Work Text:
“Lo maga baro illi! So what was that thing you told me about again? How does it go– you put your hand on someone else’s shoulder? Just like that? No personal space? Won’t they get mad, or think you’re a perv–”
“Pav, why are we in a closet?”
Pavitr rolls his eyes and mutters some Tamil words under his breath–which Miles would bet his Jordans on were a curse. “Um, open your eyes wider bro, can’t you see the toilets right there? We’re obviously hiding away near the bathrooms to solve a love problem; just like all the American students do.”
“In what universe?” splutters Miles.
“All the girls in the movies Gayatri likes to watch do!” Pavitr defends, gesturing to an imagined TV screen.
“Pav, man, that’s not a thing.”
Pavitr looks scandalised. Miles swallows his laughter out of respect for his inter-dimensional friend; but the ways his eyes bulged from holding his breath must have given him away, since Pavitr landed a solid right hook on his shoulder. “What the fuck, man?”
“Hah! Your voice still breaks like a fourteen year old girl’s!”
“No it doesn’t!” Miles retorts, only for the gods to trip him up, as his voice cracks at the tail-end of his sentence again. “Ugh, why does this keep happening?” he groans despairingly into his hands.
Pavitr slaps Miles on the back heartily, merry laughs bouncing off the walls of the cramped space. “I’m sure Gwen looooves that cute side of yours, huh?” he nudges Miles’ arm, dialling up ‘annoyingly-smug-and-perfect-Pavitr Prabhaka' mode to 100.
Miles grunts and shoves at the other with a hand, mindful of the strength he puts into it to avoid a debacle like the last time (Miguel still hasn’t forgiven him for shoving him straight off the platform and into the opposite wall when they argued about the best portable Mexican food). “Go away, man. Just cause Hobie collects all your idiosyncrasies like precious gems; doesn’t mean that they are.”
Pavitr tilts his head like a lost puppy.
“Look, I love you,” Miles prefaces with a sigh, “but–”
“Aww thanks bro, I love you too!”
“–you can be amazingly annoying sometimes. And I’m pretty sure Hobie is the only one who can stand being in a relationship with you at this point.”
“Oh, we’re not together,” Pavitr says matter-of-fact, voice light but firm.
Miles eyes stretch impossibly wide, covering half his face, “WHAT?!”
Pavitr shrugs, letting his hands fall limply against his sides as Miles surges forward to grab him by the shoulders. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN–MMFF!”
“Vaaya moodu! SHHH! SHHH!” Pavitr hisses, clamping his hands over Miles mouth so tightly he nearly suffocates the younger Spider.
Miles pries the other’s sticky fingers from his mouth, scrambling backwards in a flurry, hitting the shelves of supplies. Pavitr webs them instantly, saving an especially fragile carton of eggs from cracking on the exposed cement floor. “What do you mean you’re not together?!” Miles heaves heavy post-marathon breaths. “You can’t keep your hands off each other!”
“We’re very close friends!” Pavitr corrects, said hands held up to show the skittish Miles that he posed no threat.
“Friends don’t cram their hands in each other’s back pockets!”
“Yes they do! Gayatri and Margo do it all the time when they hang out!”
Miles gapes at him in disbelief, palms slapping against each other with every beat of emphasis. “Pav. Dude. They. Are. DATING.”
It takes a few seconds for the message to be processed; the blood drains form Pavitr’s face then swoops up again in record time. “THEY ARE?!”
“Why’d you think Margo keeps glaring at Meera Jain like that?”
“Like how?”
“Like how Hobie sneers at all those poor people who show the slightest interest in you.”
“He doesn’t,” Pavitr shoots down the notion; not before it germinated and addled his brain.
The look on Miles’ face is drier than a desert. “Yes. Yes he does.”
Pavitr crosses his arms to disguise how much he needs it to keep his knees from folding. “You’ve got it all wrong–”
Miles blows a raspberry, “Please, anyone can see–”
“You’re wrong,” the volume of Pavitr’s voice remains the same, but the steely curtness of it jolts Miles’s Spider senses.
“What’s up, Pav? What–”
Pavitr’s voice is uncharacteristically hollow; a sharp juxtaposition against the usual bright smile on his face. “He doesn’t love me. Or I mean he does but– he loves me like how he loves all of us, naa? Like,” his hand cuts sideways from his shoulder. “Like smaller and older siblings kind of love. It makes sense because he acts like our annan all the time,” he reasons, then huffs a facsimile of a laugh. “He’s a horrible influence though–not that I’m complaining! It is definitely more fun when he’s around– But I love spending time with just you and Gwen as well! I don’t mean–”
“Pav!” Miles yells, hands grappling onto Pavitr’s upper arms. “Sorry man, but I’m gonna shake you now, okay?”
“You’re gonna what? MILES!” Pavitr screeches as the other does good on his warning.
“¿Por que eres tan TONTO?” Miles yanks him back and forth rapidly. “Can’t you see él te ama? ¡Ay, Dios!” Miles flings Pavitr away, electing to rub his hands into his face instead.
“Straighten out your Alan Wickers, Miles,” Pavitr admonishes.
Miles pulls a frown, and makes a sound of disgust, “You’re even beginning to talk like each other. Will the horrors never cease?” he pleads to the ceiling.
Pavitr plasters on his usual smile; the one which told civilians that everything would be okay, the amazing Spider-Man is here to save the day. “Bro, it’s okay. Not like it’s periya andu matter.”
A lightbulb fizzes to life above Miles’ head. “Wait, is that why you asked me about the shoulder thing?” Pavitr’s wild blush spoke for itself; and Miles could only gape openly. “So you’re not pitching tents in the…friendzone? Siblingzone–? Whatever.” Miles swats the words away, looks Pavitr seriously in the eye. “If you really wanna do this, we’re gonna do this right.”
Pavitr’s smile widens into something more natural, although the shadows of doubt linger around his eyes. “I’m in your capable hands, sifu!”
“That’s cultural appropriation.”
“I’m respecting the location,” Pavitr whips his retort back, arms open wide as he introduces the toilet-cum-storage space of the Chinese restaurant to Miles.
“Aight, aight,” Miles rubs the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. “So you wanna do this to hook Hobie in right? Then you gotta do it smoothly, like this,” Miles demonstrates, repeating the move and the pitched ‘hey’ on Pavitr.
Pavitr purses his lips. “Why is your face like that?”
Miles is torn from his act, “That’s how it works!”
“You look like you’re going to fall asleep!”
“I– Bedroom eyes are supposed to be sexy–”
“–not like that they aren’t,” Pavitr’s hair bounces as he shakes his head.
“Why don’t you try it?” Miles juts his chin out in challenge.
“Okay.” Despite the height difference between them–exacerbated since Miles’ growth spurt which kicked in this past year–Pavitr’s hand lands on his shoulder effortlessly; he inclines his chin at just the right angle, his luscious locks flowing in waves, eyes darkening with promise; “Hey.”
“How are you so good at this?!” Miles laments through his blush, pushing his knuckles into his cheeks. “Unfair! God has favourites, and you are clearly one of them!”
Pavitr laughs as Miles has his fifth breakdown of the day (the first three caused by Mayday alone, which is an astounding feat; the fourth was when Gwen shared her scallion pancake with him over dinner); declining to point out the fact that Hobie would never fall for something like that–after all he had not even tried to figure out what Pavitr said to him when he awoke from his coma, when Pavitr lay the barely mended pieces of his heart bare.
He hides the white-knuckled curl of his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into his palms, the pain a reminder of what cannot be.
Hobie downs a shot of the suspicious yellow liquid; Gwen grimacing hard. He burps out a triumphant “Done,” and flicks the glass across the tacky bar top; Gwen stopping it easily before it crashed. “That’s you taking my next three missions; must be my jammy day.”
Gwen clicks her tongue, stirring her own mocktail with fury. “I can’t believe you’d actually drink that thing. What was in it anyway?”
Hobie licks the inside of his mouth, smacking his lips. “No idea.”
“Ew.” She wields her straw as a pointer, “You’d better not kiss Pavitr with that mouth; he’ll drain the national mouthwash supply, then kill you.”
“You’d rather I smooch your squeeze?” he teases with a sultry lilt to his tone, “You know I love an egg who brings in the barney rubble.”
Gwen flusters,“Miles is not–”
“–I never named who it was.”
“Briseadh agus brú ort,” Gwen growls.
“Well, well, well. Little Gwendy’s finally learnin’ the wise words of her ancestors, eh?”
Gwen takes a deep breath and shoots him her most winning smile, “Tá súil agam go ndéanadh an diabhal dréimire de chnámha do droma chun úllaí a phiocadh i ngáirdín na hifreann.”
“Lucky I don’t know what it means, I reckon.”
“I hope the devil makes a ladder out of your backbones to pick apples in the garden of hell,” Gwen says sweetly, pivoting to rest her back against the bar top.
“Don’t need to be such a Hapmton Wick about it, Gwendy,” Hobie mirrors her actions. “Funny no one Adams it when we say you’ve got the shortest fuse out of us all.”
Gwen snorts into her drink, scanning the crowd of her friends where Spider-Ham was currently being hog-tied at the table in morbid jest. “The rest of you are really bad liars when it counts.”
“Hairy muff,” Hobie dodges a glass which whizzed past his face, flung by either a happily drunk Noir or a newly power-discovered Mayday.
Gwen widens her eyes at the shattered glass, slow claps. “Another one of Peter B.’s horrible ideas playing out in real time.”
“Yeah? But you hafta’ admit, it’s a riot watchin’ Miguel pick at food with chopsticks the size of kids’ fingers,” Hobie snickers. Indeed Miguel’s large and built frame dwarves everything around him, rendering the chopsticks as minuscule tools in his hands as he tries to pick up the various Chinese dishes with increasing frustration.
Gwen tries to hide her wide grin in her drink. “Don’t let him hear you, or else you’ll spend another week being grounded in paperwork hell.”
Hobie groans, leaning back over the bar top like a cat, his wicks brushing the glasses on the counter. He sighs dramatically, “The things I endure to ensure you three don’t accidentally off yourselves by trippin’ over something as innocuous as a bloody banana peel.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Gwen presses, idly wondering if the knife Peni swung around in her hands close to Spider-Ham is a hologram or an actual object.
“You three combined have the friar truck of Bombay docks which miss only one side of a pair.”
“Again, I understand very little of what you just said.”
“Let you in on a secret, Gwendy,” Hobie beckons lazily with his hand, waits until Gwen leans in slightly to sling his lanky arm around her shoulders. “Cockney is an incredibly simple slang– Uh-uh! Let me finish. You see Gwendy, it’s all about rhymes and the most importantly; the ability to make anything sound like anything.”
At Gwen’s confused look, he elaborates, “For instance, I could say hmm, ‘tickety-boo’ in a wide number of situations, as long as I convey the intention right.” He gestures the words out slice by slice in front of them. “I’m feelin’ a tad tickety-boo right now, wanna go for a quick nibble? Or, Let’s get down to the tickety-boo of things, I can’t wait a second longer.”
“This is why everyone wants to leave England,” Gwen surmises in deadpan. “So, when are you gonna tell Pavitr?” She feels his arm stiffen, and clocks the realisation in his eyes that this was her devious plan all along.
Instead of pulling away as she expected, Hobie keeps his hold on her, preventing her from meeting the truth reflected in his eyes. “Sly one, you are. No wonder Miles folds under your thumb.”
“Don’t change the subject, Hobie,” she berates coolly.
“I ain’t dodging anything, Gwendy; not when there’s nothing to dodge.”
She looks up at him through her fringe, so reminiscent of Pavitr’s yet so different. “He worries about it.”
“I know,” Hobie cuts in, grip on the bar top tightening. “I just,” he works his jaw, “I just need some time, yeah? Get things straight, do it right to not spook him.”
Gwen rolls her eyes, sets her drink on the bar with a click of finality. “Think of it this way, why don’t you? The longer you drag this out, the more emotional pain he’ll be in.”
“Now that is emotional blackmail.”
“What are you so afraid of?” Gwen huffs in frustration, and Hobie can’t–won’t– tell her anything.
(He doesn’t say that he’s much too aware of the questioning gaze present in Pavitr’s eyes these days whenever they’re together; doesn’t tell her about sneaking in as many touches as he can with the other boy; doesn’t voice out how he’s so far gone on everything Pavitr does, drinks up his every word and laugh like an indispensable tonic; doesn’t reveal the countless times he wanted to kiss Pavitr on his perfect lips, but stopped himself from tainting the best thing in his life.
No one but him needs to know.)
“Y’all’re finished already?” Miles’ jogs to them eagerly–well, to Gwen anyway–all inquiring eyes and eager smile. Pavitr follows right behind him with a similar expression, but Gwen notices the way his visage darkens as he sees how tightly Hobie has her in his hold.
“And what happened between you two?” Gwen rests her hand on her hip. “We heard yelling, and considering the location of the toilets; that’s a bit suspicious isn’t it?” she deliberately directs the question to Hobie, whose lips curl downwards briefly at the imagery.
“Nothing happened!” Pavitr blurts out too quickly, and attempts to smooth it over, “I was asking Miles for some advice, and he was being a good bro about it!”
“Yeah?” Hobie aims for nonchalance, but everyone recognises the slight strain in his voice. “And what’s this life-changing advice about? Care to share with the class?”
“Hobie,” Gwen warns while Miles simultaneously slaps his hand on Hobie’s shoulder, and says “Hey.”
The silence lasts for all of three seconds before Miles breaks it with his violent blushing, slumping his face into his hands with a prolonged groan.
Gwen chokes on her laughter, desperately trying to breathe as she pats Miles on the back consolingly, shooting him a thumbs up. “Smooth, every time.”
“Did we break Miles?” Pavitr worries around the other boy who was still making noises of pain. “Gwen, what should we do?”
“He’ll be alright,” Hobie dismisses with squirming grins hidden in his vest, slinking over to Pavitr and casually linking their arms together. “Yeah, Gwendy?”
She waves away the concerns, “Despite the way he acts, Miles has a good track record.”
“Of what?” Pavitr questions, just as Hobie yells “Of inciting second-hand-embarrassment!”
Miles sinks to a crouch on the floor, Gwen playfully ruffles his hair. Hobie feels Pavitr’s tense stance relax, catches the others bright smile from the corner of his eye, and feels the universe righting itself into place.
“Hey, what are you guys doing all the way over there!” Peter B. skids across the floor halfway over, hand cupped around his mouth. “Miguel’s about to karaoke!”
Four voices chime in simultaneously, “WHAT?”
“Doesn’t look like it’ll stop soon,” Pavitr announces, hand sticking out of the window to capture the relentless drops. He turns at the hum of acknowledgement from the other end of the bed. “You’d better stay the night.”
Hobie hums again from his horizontal position in Pavitr’s bed, arms pillowing his head. “Any plans till the rain stops?” He kicks his socked feet into the air, letting gravity drag them down again. “Could always pop into another dimension for a stroll. But not into Peter Parkedcar’s,” he backtracks immediately. “You can’t convince me to go there with all the Louise Wener’s in the world. Never again. Ever.”
Pavitr plops down onto the bed, bouncing Hobie up too. He sits upright with crossed legs; and with natural ease, gathers Hobie’s long legs into his lap. “We could faff around,” he yawns, lulled by the white noise of the raging storm.
Hobie whistles lowly, “Madlad Pav and his big brain.”
“You’re the one who gave me the book,” Pavitr leans forward as he bends Hobie’s legs enough to rest his chin on the other’s knees. “You’re an insidious influence.”
“I’m so honoured,” Hobie gasps theatrically, hand over his heart, “for the golden boy Pavitr Prabhakar to–”
“–on the other hand, how far have you gone with your Tamil?” Pavitr shoots lazily.
Hobie lifts himself up at that, nudging Pavitr so that they are seated face to face.
“Vanakkam,” Hobie pronounces carefully.
Pavitr cannot stop the balloon of warmth inflating in his chest, the fact that Hobie would take the time and effort to learn his native language going to his head. “Neenkal nalamaka erukkirirkala?”
Hobie’s brows knit together, eyes directed to the ceiling as he tries his best to recall the swarming words. “Aam, naan nalamaka erukkiren,” comes his choppy answer.
“Aṟputam! Nī parīṭcaiyil tōcci peṟṟāy!” Pavitr praises, wrapping his arms around Hobie’s neck, pulling the punk in to nuzzle his own cheek against the other’s forehead.
Hobie flushes, his fingers spasming on the white sheets. “Not that advanced yet, m’fraid,” he mumbles into Pavitr’s warm shoulder, smelling the remnants of smoky stir-fy in his T-shirt and not minding in the slightest; not if he can feel the other’s warmth radiating into him in waves.
“It means ‘Well done, you passed the exam’!” Pavitr clarifies, trying to transfer his overflowing joy to Hobie via affectionate strangulation.
“Nandhri,” Hobie chokes, tapping Pavitr’s toned arms. Sure he likes being choked occasionally; but not to death.
“Oh, so sorry aṉpē, are you okay?” Pavitr fusses over Hobie, panic evident in his eyes. That was another thing that had changed since the ‘Big Accident’, as they termed it–Pavitr worried easily whenever Hobie showed the slightest signs of discomfort–which made the guilt in Hobie eat him alive.
“Just kiddin’,” Hobie surreptitiously clears his throat by distracting Pavitr with a pair of jazz hands. “You really think I’lll go down that easily?”
Pavitr’s expression morphs into one of grave seriousness, lightly punches Hobie on the shoulder. “You better not.” The silence which inserts itself between them clamours with all the things left unsaid during the initial stages of Hobie’s recovery.
“Hey,” Hobie calls out gently, threading the fingers of a hand with Pavitr’s, “I promised, yeah? You’re never gettin’ rid of me now; you’ve officially fallen prey to a punk limpet.”
Pavitr half-laughs; watery eyes betraying the other half. “Gethu,” his hand grasps Hobie’s firmly, eyes and smile shining; luminous even without the aid of celestial bodies. “Cem’ma irukku.”
Hobie only just catches himself from giving in, from diving in, from capturing those enticing lips in his own. He forces his gaze back upwards, meeting the dark embers of Pavitr’s eyes, scalding even without visible flame; and he swallows nervously.
You just gotta do it, Miles’ voice echoes in Pavitr’s mind.
But what if he gets mad? What if he’s disgusted, and he doesn’t want to be close to me anymore? I can’t– I can’t stand it if that happens Miles, I can’t–
Hey! Hey Pav, breathe! This is Hobie we’re talking about, and he’s crazy in love with you!
You don’t know that!
Man, I may be the youngest, but it doesn’t mean I’m blind. Listen to me Pav–Listen. Okay? Okay. Look, you and Hobie have got a good thing going; and it can become even better, I’m sure of it. A love like his and yours; it’s not so flimsy to be dissolved in even the strongest storms.
He smells wet earth, the incoming lightning, the heaviness of rolling thunder. His grip on Hobie’s hand is drenched with sweat, sticky and clinging. It may be some weird aspect of their Spider senses, but Hobie seems to see ten scenes ahead from the mere opening of Pavitr’s lips, and he lurches out of the bed to the window like a deer on the run.
Pavitr pulls him back in desperately, pushing at his shoulders to pin him down onto the bed. A scuffle ensues, resulting in many bony elbows to the face, and hair slapping into eyes. “Niṟuttu!” Pavitr catches both of Hobie’s wrists, as the latter twisted out of the hold; only for Pavitr to trap his torso with his ridiculously strong thighs. “Hobie, stop!” Pavitr slaps Hobie’s hand down, while trying to pry the other one from the side of his neck. “Stop running away from me!”
“Don’t flatter yourself, china plate.” Hobie growls as he yanks Pavitr to the side, but Pavitr retains their entangled position by exerting full force. “You’re not suited to be a scuffer.”
Pavitr blows his fringe out of his eyes, only for it to flop down again. Great, even his usually perfect hair was being recalcitrant. “Can you stop messing around for just five minutes–”
Hobie kneed him in the stomach; but the punk was the one who ended up grunting in pain. “You’re a terminator, innit? Bloody abs of steel you’ve got there.” He wriggles upwards in another vain attempt to free himself.
“Stop distracting me!” Pavitr mutters shrilly, face aflame from the movement. He pins Hobie down by the hip, realises how suggestive that move–and almost any move he makes–in this situation is; his hands flit wildly without a target to alight on.
“Are you havin’ a stroke, luv? Cause if you are, we best be gettin’ on to a hospital.”
Pavitr screws his eyes shut as he plants his hands on either side of Hobie’s shoulders on the bed, “No.”
“Good, so you can tell me why you’ve got me trapped on the bed again, yeah?” Hobie’s voice is half-amused, even though the look on his face is fierce.
Pavitr forces himself not to crumple as he meets the other’s hooded eyes, tries his best to bar entry to all his thoughts of doom. Best case scenario: Hobie will be his boyfriend. Worst case scenario: he never sees Hobie again. Cool, cool, cool; no pressure. Start off nice and slow, segue into the main topic carefully, don’t scare him off right off the bat–
“Hobie, do you love me?” As soon as the words tumble out, Pavitr mentally kicks himself. Great job, Pavitr! You’re imperfect once again!
The grip on Hobie’s hand trembles like an earthquake, and he cannot determine whether its Pavitr’s or his own. He wills his vocal cords to work, if only to wipe the horrified expression of self-realisation off Pavitr’s face. “ ‘Course I do–”
“–No,” Pavitr’s breaths are short and fast, his eyes darting everywhere. “Not like a thambi– not like a little brother– I mean–” His hand around Hobie’s is punishing in its force, “Do you love me?”
“Pavitr,” Hobie whispers into the isthmus between them instinctively, not knowing what comes next; what move he needs to play.
You have to tell him, his memory of Gwen chastises with her arms crossed, toes pointed in her typical graceful stance, chin tilted up; the epitome of confidence. It’s not fair on either of you. Tell him, or cut him off; stop leading him on.
Oi, who says I am? Can’t you see that I adore him? I’d give my life for him every fucking time.
How would he know? You never tell him anything, and he’s not a mind-reader. Hobie, I won’t be able to truly understand the depth of your pain, or your difficult past; but I do know that if you don’t tell him now, you’re going to lose him forever.
“Sorry,” Pavitr deflates suddenly, releasing Hobie. He sits back on his haunches, face hollow and blank; staring at nothing. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice diminishing to a speck of what it once was, “I asked you a very uncomfortable question. That wasn’t polite of me at all.”
The armour of perfection which Hobie thought they have finally been able to move on from is what snaps him out of his indecision. He jolts up and lunges himself right into Pavitr, unknowingly mimicking their intertwined hug on that hospital bed from not too long ago.
“I’m sorry, luv. I’m so sorry,” he breathes frantically into the shell of Pavitr’s ear, hands latching on to the other. “Don’t– Never feel that way, alright? Don’t apologise for your thoughts and feelings, for being who you are.” He pulls back slightly to cup Pavitr’s cheeks with all the care surging through him; letting himself fall into those dark eyes.
“Hobie…” Pavitr tries to say, the name rendered soundless; but Hobie catches it anyway.
A light sparks in Hobie’s eyes, and he holds up a hand. “Sorry, gimme a moment yeah?” He leaps off the bed in a frenzy, much to Pavitr’s confusion and apprehension–the younger shifting to block the window from being Hobie’s main mode of escape. Papers fly from Pavitr’s desk, white wings fluttering wildly like the rapid beats of their hearts.
“How hard can it bloody be to find something in a room this small,” Hobie complains under his breath, crouching here and there to root around for the perfect medium. “Pav darling, where’d you put your book? The David Copperfield one.”
Pavitr points dumbfounded to his backpack hanging by the door; Hobie jumps to it and rummages around, a man possessed. “Hobie, what are you–”
“Aha-ha!” Hobie cheers with the thick book in his hand. He bounds onto the bed, momentarily startling Pavitr, then tears out the first page of the book.
Pavitr blinks. “HOBIE! What are you doing, pōḻutu!” He scrambles to save the victim, albeit being too late. “Give it back!”
“I will!” Hobie promises, his hands flying in a blur of reds and blues, “just gimme a bit! There!” He cups the folded page in his hands, offers it as victuals to his god, Pavitr. “If you– If you’d like to,” he extends his hands to Pavitr; prickles of unease stinging his whole being at Pavitr’s lack of reaction.
The paper rustles when he touches it, the recycled yellow fibres too loud on their cramped island. Hobie’s hands lift, urging him to take it. Pavitr fingers an edge with hesitance, but the look in Hobie’s eyes says ‘trust me’; and Pavitr has never given himself a choice to do otherwise, ever since Hobie first agreed to robbing the museum with him.
It’s not where we come from which matters, Miguel’s drowsy lecture plays unbidden in his mind. What’s more important is the trajectory of our life now. Where we’re heading to, and who we’re going with. A uncharacteristic softness suffused from his tone; You’ve all taught me that. The fact that the future is not written in stone, but forged by our own hands.
Hobie’s hands steady his, the paper falls away. His throat closes, but he forces the words from their shelter, “They’re beautiful. Hobie,” he whips his head up, “they’re beautiful.” The earrings are subtle and delicate, rich purples glided with gold; almost a perfect match with the silk cloth he gifted Hobie, and which the other has made a permanent part of his costume.
The smile which breaks upon Hobie’s face is full, and real, and perfect. “That’s a mighty relief. What a faux pas it would’ve been if their beauty weren’t enough to match yours.” The dusky red line across Pavitr’s handsome face was a sight he would strive to elicit everyday; too pretty to miss, worth searing into his retinas for. “Like ‘em?”
Pavitr nods frantically; he can’t feel the thud of his pulse anymore, rabbiting too fast. “Thank you,” he says to the gift, unable to meet Hobie’s gaze without melting into a puddle of goo.
Hobie hums, fingers ghosting over Pavitr’s ears, tracing the outer rim and the lobes. “Allow me?” Hobie smiles so wide it feels as if his face would split when Pavitr nods in confirmation. “I’ll bring the proper equipment next time.”
Pavitr nods sharply again, already flooded with high-definition images of Hobie being right in his space, piercing his ears with gentle precision. “Why,” he flattens the torn page on the bed, “did you have to do this?”
“I admit, it was quite a spur of the moment,” Hobie defends with his palms up, then pinches the page by the edges to display it to Pavitr. “But my point is– Well. If it’s not too cheesy for you–“ he clears his throat, momentarily averting his eyes and his tell-tale blush from Pavitr’s hyper-focused gaze.
Trust us! the voices of his friends–his family–are superimposed into a tapestry of strength; pushing him into the light. Trust him!
He taps the heading of the page, “Chapter one. This, this marks the first chapter of our lives together.” The page sails from his grasp; the final barriers torn down with it. “So, if you’ll have me–”
Pavitr surges forwards, “Yes, yes, yes,” the words rush out in relief and joy; making him giddy with laughter. His hands roam freely, coming to rest on the hinges of Hobie’s neck and shoulders, “A thousand times yes!” Elated, he barely recalled the dark swirling mass which had held him in a death grip before. “I’m yours, and you’re mine?”
“Yeah,” Hobie’s voice wobbles, a glossy sheen of water present in his eyes.
“Forever?”
“Yours,” Hobie reassures, finally giving in to his desires; presses a long and devoted kiss to Pavitr’s knuckles. “Yours, even in the ranks of death.”
“Sap,” Pavitr coos to conceal the way his heart has turned to mush.
“Only for you,” Hobie teases back with a roguish grin, poking the other’s dimples.
Pavitr gasps, “Does this mean I’ve unlocked a whole new level to the uber cool Hobie Brown?”
“Oi, m’not some fictional game character,” Hobie retaliates with sharp little nips to the back of Pavitr’s hand. “don’t go labellin’ and puttin’ me into boxes.”
“Not even as ‘Pavitr’s boyfriend’?”
“…”
Pavitr flips the switch on his puppy eyes to maximum.
“… I’ll allow that one.”
“Saaaaaaap,” Pavitr trills out in bliss, nuzzling into the other’s clavicle. He inclines upwards to look at Hobie–really look at him with the new knowledge of their relationship; and offers his thanks to all the gods, to all his family and friends; who never gave up on them. “Can I kiss you?”
Hobie is stunned, his brain short-circuiting as if Miles had delivered one of his electric shocks straight into his brain. When reanimated, his laugh is barking–light and free. “I thought you’d never ask, chellam.”
It is warm where their lips meet and where their souls collide; the only word suitable enough to describe that moment being, Perfect.
Life is round.
An endless circle until someone breaks it.
BANG!
The whole world gets
w i d e r.
~ Kill Your Darlings
Author’s Notes:
- Passive-aggressive jealousy from ChaiPunk? Nah. More like sad boy jealousy, cause they’re bad at communicating their feelings.
- Thank god for their found family, if not these two would be so communicatively stunted, they would never have gotten together.
- Thank you so much to @hentailoverxoxoxoxoxoxoxox for pointing out learning each other’s language as a form of peak intimacy in my previous fic! It was the inspiration to the small segment in this one.
- Let Miguel be the dad he was always meant to be.
- R.I.P. Dickens’ masterpiece. Thank you for your service towards this ship lol
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!
Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated if you did <3
Thank you so much for being on this short but wild ride with me! It has been an honour to read all your comments and receive your kudos! Thank you for the support and love, couldn't have done it without you! <3
Hope that more people will indulge in this ship; and remember, just go ahead and write what you want! Create your own canon events, and don’t let anyone stop you from being you!