at him then, wanting answers, but he ignores them; he's too busy wishing to sink through the floor. Did Hobie figure out the reason for the party? Is he uncomfortable? Or upset because Miles kept it a secret? Damnit, he should've told Hobie the truth and given him the chance to decide if he wants to be here. 

His mom points at Hobie's watch. "That's cool! We've been telling Miles he should get a watch, but he's 'fine using the one in his phone'. It looks unique, where did you get it?"

Hobie blinks at the watch like he's no idea where it came from. "It's… DIY."

"Oh, yeah." She gestures all over him. "Aesthetic! So, how did you two meet?"

"At school," Miles says. 

"You go to Visions?"

"Yeah," Miles says just as Hobie says, "No." They cringe in unison. Miles amends, "He used to. For a while. There was a… exchange program…?" 

"Uh huh. And now you're back at school in Britain?"

"I graduated early."

"You're in college?"

"Um."

"Planning to go?" 

"Mooom…" Miles whines. 

Hobie's shoulders are level with his ears, and at least a foot of his height has crumbled beneath her judgment. "I don't… know yet…?"

"Ah," his mom says, tone measured and face stony. It was the wrong answer.

His dad clears his throat. "There are a lot of options to consider. Trade school, internships, uh, apprenticeships, gap years…" He trails off at his wife's side-eye. 

This is so not how Miles pictured his parents and Hobie's first meeting (because obviously he's pictured it — he's pictured Hobie being part of every aspect of his life, not just Spider-Man. Wishful thinking? Probably. Or a nightmare, as it turns out). They need a plan, anything to stop this catastrophe. 

A woman's voice blares from Hobie's pocket; he slaps a hand on it to muffle the sound. 

"Fuck," he blurts out, then squirms. "Um. S-sorry, I—" Turning away, he plunges his arm elbow-deep into the vest pocket. Miles peers over his shoulder, seeing him pull out and fiddle with the sleeker watch — the screen blinks bright orange. Hobie curses under his breath. "I've to go."

Miles' heart sinks. "Already?"

"Yeah, I…"— he glances at Miles' parents —"have a plane to catch. Would've loved to stay longer, but I can't. Thank you, bless." He quickly shakes both their hands, then prepares to hug Miles. Before Miles can begin to reciprocate, Hobie's arms freeze midair and he reels back; one of his hands flies up to scratch his neck and the other extends a fist for Miles to bump. "In a bit, blud."

"Yeah, bye…"

With a dull ache in his stomach, he watches Hobie shoulder his guitar and deftly descend the water tower. He leaves looking much grayer and more newspapery than when he arrived. Hopefully it's too dark for no one but Miles to notice. This is not the time to explain alternate dimensions to his parents… 

Wait. Shit. Alternate dimensions. The watch. Hobie had Miles' watch to show how it worked, but then Miles' parents came crashing in and everything got weird and distracting and, and… 

And Hobie never gave the watch back before he left. 

The ache turns sharp and stabbing. Hobie is already out of sight, and there's no way his parents will let him run after. He won’t be getting that watch until next time Hobie comes around, whenever that'll be. 

Miles slumps against the railing, burying his face in his hands. He wants to throw up. This day has been a fucking roller-coaster; how dare he hope it wouldn't end by completely derailing? He should've known better. Nothing ever works out for either Spider-Man or Miles Morales.

He's not even allowed to wallow in private!

"I can hear you being quiet, Mom." 

She shuffles awkwardly behind him. "I, um… hope I didn't ice your game, man." 

At least she has the decency to sound regretful. A shame it's too little, too late. Also, what does that even mean? 

"Those words don't make sense in that order or in this context, Mom." 

"It's just hard to see my little man not be my little boy all the time…" 

He hangs his head. It is hard. Everyone treating him like he's both too young to know or understand or be trusted with anything and like he's old enough to take on every responsibility and shrug off every hit, doesn't make it easier. Some days he doesn't know what direction he wants to go in — backward or forward. Not that he has a choice. But maybe if he could go back, only for a while, the future wouldn't seem so uncertain at other times. "Yeah," he says, defeated. 

She sidles up beside him and mirrors his position, forearms resting on the railing. "Papá, you know you can tell me anything. No hay mentiras entre nosotros." 

Miles expels a puff of air. "Well…" 

The edge of Spider-Man's sleeve peeks out from under Miles' clothes; he rolls the red-black fabric between his fingers. The risks are less likely to happen than he thinks. Telling someone is better, innit? 

"I'm—" he says, psyching himself up as he goes, and meets his mother's open face, her smile encouraging. 

And he pauses, falters. He has no clue what she's anticipating, but whatever she thinks she's ready for, it won’t be that. She'll never be ready for the truth. 

"... I'm sorry I was late."

He can't tell her. Not yet, not ever, not… no.

No. 

She deflates. It hurts to disappoint her, but better that than the alternative. He sags into his jacket, pillowing his chin on the puffy sleeves. Unable to meet his mom, he faces Brooklyn instead, but she's unsympathetic, her silhouette jagged and harsh in the semi-darkness. The shimmer and the silk only lasts when the sun is present. 

"Go."

His mom's soft urging takes a second for him to process, but once he does it bowls him over; he whirls toward her. She's smiling, kind and oddly knowing. 

"He seems like a nice boy," she says, and it's too good to be real. She isn't actually allowing this. It has to be a trick. 

But it's not. 

He lets her fuss with his clothes, straightening the hood and collar, and listens to everything she has to say. Her eyes shine wetly, and by the end of her speech, so do his. While he feels like she's catastrophizing, he also figures that's part of a mother's job description. So he agrees and promises until she's satisfied, and asks for blessing before he leaves. 

Her words keep him floating one foot above the floor as he dashes down the fire escape, shedding clothes with a newfound flourish. He needed to hear them more than he realized. Maybe she and his dad don't always understand him, but it wasn't from a lack of trying — it wasn't from a lack of love. If they ever find out about his secret… 

Well, they'd probably be furious. But they wouldn't abandon him. He should come clean next time he sees them.

(He's gonna come clean.) 

Hobie has a head start, but luckily Miles thinks he knows the destination. His suspicions are confirmed when he arrives at Bedford Ave. and sees the wrecked building surrounded by cop cars and floodlights. Sneaking past them is easy when camouflaged, and he swings directly through one of the massive holes. The interior is somehow worse, bits of demolished furniture and equipment scattered everywhere. In the middle of it stands Hobie, hands on hips as he surveys the damage. 

Miles lands next to him, dropping the camouflage. They look at each other, Hobie clicking his tongue.

"Think I shoulda come back earlier?"

Chapter Text

Peter wasn't kidding when he said that a lot of weird things happen to him. In the sixteen months Miles has been Spider-Man, he's seen tons of bizarre shit. He imagines he'll get used to it sooner or later; unflappable by experience or something. He ain't there yet, though, because when Hobie's Society-watch projects a holographic playback of what happened in the apartment and Spot stumbles into the room?

Yeah, Miles' jaw drops.

"You know him, then?" Hobie asks after Miles bemusedly says the villain's name aloud. 

"I fought him twice, just earlier today! I kinda thought that was the end of him, cuz, like, of how he went down. He's an annoyance at best. At least"— Miles' brow furrow as Spot builds what resembles a tiny collider while gleefully monologuing to an audience of extradimensional spiders —"that's what I thought."

"Any idea why he's doin’ this?" Hobie asks while fast-forwarding the hologram. 

"He's making himself more powerful so he can beat me," Miles says, and quickly relays his and Spot's history: the spider, the explosion, the resentment. He even mentions the bagel. "So now he thinks he's my nemesis. I didn't take him seriously. It made him angry." The Spot hologram touches the tiny collider-beam, risking vaporization for the sake of defeating Miles. Then the villain vanishes, followed by holographic light shooting out the ruined walls. "I should've taken him seriously…" 

Goosebumps rise on his arms, leaving a ringing sensation in their wake. There's trouble ahead, and his instincts tell him to hide. He blips out of sight just as another hologram, this one of a stern-looking woman with an afro, appears.

"Hobie.” she says. “You were scheduled for a check-in ten minutes ago. What's the status on the bad guy?" 

Hobie, either expecting her or hiding his surprise (maybe he's unflappable by experience), leisurely turns to her.

"I lost him." 

The Spider-Woman splutters, her eyes bugging behind her large shades. "You lost him? Dude!"

Before Hobie can either explain or excuse, she summons another holographic woman, this one smaller but wearing just as big shades. The tiny woman named Lyla starts tracking Spot's journey, noting his speed as he remains one step ahead of her. An ache throbs in Miles' stomach. Did Spot have this much control earlier today? How has he learned so much in mere hours? 

"Did you go see your little friend?" Spider-Woman asks. 

"Yeah," Hobie replies lightly, no hesitation or shame. She might as well have asked if he thinks it'll rain tomorrow. Though she scowls as if he predicted a hurricane. 

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"You well expected me not to?" 

"What did you do all this time? What'd you tell him?" 

"We got blazed and discussed Marxist theory," he says, irritation seeping into his tone. 

Spider-Woman laughs, incredulous. "I… I honestly can't with you. You know he can't be part of this. You can't see him again." 

Hobie's head hangs forward, his fingers twitching against his hips where his hands hang limply. He breathes in… and out, slowly, but it doesn't diminish the way his shoulders tremble. When he speaks, his "Sure" sounds resentful. 

"Hobie, I mean it—"

"I know."

"Hey, guys?" Lyla says, interrupting what Miles feared would turn into a fight. She points at the digital map of Spot's trajectory. "He's making his own portals. Every dimension he stops at has an Alchemax. He could be a total canon killer." 

"How could you lose this guy?!" Spider-Woman exclaims.

"Reckoned he weren’t much of a threat." Hobie shrugs, back to acting unaffected. "I underestimated him." 

"No kidding! Do you know how bad this is for us? What's he up to?" 

"I think he's depowered. Tryna charge himself back up."

"So he's not even at full power now. Amazing."

"Means we’ve time to stop him. I'll get it done," Hobie says, but Spider-Woman shakes her head.

"You've done enough. If Miguel finds out—"

"So don't tell him."

Spider-Woman purses her mouth, and a staring match commences between her and Hobie. Even with his mask on, there's an obviously imploring tinge to his demeanor. Gradually, her stern face softens. When Lyla announces she’s caught up to Spot and asks what to do, Spider-Woman hesitates; Hobie strikes. 

"I messed up — now I gotta fix it,” he says. “Let me take responsibility for my mistake, Jess."

Jess narrows her eyes at him. Miles holds his breath as they await her response. This visit has turned disastrous: first he accidentally engineered an awkward first meeting between Hobie and his parents, and now he's gotten Hobie into trouble with the society. Miles never should’ve invited him to that stupid party.

"Alert the local Spider,” Jess says to Lyla. “Tell him Hobie will meet him there."

"Thank you, Jess," Hobie says, still unflappable (Miles inhales a relieved breath for the both of them).

"You're welcome. I'm only doing this because this is your first offense, got it? You have an hour — I can't and won't cover for you forever." 

And with that the holograms vanish, taking the warm, orange light with them and leaving the cold, blue-and-yellow from the portal behind. Yanking his mask off, Hobie tosses his head back and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His groan is drawn out, deep, and utterly exhausted.

Miles drops the camouflage. "I'm sorry."

Hobie's gaze snaps to him; his exasperation turns into confusion. "What're you sorry for? This ain't your fault."

"I… distracted you?" 

"Oh, yeah. How dare you be proper good company." Hobie scoffs, shaking his head. "Speaking of distractin' and forgettin'... this yours, innit?"

Hobie hands Miles the black-and-red watch; Miles snatches it up with such eagerness it startles a laugh out of Hobie. Miles is too happy to be embarrassed. He ain’t never taking it off again. He’s going to wear it at school, he’s going to wear it when he sleeps, he’s going to wear it in the showe— okay, probably not in the shower. Although, it’d be on brand for Hobie to make it waterproof. Miles can’t be the only one who’s gotten wet while on patrol before.

He clicks it shut around his wrist. It’s a perfect fit, snug but not squeezing. Another reminder Hobie made it for him. For him to travel dimensions with. 

So why not get started now?

"I wanna come with you,” Miles says. “Spot is my villain — it's me he's beefing with."

Old habit has him squaring his shoulders and standing as tall as he physically can to appear more adult, like someone who deserves to be heard. But there’s no need, because this is Hobie he’s talking to.

"I ain't stopping you. You can go wherever you want."

"Good. I've been wanting this for ages."

"Just watch out.” Smirking, Hobie knocks his shoulder into Miles’. “Portaling is harder than it looks."

"Hey, I'm Spider-Man,” Miles says, matching Hobie’s cockiness and even throwing in a wink for good measure. “I got it." 

Hobie chuckles, wearing that lopsided cover-model smile of his. Since the portal opened next to them, the light from it has overpowered Hobie, washing him out. But now, he breaks through the artificial colors, turning a rich crimson. Softly, he says: "You're a bit of me, Miles." 

Ah, slang. One Miles hasn't heard before. Sometimes he still has to do sneaky internet searches to understand what Hobie says, but mostly he's gotten good at deciphering through context and logical reasoning. This one probably means… that they get each other? They're on the same wavelength. Their vibes match. Something positive, at least. 

"Thanks. You're a… bit of me, too?" he replies, chancing it.

"Yeah," Hobie says, his solemn tone suggesting Miles didn't quite get it right. Before Miles can rectify it, Hobie's hidden behind his mask and gestures to the open portal. "Let's widen your horizons, Brooklyn Boy." 

Mumbattan is vibrant. 

Brighter than New York — the hues and the lights — but just as bustling with life. The smell of vehicle exhaust and garbage is exactly the same, though there's an undertone of fish and spice that Miles has never felt at home. The sudden new fragrances on top of the resplendence would be distracting on their own; after traveling across dimensions through the world’s most horrifying funhouse tunnel? Miles is overwhelmed and disoriented. If Hobie hadn't been there to keep him balanced, he would've fallen into the city and bounced between the buildings like a pinball. 

They quickly meet up with Earth-50101’s Spider-Man, a chipper guy who doesn’t seem at all surprised by Miles’ presence, instead greeting him like they’ve been friends for years. Working together, they find and catch Spot fast… and lose him even faster. Spot's control over his holes has improved exponentially; he soars through the air, escaping every web they throw at him and no-selling their punches.

In fact — Miles notes after Spot blasts him into a billboard while ominously declaring he’ll ‘fill his empty holes with even more holes’ — it feels like he’s toying with them. Spot could get by undetected, if he so wished. But he’s out in the open, blathering on about how cool he’s become. Showing off, unbothered, unthreatened. It’s first when the Alchemax building comes into view that he shuts up and, with a laserlike focus, pulls ahead toward the labs. All they can do is pursue in the hopes that they’ll make it there before he does any irreversible damage.

"New Guy Miles, you're exactly what I envisioned you to be!" the Indian Spider-Man, Pavitr, says while they give chase. 

"I am?" 

"Yes! Hobie has told me everything about you!"

"Not everything," Hobie drawls from Miles' other side. "An appropriate amount."

"Everything," Pavitr stresses as if Hobie hadn't interrupted. "He just didn't use his words. You see, I'm very good at reading people—"

"Oi! Pav! Tell him more about you, yeah? How's Gayatri?"

Slapping a hand to his heart, Pavitr utters the deepest, lovesickest sigh. "Gayatri!"

Miles listens with only half an ear as Pavitr waxes poetic about his ladylove. He’s not sure yet if he likes Pavitr — the dude is just too good. Like, a perfect girlfriend, perfect hair, and received a watch before the six month mark? No wonder being Spider-Man is soooo easy. And here Miles thought that Gwen was his biggest competition for Hobie’s attention.

Speaking of…

"—most adorable little nose ring and— Oh, hey, do you know about Gwen?" Pavitr’s change of topic is swift and merciless as they reach Alchemax.

"Yep," Miles says, hoping the curtness will be enough of a hint that he doesn’t want to talk about it. But no such luck.

"She's pretty much moved in with him."

Pavitr nods in Hobie’s direction just as they swing through Spot’s still open portal and into the building. Alchemax staff is running panicky inside, fleeing from the villain who strolls with a languid single-mindedness toward the collider-room. His portals ensure he remains out of reach for them.

"I know," Miles replies, aggravation growing, because this so isn’t the time for this! They need to think of a plan of how to deal with—

"I haven't yet found out if they share a bed." 

All thoughts of plans leave Miles’ head; he’s reduced to indignant spluttering. How's he supposed to reply to that? He hadn’t considered the possibility of it before now, honestly doesn’t want to.

"Why would we share a bed?" Hobie pipes up, sounding uncharacteristically exasperated.

"Oh, you know!” Pavitr sounds cheerful despite — or maybe because of? — the annoyance he’s causing. "England is so cold and dreary even in the daytime. I presume you huddle for warmth at night."

"Mate…"

Spot enters the collider-room and a barrier closes behind him, locking the three Spider-Mans out. No matter how much they punch, kick, or strike it with instruments, it won’t budge. In there, Spot initializes the collider sequence. Out here, Hobie wordlessly hangs up on Jess when she pops in for a status report.

Sweat trickles down Miles’ temple, dampening the inside of his mask. They’re running out of time. There’s an unbeatable, electrical shield in their way and they don’t have—

Wait.

Electrical.

“Stand back!” he calls out. “I know how to break it!”

Putting his fingertips against the shield, he reverses his venom sting and absorbs the electrical energy. Once he has enough, he’ll shoot it back and burn out the barrier. Just gotta hope he has the time — the process is slower than he anticipated.

"Don't use just your fingers." 

"What?"

Miles turns to Hobie, his hold on the shield slipping a little; the electricity crackles around his hands. 

"Use your palms too. Like this…"

Standing behind Miles, Hobie's long arms reach around on either side of him. Miles pauses his venom sting, allowing Hobie to safely touch; he presses his palms flush against the back of Miles' hands, pushing until they're laying flat on the barrier. Oh, right. More contact means more electricity faster, and a higher likelihood of short-circuiting the thing. Of course. 

(To their left, Pavitr hyperfocuses on them, his excitement obvious through his body language alone. He must be really keen on seeing the barrier blow up.)

"Like that," Hobie murmurs into Miles' ear. He squeezes Miles' wrists, fingertips rubbing at the pulse point, before stepping back. 

Miles nods, releasing a shaky breath. He's trembling, his heart racing. Why is he nervous? He's used his venom sting thousands of times. Although, never like this and not while a villain with an inferiority complex and a grudge is commandeering a multidimensional weapon. Yeah, that's it — a lot is at stake and everyone is counting on him. 

Shaking the tension from his shoulders, he activates his sting. 

The barrier shatters within seconds. 

They barge inside, ready for a fight, just as another one of the Spider Society's portals opens above Spot. Head tilting bemusedly, he looks between the portal and the activated collider. He's muttering something about how he ‘didn't make that happen, did I?’ when a hooded Spider-Ballerina leaps out, planting her pointe shoe in Spot's face.

Pavitr cheers, “Gwen! Yes!”

Spot stumbles, but recovers quicker than when Miles fought him yesterday; the next move Gwen tries gets her sent through a portal which opens above Miles. The impact has them tumbling over and landing with him flat on his back and her on top. She pushes off, movements slow as she scrutinizes him.

"Are you Miles?" she asks.

"Yeah? And you're Gwen?" 

"Yeah!” She looks away from him, watching Hobie and Pavitr leap into action against Spot. Gwen vaults to her feet. “Later!"

She rejoins the fight, Miles one step behind her. She’s more graceful than the rest of them combined, probably is a ballerina for real, and looks real badass, too. Miles thought Hobie had the coolest costume, but Gwen might beat him. The white and black with the pops of color is just so sleek. Artistic. Miles kinda hates her for it.

"Oh, Hobie!” Gwen exclaims, dodging a hole by somersaulting through the air. “I hope you weren't saving that spotted dick, because I ate it." 

"S'fine," Hobie grunts, leveling his guitar so she can use it as a springboard.

Miles trips on air, catching himself at the last second. "What's a spotted dick? "

"It's a dessert," Pavitr offers while swinging past.

"Also,” Gwen continues as if she and Hobie are the only ones there, “I tore the laces on your chucks — I'll get new ones!" 

"Don't worry 'bout it, luv." 

You can tell the other three have met and fought bad guys before — they work together like clockwork, knowing each other’s moves before they happen in a way that goes beyond spider-senses. It takes Miles effort to fall into their rhythm, but he gets a hang of it. Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Spot is just too OP at this point, and once the collider powers up and Spot enters the beam, it’s over. The ensuing blast knocks them off their feet and the air out of their lungs. Shapes and colors dance in front of Miles’ eyes, melting into images. 

He sees Spot, past and present and future. He sees New York, falling apart. He sees his dad, running… running to save someone. And he hears Spot’s voice, tinny and too close, a mocking air that echoes inside his head. 

See you back home.

Miles should figure out what it all means, but there’s no time because the lab is collapsing, and then the whole building is collapsing, and there are lots of people that'll get crushed unless they act now. And since Pavitr is frozen with panic (six months, he said he’s been doing this for only six months, he’s basically a rookie still), Miles takes charge. They’ll clear the path while Hobie and Gwen keep the building together for as long as possible. 

It’s intense work, with seemingly no end to neither rubble nor civilians. It’s fine, though — he has backup. He’s got Pavitr by his side, Hobie and Gwen above him, and he can count on them as much as they can count on him. His spider-sense alerts him of constant danger from every direction, but it also lets him sense the other three the whole time. Like shadows in his mind’s peripheral, they make him feel safer, stronger.

They’ve almost saved everyone when Miles is alerted of two more civilians: a man and a child trapped in the middle of it all, about to be crushed. He readies himself to save them, when Gwen grabs his wrist and tells him no! ‘Too dangerous,’ she claims, as if what they’ve been doing the past ten minutes was a breeze. Does she think he can’t do it just cuz he don’t got a fancy watch like hers? She better watch this, then — Miles yanks out of her grip and swings, ignoring her shout.

Moments later Gwen is the one who digs him and the (very much alive and thriving!) civilians out from beneath the concrete slabs Miles used to protect them from the falling debris.

“You did it!” she exhales, awe-struck.

Miles puffs out his chest and soaks up the admiration. He did do it!

Stumbling from the rubble, they reunite with Hobie and Pavitr as the latter two finish heaving a bus to safety. Once it’s secure and the passengers pour out, Hobie runs over to meet them. Miles expects to receive a fistbump or a noogie or perhaps a quick hug; he does not expect Hobie to slam into him so hard he nearly topples over. The hug is intense, Hobie wrapping himself around Miles and even lifting him off the ground.

“You in one piece?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Miles says. “You?”

“Yeah.” Hobie chuckles breathlessly and thumps their foreheads together. “Man knew you could do it, but… Bloody hell, you made me nervous.”

Miles laughs too, then louder when Gwen and Pavitr join the hug, babbling their praises. It feels good. Not just the closeness of friends, old and new, but hearing the crowd applaud them and seeing the faces of the people they saved. This is what being Spider-Man is about. 

But the celebration doesn’t last. First, a Spot-like black hole appears and starts swallowing buildings. Then, Spider Society shows up. Jess is more intimidating in person, coldly shutting down both his greeting and Gwen’s timid attempt at explaining the situation. At least she’s not yelling at them, though she probably would’ve if she’d seen the DIY watch — they all but ripped it off Miles’ wrist and shoved it into Hobie’s vest pocket. She still orders the three of them back to HQ, Miles included. Gwen protests, but Miles agrees; Hobie stays silent.

Let's see what this society is all about. Maybe Miles can help Hobie's cause while he's at it.

The second trip through the portal is easier; Miles has always been a fast learner. He sticks the landing on his own and spends half the elevator-ride admiring the futuristic view. The other half he sneaks glances at Gwen — just as he feared, she's even cooler with her mask off. Prettier too, her cute button nose and innocently blue eyes a mesmerizing contrast to her eyebrow piercing and punky hair: shaved sides and long on top, the blonde switching to shades of blue and pink at the ends. 

She and Hobie definitely look like they belong together. 

Envy bubbles in Miles’ gut, boiling hotter when they step out of the elevator and he's staring at the interior like a tourist while everyone else don't care at all. It's Bring Your Kid to Work Day and he's the elementary schooler stuck among the grown-ups. He should be one of them. 

They split up slightly, Jess holding Hobie back to berate him while Gwen coaxes Miles ahead. He gives Hobie a questioning look — does he need backup or for Miles to take the fall? — but Hobie winks and motions for him to go. So he goes. With Gwen. 

Hobie is probably happy they've finally met, but to be real, this is an awkward first meeting. Gwen must agree, because she clears her throat and fumbles for conversation. 

"So, uh." She gestures to their surroundings. "Whatcha think?"

"This place is wild."

Gwen smiles widely. There's an adorable little gap between her front teeth. "And this is just the lobby."

"Deadass?" 

"Uh-huh! We got training facilities with weights and obstacle courses, a penitentiary where we keep the bad guys until we send them home, umm… A cafeteria! The food's pretty good. Tasty burgers. And then there's the medical wing and psychiatry center…" 

"Psychiatry?" 

"So we can talk about our trauma and stuff. I don't really use it. Hmm… Oh! You're a science guy, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"There are labs! They focus on watch-related things, but I'm sure they develop other stuff too. I'm not cleared to be down there, though. But I can show you the control room and the Go Home Machine."

"Go… Home Machine?" 

"I know — lame name. But it's cool-looking, in a freaky way? You'll see when we get there." 

She gets distracted by a bunch of Spider-Mans running past and greeting her after that (and if any of them notice Miles they don't deem him interesting enough to show it). While she's busy saying ‘hi’ to the Peters, Miles glances backwards. Hobie and Jess are following several paces behind, now joined by Lyla. The scolding seems to be coming to a close… 

"Soo…” Done with the Peters, Gwen sidles closer to Miles and drops her tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hobie brought you along this time?" 

Miles blinks. Shit, how much does she know? "Uh." 

"It's okay; he's told me everything.” Her smile falls off her face. “It really sucks that they won't give you a watch. Hobie made it sound like you deserve one." 

"Yeah… And, uh, yeah, he did. Bring me." 

"Trippy going through the portal for the first time, right?"

"Hah, yeah. Um, so he’s…” Miles clears his throat. “He's talked about me?" 

It stands to reason that Hobie thinks about him when they’re apart, but the chance of confirming it has butterflies erupting in Miles’ stomach. The answer must be as exciting to Gwen as it is to him, because she lights up and gains a spring in her step. 

"Yeah!" she says. 

"He's talked about you, too… you live with him?" 

"On and off. Mostly on. I'm, like, couch-surfing… dimension-surfing? And his place is the best since, well, it's Hobie's. I feel the most welcome there. He's such a nice guy, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"So helpful and selfless and cool,” she gushes, and dang, Hobie needs to ask her out yesterday. She's obviously in love. “He helped you when you were starting out, didn't he?"

"He did."

"I wish someone had done that for me. It must've been special.” She raises her eyebrows at him, sending a message he can't decipher. “You must mean a lot to each other." 

"He's one of my best friends." 

"Mine too! Though, I'm sure you guys are closer than me and him. Since you've known each other longer." 

Miles shrugs. "I think you two've hung out more." 

She deflates. "Well. Yeah. Maybe. But we mostly hang during missions, so not a lot of meaningful talks happen. And when we're at home— I mean, at his place, we're usually too tired to do anything except be in the same room together. He sews, I read, and vice versa. Sometimes we jam. I don't think I'm closer to him than you are."

"Uh huh." Miles tries not to sound too salty. 

"I've really been eager to meet you. Hobie told me how smart you are, and that you destroyed a collider on your own, and you spray painted your suit?" 

"Yeah, uh, but this is another one."

"Bummer. I'd've loved to see it. Anywho, he's mentioned tons about you, but it also feels like there's so much he hasn't said, you know? Almost like he wants to keep you to himself…” She gives him another meaningful but indecipherable look. “He's obviously fond of you." 

"I'm, uh, fond of him as well." 

"Good…” Gwen says slowly. Her blue eyes are on him like lasers, like she's now the one trying to decipher him. She must have more luck than he did, because she soon brightens. “Good!"

When Hobie and Jess catch up Gwen becomes considerably more reticent. Jess takes charge, leading them through some of the places Gwen mentioned, such as the penitentiary and the cafeteria. They also make a prolonged stop at the control room. The technology really is fire, including the creepy Go Home Machine, and the girl who runs it is cute. She's happy to answer all of Miles’ questions about the tech, until Gwen anxiously asks if they really should keep Miguel waiting; Hobie snatches hold of Miles' hand and drags him away.

They must be getting closer to their destination, closer to Miguel, because the corridor gets emptier and emptier. Soon the four of them are the only ones around. Jess and Gwen go ahead then, leaving Miles and Hobie alone for the first time in ages. Miles was starting to miss him. Hobie clicks his tongue, asking for Miles’ attention. Once he's got it, he grabs an electronic doohickey protruding from the wall, and snaps it off. Doing a series of movements and finishing by blowing air through his enclosed fist, he then shows Miles his open palms. Both of them are empty. 

Miles grins. It's simple sleight of hand, but still so cool. Spotting a desk with more doohickeys, Miles saunters alongside it, gathering bits and pieces in his palm. When it's full, he returns to Hobie with his hands casually held behind his back. Hobie swipes the handful, stuffing the findings in his vest. It's quick and quiet, both of them cooler than cucumbers. 

Then their gazes meet and they dissolve into giggles, not unlike a pair of schoolgirls. Miles doesn't even know if his loot will be useful to Hobie, but it doesn't matter. Causing mischief, having a laugh, watching Hobie light up the dark hallway with yellow and pink… this is the life.

"So,” he says as a means to sober up — they can't have the ladies noticing and asking what they're up to. “That's Gwen. She's nice."

"Yep." 

"And she obviously likes you." Miles swallows a lump in his throat. "Are you planning on making a move soon?"

Hobie gawks at him. "Making a what? " 

"A move. Ask her out. She'll say yes; she's pretty much your live-in girlfriend already."

"I ain’t doing that," Hobie says, snorting as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

Miles frowns. "Why?" 

"Cuz I'm not interested in her."

"Why not?"

"She's not what I'm looking for." 

"Not what you're—” Miles sputters. “How? She seems great! You talk about her all the time, you have tons in common, and she's stunning." 

Hobie's mouth falls open, but it takes him a second or two to speak. "You think so?" 

"Yeah! You're both Spider-People who like punk and—"

"Not that. The 'stunning' part."

"Duh. Look at her." 

Hobie runs his tongue along his lower lip, thoughtfully flicking the ring. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "Are you interested in her?"

"Nah, bro, she's all yours."

"Nang," Hobie says, not meaning it. His body has all but grayed out.

This is confusing. Why did their conversation turn Hobie so gloomy so fast? He claims he doesn't want Gwen, but he also doesn't want Miles to want Gwen? But why would Miles want Gwen — he only just met her. 

Hobie’s gaze snaps forward right then, and Miles follows it to the giant room opening up in front of them — they must’ve arrived. Hobie grimaces and curses under his breath; he leans in to whisper.

“Miles, listen: they're gonna tryna intimidate you, get me? Don't let them.”

“I know. They're lying or they don't know what they're saying. I ain't trusting a word.”

“There's one more ting,” Hobie says as he shuffles on the spot, jittery in a way Miles has never seen him be. He keeps glancing between Miles and the slowly descending platform Miguel stands on. “I shoulda told you ages ago but I was— Ugh, nevermind that now. It's your dad, yeah? He—”

He’s interrupted by Gwen’s voice ringing out, introducing Miles and Miguel to each other. Miguel turns around, finally deigning to look at Miles. The disdain on his face is obvious even from a distance; Miles almost scowls, already disliking him. But he deals with people he dislikes every day, so this is no big deal. And, unlike Miguel, he can school his face into something neutral and polite. He can get through this encounter without messing things up for Hobie more than he has, no problem.

Miles just needs to keep his cool.

Miles loses his cool. 

At first, he's doing great. He listens to Miguel O'Hara like every bit of info is brand new to him. He oohs and aahs over the hologram-backed dramatics. He plays along and agrees that canon events are important, necessary, must-happens for the safety of the multiverse. A quick glance in Hobie's direction confirms Miles plays his part perfectly, that he's making Hobie proud. 

But then Miguel mentions Jeff. He lets slip that Miles’ dad is a canon event — the tragic kind. 

What Miles should do, is concede. What Miles should do, is say ‘how sad, but it can't be helped’, and beg to go home so he can spend time with his family while it's still intact. 

That's what he should do. 

What Miles actually does, is get angry. What Miles does, is argue against Miguel's every point and berate his so-called friends for keeping this from him. What Miles does, is get cornered by dozens of Spider-People and trapped in a futuristic energy-cage.

Hell breaks loose around him: Peter B weakly argues that the jail cell is overkill while Gwen pleads that Miles is just a kid who doesn't know any better and can't they please work this out?

Hobie, to Miles’ bitter surprise, doesn't come to Miles’ defense. Rather, he dares to approach Miles in his cage, presses his hands against the orange barrier, and gives Miles a devastated, imploring look. Seeking forgiveness that Miles won't be able to extend in a million years. 

He lied to him. Hobie lied to him. A lie by omission, but a lie nonetheless. He's had months to tell Miles, to prepare him. And he didn't. 

So Miles glowers back, fury pulsing in his veins and blood swishing in his ears. He can’t hear what Hobie is saying to him — honestly doesn't fucking want to know — but his instincts take over and he reads the word off Hobie's lips. 

Palms. 

Palms? What about his… 

Oh! 

Miles wastes no time; the barrier shatters before Miguel's argument with Peter B and Gwen has barely begun. The ensuing silence is deafening, Hobie's low, triumphant chuckle the only thing cutting through. Despite himself, Miles wants to seek it out. He aches to see the grin on Hobie's face and the fireworks in his eyes, the pleased yellow-and-pink tingeing his body. 

But he has less than seconds to spare. Pivoting on the spot, he flees. 

And if anyone ever doubted, Miles can confirm that being cornered by dozens of Spider-People? Is nothing compared to being chased by thousands of Spider-People. 

There’s not a lot of space to move or think. Miles needs to go home and protect his dad from Spot and from the canon and from fucking Miguel O’Hara, but he doesn’t have his watch, because it’s in Hobie’s pocket, and he doesn’t know where Hobie is. There are so many Spiders surrounding him, not even a blinking, swinging newspaper clipping stands out from the crowd. Without his watch, he’ll need another way to go home…

He makes a plan on the fly. 

With the Spiders in pursuit, he runs far and ends up clinging to the outside of a train headed for the goddamn moon. Miguel catches up to him there, and he must be tired of chasing after Miles by now, because the ensuing fight is brutal. Claws tear at Miles’ suit and skin, but it’s Miguel screaming the word ‘mistake’ in his face that cuts the deepest. If Miles’ hadn’t already known about his status as an anomaly and how no one thinks he should exist, that info might’ve crushed him. He supposes Hobie did do him a few favors by telling him. 

Still, after revealing his plan to lead everyone away from HQ and blasting Miguel off him, and after standing tall on the train’s vertical roof, the sharp wind cutting through his hair and nipping his exposed nose and cheeks, he can’t bring himself to look Peter B in the eye. Being told about the betrayal is one thing… but hearing it again like this makes it too real. Scabbed wounds can also get infected if you poke them. So instead, he turns to Gwen. The blonde hair whips around her ghostly face, her big, blue eyes staring at him in wonderment. As if she’s finally seeing him for who he is.

“Good luck, Gwen,” he says, and leaps off the train. 

Nueva York is but flashing colors and blurry movements from this far up. Flying through the air, Miles sees his father’s face, hears his father’s voice, feels his father’s arms enclose him in a hug. Miles will save him. 

But first, he needs to Go Home.