Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nobody was quite sure who first suggested the idea of a safehouse.

Hobie thought it might have been Miles, who just wanted somewhere to belong after the whole shitshow with Miguel and the Spider Society, somewhere with people who understood what being like this felt like. Even the lad’s hugs from his mum and newly rekindled connection with his dad wouldn’t be enough sometimes. Never did if you just couldn’t get it, no matter how much you were holding out your hands to try, but Miles was adamant that they were trying.

Miles thought it could be Gwen. She’d not told him much about what happened between her and her father, but it was enough that she still needed that time away from him, from her Earth every now and then. Burnt bridges were never fixed in a day, and her friends were a boat to shore. She’d told him, in a sniffly mess of tears and laughter one evening, how surreal it felt that her dad had immediately accepted her being trans, but not Spider-Woman. Spider-Woman had taken time. Perfect irony. 

Gwen had an inkling it was Pavitr, who was on the cusp of learning that being Spider-Man really wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be. Perfect grades, perfect hair, a perfect girlfriend, a perfect auntie - they weren’t always enough to negate the worry of what if it all goes wrong? They’d all been there when he’d nearly lost Earth-50101, and everyone with it. And even the boy made of the sun himself had bad days, they all saw it. On those kinds of days, they offered quiet distractions, a hug from Gwen here, infodumping about a character from Miles there to watch the spark of intrigue light back up, a hand on the shoulder and a silently offered cup of chai from Hobie.

Pavitr had looked at it through many lenses, and he thought it would’ve been Hobie. As much as he was the toughest, the oldest, the coolest, he was just as much a kid as the rest of them. It was an open secret, really, that Hobie’s own home life was far from ideal. It was in the way he acted self-sufficient, the way he taught Gwen how to steal food and other things, the way he’d defended Miles when no-one had his back, the way he made jokes about how awful the British could be with him. Pavitr had never seen somebody so staunchly anti-authority be so polite with Auntie Maya. None of the teens ever said a word if Hobie went uncharacteristically quiet at kind words from Auntie Maya, or Mrs. Morales. Pavitr always noticed the thankfulness in the tall boy’s eyes.

Truth be told, none of them had any idea whose idea the safehouse was, or how it ended up with full sketchbooks on the coffee table, or an array of recipes and spices in the kitchen, with the recipes colour-coded and written with smiley faces and little notes, or a recommended feed of drumming videos on YouTube on the shitty TV, or an extra patchwork blanket here and there just in case the cold bit a little too hard. They didn’t have a need to find out, really, because it didn’t matter how the cosiness crept its way in, it just mattered that it did.

It mattered when Gwen made cottage pie for everyone - she’d learned the recipe from her dad, and he’d learned from his dad - and made an extra vegetarian one for Pavitr.

It mattered when Miles managed to rip a hole in his favourite hoodie, and Hobie had stitched it back together whilst everyone sat on the sofa to watch shows they didn’t really have a TV licence for.

It mattered when Hobie found a millipede in the bathroom and Pavitr had spent the evening excitedly telling him about the differences between centipedes and millipedes and other such bugs without fear of a strange look or a muted laugh.

It mattered when Miles saw that Gwen was having a shit night and wordlessly offered her his headphones and a shoulder to lean on, even though they both should've been back in their own dimensions, fast asleep, hours ago.

It mattered because it answered a question that Miguel, Jessica, Peter B, all the adults in the Spider Society couldn't answer:

Can't we just be kids?

Chapter Text

“Gwendy? Whatcha doing up, lass, it’s proper late.”

Gwen didn’t really look up from the cup of coffee she’d made, though she knew Hobie had a point. Her brain felt too heavy inside her head, like everything was cotton and television static. She shrugged, as if her shoulders could convey the message of just one of those nights that her mouth couldn’t really slog through right now.

Beside her, Hobie let out a quiet sigh, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter.

“...Wanna talk about it?”

“...not really…”

Gwen held her breath a little. Though her friends didn’t tend to do it, she was so used to adults in her life trying to make her talk, make her vocalise the brain fuzz when she was having a shit day.

She let out that breath when she saw Hobie nod a little and walk over to the sofa.

“Come on, love. We can watch a bit of shit on the telly, yeah?” 

The safehouse was quiet at night. Most of the time, it’d be completely empty, not a soul inhabiting it. Hobie was the most frequent inhabitant, especially when any other sleeping arrangements fell through. It was to the point where he actually had his own room, though he insisted to the rest of the Arachkids that it was just as open as the other rooms. He wasn’t about those ideas of “trespassing”, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give his friends shit for finding his room comfy and safe. 

The second most common overnighter was Gwen. Her relationship with her dad was on the mend, sure, but it didn’t mean there weren’t some of those really hard nights - the ones where she felt like she’d tear her dad’s head off (or worse, burst into tears) if she had to be around him for a moment longer. Those nights, she’d leave a little note so he didn’t panic - she knew what he could be like - and she’d make for the little space she and her friends had made. Being that the place was an apartment, the safehouse had more than just the one bedroom. Gwen was half convinced it was the only reason Hobie had agreed to having his own room. For a boy who had an amazing slight-of-hand when it came to supermarket goods and bits of tech junk, Hobie was remarkably bad at taking things when they were offered to him in kindness.

The television displayed some re-runs of some British TV show or another, something that didn’t really take much attention or intelligent thought to decipher. Gwen didn’t really recognise it, yet she still found herself cross-legged on the sofa next to Hobie as he began a long-winded rant about how “this Love Island shit is actually  just used to distract us from what’s really goin’ on!” She found herself only half paying attention, though she had a feeling Hobie didn’t really mind as he passed one of the patchwork blankets over to her.

“I thought coffee was supposed to keep you awake, lass. You look about ready to drop.”

He had a grin on his face, though quiet worry was present in his eyes.

Gwen mumbled a noncommittal response, shrugging through her sleepy state.  

She tried to concentrate on the TV - the loud voices and the bright colours - though she couldn’t really tell what was being said. And to think she’d thought Hobie’s accent was thick; she couldn’t understand a word of what was being said through the flurry of shouting coming from the show. 

“What’re they even arguing about, Hobes?”

“Mm? Oh, dunno. Someone probably snogged the wrong person. It’s brainrot made to distract, anyway, Gwendy. Tune it out if you wanna.”

Hobie’s demeanour was always a surprising aid for anybody looking to relax, especially this late. Curling up under the blanket she’d been offered, fighting the looming heaviness of her eyelids, Gwen asked quietly.

“...Why are you still awake?”

Hobe didn’t answer for a moment. The quiet served as a visor through the lines as he shrugged and murmured.

“Just… Couldn’t stay asleep.”

The girl hummed in empathy. She knew what he meant, even if he didn’t feel like talking about it. Nightmares and insomnia were a rarely acknowledged part of the job, she’d come to learn. A yawn escaped her, and she felt the taller teen’s gaze on her.

“Go to sleep, love. Nothing’s gonna get you, you’re fine. Promise.”

Gwen nodded, her eyelids like weights.

“You- you gotta sleep too, though, Hobie.”

Her words came out in a mumble, but she heard a quiet hum.

“Alright, I’ll try. Night night, Gwendy.”

The last things Gwen registered before falling asleep were the television turning off, the blanket being tucked more carefully around her, and her hair being gently ruffled.

Chapter Text

“Pav, lad, what’re you doing here at this time? Not that I mind none, but ain’t you supposed to be at school or summat?”

Hobie’s tone was light and laid-back, and he met Pavitr’s eyes with an intrigued expression and a raised eyebrow. The shorter of the two boys perked up upon hearing his voice, part of a chocolate bar hanging precariously out of his mouth.

“Mm? Oh, no, I finished class ages ago. It’s half past four, Hobie. Plus, I did a little extra studying with Gayatri and I saved a street dog from traffic!”
Pavitr declared it all with a bright grin.

Hobie chuckled.
“You what, mate? You did all that in one bloody day? Really?”

A nod from the shorter Spider drew a grin from the older one.
“To be fair, it does sound like you. I don’t think I’ve ever met a lad who’s as sorted as you, Pav.”

Pavitr found himself beaming at the observation. He prided himself on his academic ability, and he liked to think he was a pretty nice person outside of academia, too. As Hobie patted his shoulder, he found himself flapping his hands a little as he walked over to the kitchen.

“What is it you’re making us tonight, then, lad?”

“Oh, just some chana masala with rice. It’s my favourite, Auntie Maya taught me to make it. Should only take me an hour or so.”
Pavitr said with a smile.

Hobie gave a nod and a funny face of acknowledgement, about to speak, when the door opened, redirecting the taller teen’s attention.

“Oh, and the cavalry have arrived! Y’alright, you two? You look a bit soggy…”

Miles grimaced in response, mourning the state of his Jordans as he took them off. Gwen began a greeting to Hobie and Pavitr, but was cut off by a sneeze, catching Pav’s attention.

“Baap re baap, you two! You must be freezing! Sit, sit, get yourselves warm!”

His brow furrowed a little as he practically whirlwinded over to the two, giving each a side hug and ushering them over to the sofa and blankets, much to Miles’ amusement.

“You’re like my mom sometimes, Pavi…”
He spoke with a fond look in his eyes, trying not to shiver too much as he was bundled into a blanket cocoon and scrunched up onto the sofa pillows. Hobie sat between Miles and Gwen, offering his body warmth - something which both of them immediately sought.

Pavitr looked over the three with a smile, going back to his cooking. He took a few shortcuts here and there - canned chickpeas, onions chopped a little finer than usual - but he still took his time, letting the smells decorate the safehouse. He smiled to himself as he began to add the spices, using common sense rather than strict measurements, just as he’d been shown by his Auntie. Remembering Gwen’s unfortunate lack of tolerance for spice, he put a little less than usual in - he wanted to warm his friends up, not burn their tongues off.

When he looked up from the stove once again, he chuckled.
“Four In A Bed, bro? Hobie, was that your idea?”

He got a grin in response.
“Nowt to do with me, love! You can blame Gwendy for that one.”

“Hey, don’t rat me out…”
Gwen’s voice was thick and sleepy already - Pavitr guessed she was half-asleep. He laughed as he heard MIles’ quiet reactions to the show.

“Miles, yaar, you’re acting like you know everything about hotels.”

“Yeah, well…”

He chuckled, going back to the chana masala and rice. It was almost ready.

“...Aw, hell no. Pavi, look. Don’t need a major in hotel management to know that’s disgusting.”
Miles called over. Pavitr took a curious glance, making an exaggerated gagging noise when the TV showed the amount of dust in the hotel room.
“Arre, you’re right, that’s rank!”

Pavitr smiled as he sat down with his friends at the table, plates of chana masala in front of each one. As the group dug in, he watched each of their reactions: Miles’ content sigh and hasty second mouthful, Hobie mixing the dish with his rice and taking quick mouthfuls as if he couldn’t get it down him fast enough, Gwen taking a sneaky sip of her water along with small bites as if she was enjoying it with caution of being burned or out-spiced. He took a bite of his own, pleased with the results. Nothing beat his Auntie Maya’s cooking, of course, but it filled him with warmth to be able to lovingly craft and tweak and cook a dish full of care for his best friends. Quiet, appreciative chewing eventually became happy chatter with laughter sprinkled in, and Pavitr felt a soft contentment fill him, along with a pinch of pride for making his friends’ day even a little better.

Chapter Text

Hobie let out a harsh sigh as he got inside the safehouse, making a beeline for his room. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his side was killing him. As soon as he got in, he shut the door, shuffling out of his battle jacket and pulling up his top, half-hissing, half-wincing. It was only a flesh wound, sure, but he was pretty sure he’d skinned his side earlier. Crashing into the pavement would do that, he supposed.

He turned, looking in the mirror. Okay, fuck, yep. He’d need to clean that all up. Right. To the bathroom.

His head felt a little fuzzy, probably from the adrenaline from the fight he’d just finished. Shaking it didn’t help much, and he had to take a second before grabbing the first aid kit they all kept in the bathroom.

Apparently that adrenaline had messed with his perception, too, because he almost walked straight into a pretty confused-looking Miles as he was walking back to his room. The shorter teen raised an eyebrow, concern painted clearly across his features.

“Uh… Hobie? You good, man?”

“Yeah, yeah, lad. No need to worry, I’m right as rain.”

The response felt a little automatic. Miles’ eyes wandered to the first aid kit, and the gash on Hobie’s side.

“That looks painful. Let me help?”

Hobie sighed, sitting down on the sofa, Miles sitting next to him and taking the first aid kit.

“Love, you don’t have to. It’s just a nasty scratch, I’ve patched up worse on my own before…”

“Yeah, but… I want to help you. You’re always in my corner, Hobes. I wanna be in yours when you need me. Hell, when you need any of us.”

Miles’ words weren’t a command. He wasn’t forcing his help upon Hobie, and the taller boy would always be grateful for that. It was… nice to have friends that knew how much he valued his independence, that would give him the chance to reach out and take the help on his own, with the promise that the help was freely offered and truly unconditional. The adults - even in that bloody Spider Society - weren’t like that. For most of them, help was something to be forced upon him and others like him, and it was an unwilling transaction for which repayment was harshly expected. Hobie had grown to hate the look people got in their eyes when they’d “helped” him (usually messing things up worse - the punk might seem like chaos incarnate to them, but he did usually have a plan) and he wouldn’t immediately do their bidding like a dancing puppet. It was a confused kind of judgement, if he had to put it into words.

Hobie nodded his approval to the shorter lad, immediately wincing as Miles began to disinfect the gash. God, gravel was a tricky bitch. Why’d he have to hit the pavement so hard?

“Ah, fuckin’ Christ on a bike…”

“Sorry, Hobie…”

Miles’ apology was soft in the quiet of the safehouse. He looked up at the taller boy, and God, Hobie knew what Gwendy meant when she’d told him about Miles looking like a deer.

“Not your fault, love. Y’alright, it just stings like a bugger is all. You’re doing a proper good job.”

Miles continued with a soft nod.

“...I know cleaning up minor flesh wounds is kinda in the job description, but how are you so bloody good at this, Miles?”

Both boys chuckled.

“My mom’s a nurse. I guess I learned a thing or two from her.”

Hobie let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Well then. Thank you, Mrs. Morales, I s’pose. And you. You’re a star, lad.”

Another chuckle escaped Miles.

“There you go, man. All patched up. And… no problem. You’re my friend, Hobes. We look after each other, yeah?”

Hobie smiled in response, pulling his top back down. Instinctively, he went to mess with the ends of his battle jacket, before remembering he’d left it on his bed. Sighing a little, he poked at the ridges of his belt instead. He barely noticed Miles getting off the sofa until he felt the familiar material dropping into his lap. Wordless thanks were conveyed through a nod, and Hobie stayed quiet as the television switched on, with Miles rifling through channels. Well, quiet until—

“Oh, you are having a giraffe.”

Miles did a mild double take, laughing.

“A what? Hobie, my man, what does that even mean?”

Hobie batted a little at the shorter teen.

“Oi, come off it. But seriously, look. How many bloody spin-offs has that 90 Day Fiance shit got? They’ve gotta be having a bloody giggle.”

“Man, you really don’t like reality shows, do you?”

“Can you blame me? It’s a distraction, bruv. Keeps your attention away from the proper issues. Can’t question the government’s shady shit if you’re too busy discussing that Aimee snogged Colin instead of Mia, can you?”

“Mm. Okay, yeah, good point.”

Miles kept channel-surfing for a bit, recognising a show here and there, and laughing at a few others. If he was honest, Hobie was zoning out a little, just barely registering the arrival of Pavitr and Gwen. The former laughed joyfully, squeezing Hobie’s shoulder, whilst the latter gave a grin and sat between the two lads already sitting on the sofa. Eventually, Pav got tired of standing - a slight surprise; he had pretty much limitless energy - and sat on the other side of Hobie.

They all sat there together, the evening growing later outside as Hobie felt himself relax. He could feel the cleaned-up gash irritate against his top, and the material of his battle jacket between his fingers (at this point, he couldn’t really be bothered to get changed - he was squished in a little Spider Sandwich right now.) He messed with his lip piercing with his tongue a little. Maybe to a passerby he’d look antsy, restless, but he knew that his friends knew what it looked like when Hobie Brown was comfortable, and he was glad for the lack of questions. Instead, he got an arm around his shoulder, a warm smile, and a collection of laughter and quips when he ragged on the shitty reality TV show Miles had sworn he’d only put on for shits and giggles.

Fuck, this felt like home.

Chapter Text

Miles let out a half-whistle, half-sigh as he picked up his pen, leaning back on the sofa. The last few days had certainly been… something, but he’d been finding constant solace in the pages of his sketchbook, filling it up with small murals to his closest friends. He had at least one double-page spread dedicated to each of them; Pavitr, Gwen, and Hobie. Maybe he had a bias, but they were each just so comforting to draw. They were something familiar, something safe. Every time he picked up his pens and drew Hobie’s wicks, or Gwen’s watercolour eyes, or Pavi’s smile that shone even brighter than all of the stars in the Milky Way, it felt like he’d arrived home after a rainstorm. They were all bright and warm and he could only hope that fact bled through the ink on the pages he etched them onto.

This one, he decided, would be one of all four of them, even himself. He didn’t have a big tendency to draw himself out of his Spider-Man suit, but it never hurt to try something like that. His lines were fast, yet careful. A lot more articulate than he was, if that said anything about him. It didn’t take long for the drawing to begin to come together - a scene of the four watching something indistinguishable on the TV. Hobie’s mouth was open in a likely quip, Pavi tugging on his arm to point a detail out. Gwen was curled up in slight motion - Miles hoped he’d conveyed her habit of rocking side-to-side clearly enough. His own version of himself was sat between them all, perfectly distracted and calm.

His friends had that effect on him, at least when it mattered. Sure, sometimes the Arachkids were a bundle of teenage energy that made Miguel O’Hara want to pull his own hair out (a fair exchange, Miles thought, for what he’d been through) but there were down days, evenings.

Gwen could be a quiet shoulder for Miles. She’d sit there with him when he felt like the world was shrinking in on itself and nobody could get it. One look, a tilt of her head, and more often than not it’d tumble out of Miles’ mouth like snow down a mountain. And when it was a day for the “not”, she’d just sit. Squeeze his shoulder and sit, knowing that sometimes it felt better to be able to just feel the shittier emotions, rather than smother them.

Pavi made Miles laugh. He’d cheer Miles up with quips, jokes, friendly threats that usually included a game of Mario Kart - Pavitr was a master at that game, it was almost scary. Alternatively, he’d help Miles study, the two boys bouncing ideas and answers off of each other. Miles knew it was working when he went about his day less stressed, or when his English grades went up just that little bit.

Hobie put a lot of fight into Miles. He knew what it felt like to want to hide from the world forever and ignore the shit going badly, so he’d sit face-to-face with Miles, hands on his shoulders, tell him that “Sure, lad. You could give it up here. But you could also try it differently. You’re doing this for yourself too, right? Be selfish about it if you don’t feel like you can be arsed. You don’t need the whole world on your shoulders, love. Just your head.” He’d found out from those moments of wanting to give up that Hobie Brown was the undeniable king of side hugs, anti-royalism be damned.

Miles was very aware he was more than just the sum of his friends and family. It was something his parents and friends alike preached to him all the time - “You gotta live for yourself too, Miles.” And, if he was being honest, he was getting better at that. He was focusing more on his art again, spending time listening to his music. He added to the piece down behind the subway every now and then, when he wanted to think about Uncle Aaron.

He was sure Uncle Aaron would be proud of how far he’d come, the friends he made. Sometimes, on the really hard days, the ones where he didn’t feel like talking to his parents about it, nor his friends, he’d just… sit. When it was quiet in the safehouse, and he was pretty sure even Hobie had gone to sleep, he’d sit and pretend he was talking to his Uncle. He told him about the Spider Society, about how his dad had been promoted (which made Miles proud as all hell, but a little scared sometimes), about the whole situation with Spot, about Hobie and Pavi and Gwen and all of the dumb shit they got up to. Even now, Uncle Aaron felt like a confidant, like the nighttime conversations were something between the two of them and only Miles. 

The one or two times Hobie had walked over to grab a glass of water, rubbing his eyes, he’d never breathed a word. Inside his mind, Miles thanked him a million times over.

Miles Morales lived to be Spider-Man. He lived to be loved by his family and friends, and to make them all proud. But, as he was finally beginning to accept again (even if it had gotten lost in translation for a little while), he lived to be himself, too. A bit of a dork who loved his art, his headphones, his Jordans, who left a mark everywhere he went, whether it be through his pens, or his spray paint, or him keeping his head up.

He lived to fuck about at the safehouse, to have feverish debates over the state of the hotels on that dumb show Hobie and Gwen had got him hooked on. He lived to try his best at school, he lived to get embarrassing hugs from his mom, and to tell his dad he loved him. He lived to babysit Mayday with the gang, he lived to keep his Brooklyn safe.

Scratch the first bit. Spider-Man lived to be Miles Morales.

Chapter Text

“Are you lot absolutely sure about this?”

Hobie’s tone betrayed the indifferent expression on his face as his friends helped to put up posters on the walls, and a few pairs of clothes into a drawer - Hobie didn’t see the point in having loads and loads of things he’d never wear, so he kept it minimal.

The Arachkids had discussed the idea of utilising the two bedrooms, and it had been Gwen who suggested that one could be Hobie’s. It was no secret that his living situation was the least stable of the four of them, and the others had looked up at him quietly when it was suggested, wanting to know what the punk’s reaction would be.

He was still a little on the fence about it now, if he was entirely honest. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a permanent place for him and only him. He didn’t really know how comfortable he was with the idea. He knew his friends would never be the type to rip it out from under him, but…

Well, things like that stuck with you, he supposed.

He’d relented - his friends were looking out for him, after all - on two simple conditions. One, anyone could come and go as they pleased. It made him feel a little better about taking up such a large amount of space; if he didn’t mind who came in or out, then it would feel more like a communal space to him. Two, he’d only really use it if he had nowhere else, or if he was completely exhausted.

Thankfully, his friends had understood. Hell, they usually did.

Miles shot Hobie a grin as he put a few t-shirts and two pairs of trousers into a drawer.

“Yeah. Absolutely, like a hundred percent. Besides, where else are we gonna stare up at the ceiling together and talk about dumb shit?”

Hobie chuckled at that, before Gwen came in with a bundle of what looked like fairy lights.

“What’s this, Gwendy?”

She gave a similar grin to Miles. The two were rubbing off on each other, Hobie conceded.

“I asked my dad if he still had these fairy lights from when I was little, and he did, so… surprise! Ambient lighting, bitches!”

It took about five minutes for them to put the fairy lights up - having sticky webbing was an absolute godsend, even if Hobie didn’t believe in any sort of god. Pavitr had helped him secure them in the right places, so that they criss-crossed across the bedroom like roads on a map that led Hobie back to the people who gave a shit about him over and over again. He had to admit, the subtle glow did make him feel a lot more at home, though he chalked it up to the lights being a gift that would’ve otherwise gathered dust for years to come.

He felt the same when Pavitr sat down with him and helped him make patchwork bedsheets. The shorter boy had told him all about how “I’m so glad we finally have a use for all those odd bits of scrap fabric, Hobie, yaar.”

He was sure Miles had slipped him a hoodie or two when he went through the clothes in his drawer. He hadn’t gotten a straight answer from the lad when he’d asked, but then again, Miles was about as good as lying as Gwen was at handling spicy food: horrifically and comically awful. Still, they were warm (if a little small) and the shorter Spider had reacted with awe when Hobie showed him a few patches he’d sewn onto the colourful fabric. It always felt pretty cool when Miles hyped him up like that, the lad had a knack for it.

A lot of love and care had been put into creating Hobie’s bedroom. It was a labour of teamwork and love that all four of them had added to, a collaborative project that Hobie insisted belonged to the others too. He was safe there, and loved, and constantly reassured that sleeping there didn’t make him selfish.

With that being said, Hobie was having a hell of a lot of trouble sleeping right now.

To celebrate the bedroom, Pavitr had suggested some kind of sleepover, to which the other three had readily agreed. They’d chatted, eaten junk food and drank soda, all the truly teenage shit that gave Hobie the happy reminder that he was still very much allowed to be a kid, then they’d unceremoniously collapsed in a cuddle pile on Hobie’s bed.

Well, all of them except Hobie, who was trying to check the time without waking any of his friends. He was fairly sure it was something- past three by now, and he kicked himself a little for not being able to settle. He was safe, more than safe. He had Pav drooling onto his shoulder, Gwen smushed into his chest, his arm around Miles. The bed was warm, and the front door was locked, and the fairy lights were twinkling above him, but he couldn’t sleep.

Hobie took a moment to calm himself; he closed his eyes, tightening his grip around the other teens he loved so much. 

He was in his bedroom.

He wasn’t being selfish by being there.

He was allowed to let his guard down.

He was safe, and he was going to be safe all night.

Gwen shifted in her sleep, grumbling a little. Hobie looked down, pushing some hair out of the lass’ face before returning his arm around Miles, who wriggled closer to the warmth. He squeezed Pav’s shoulder, knowing the patch of drool on his top would dry in the morning, and Hobie would take a little discomfort if it meant his friends were safe.

He wasn’t sure what did it, but something made sleep weave a haze behind his eyelids. Warm enough with the cuddle pile instead of the duvet, Hobie finally allowed himself a little bit of rest because goddamn it, it was okay, and he was okay.

He would let himself have this. He was okay with it being Hobie’s bedroom because it had been a labour of love and a passion project, and fuck if Hobie didn’t love handmade gifts.