Chapter Text
If I was brave and noble like you, I'd have the nerve to just stop stringin' along. I make excuses, my friends know the truth is I'm not as alright as I claim.
I say that I'm fine, I tell them all the time as they watch all the light fade away.
“Call me, mate. If ya need me, call me, yeah?”
The last words Hobie said echoed in Miles’ mind like words shouted on a mountain, growing quieter and quieter as the sound bounced from rock to rock and slowly stopped. His head was crushed on his pillow as he laid on his back, fresh cuts on his stomach searing in pain. Every time he took a deep breath, pain shot through his chest like someone was stabbing him.
Well, probably. Miles thought to himself, holding back a painful chuckle as he stared at his ceiling. Because I was stabbed.
He continued to stare at the ceiling, thinking about his best friend, and how he was probably out toppling empires, and setting fires to communist raids, otherwise known as fascists’ parades. Or maybe he was lying in bed, thinking about what he’d said to Miles back at HQ, when Miguel sent them home and said “get some sleep.”
Maybe he was wondering why Miles hadn’t called. Miles felt bad, until he remembered the events from the day, swinging back into his dimension just to be met with a massive mechanical tiger robot controlled by a crazy scientist trying to kill everybody. There were minor injuries, one of them being Miles' stomach, which was currently torn to shreds.
“Call me, mate.”
Ugh, there it was again, reverberating through the room, ringing in Miles’ ears, splashing across his sketchbook and slipped in between the pages that were covered in images of his face. Miles hadn’t done it on purpose, but lately, every time he went to draw, his fingers were on autopilot and began drawing Hobie before he could even think about it.
Now the eccentric teenager was featured in Miles’ sketchbook more than Gwen, and that… that was saying something. Miles wouldn’t face what that meant, what that implied. He was Hobie’s best friend, and that was okay, he didn’t need to be more, and he certainly didn’t want to be less.
He closed his eyes and daydreamed, thinking of Hobie and that one day they spent out in a sunflower field, swinging off of trees and through the taller stalks. Hobie had turned to Miles with a shit-eating grin and whispered, “you ever heard of the sunflower theory?”
“No?”
“Surpised. You’s such a sap, thought you’d knew.” Hobie grinned ear to ear and looked over at Miles as they walked through the flowers side by side, Hobie’s hands on his belt and Miles’ at this side, trying to get the courage to reach out for his friend. “It’s this theory that say when sunflowers are together, during the day, they turn toward the sunny, but when it’s night and dark ou’, they turn towards each other for light.” Hobie stopped and kicked at a rock in the path and coughed into his elbow. “Anyways they say it’s for mates. Like we can rely on each other.”
“You should write that into a song.”
“Nah, I don’t write love songs.”
… “Miles, call me if you needa.”
He should probably call him, he… he really should, but there was something about being in front of your friend while hurt or harmed. He knew as Spider-Man it was inevitable, but it still embarrassed him. He was supposed to have it all together. If Hobie found him like this, he wasn’t sure what he’d do-
A knock sounded from his door, and on the other side of the wood Hobie yelled, “ey, Miles, open up befo’ ya Mom or Pops spots me.”
“Uhm, I’m trying to sleep… what is it?”
There was a silence on the outside, then there was a scrape of Hobie’s foot on the floor, his boot heavy and thick on the hardwood. Then he coughed and pushed the door open.
Miles only had a moment to cover up his stomach with his sheets, grimacing a bit at the pain, and close his eyes before Hobie Brown, the tall, thin teenager landed beside his bed, hair sticking up with blue outlines. His body turned pink as he appeared beside Miles, his smile wide and dorky.
“Aw, Miles, no sleep ‘till Brooklyn, c’mon, let’s hit the streets.” Hobie placed his guitar by the bed, and Miles stared at it, remembering when Hobie used to play all the time.
“Why haven’t you played any songs lately?” Miles whispered, and Hobie froze, staring down at the younger boy for a long moment before he was suddenly thrown back into action. He walked to the window and looked out, which gave Miles a moment to readjust under his covers.
“Honestly, mate, I haven’t had any desire. On a norma’, all I want at the end of a long day is ta sit down and play, but I’m worried now-“ His voice dropped to a low murmur and Miles had to turn his ear toward Hobie to hear him. “Lately I’m worried about what I’ll write about.”
I don’t write love songs.
“Anyway, up and attem, boy-“ Hobie walked toward Miles in strong strides and pulled the sheets off of him, stopping short when he saw the blood staining the colorful fabric and the red dripping out of his stomach wounds. “Miles, what the fuck is this?”
Miles just smiled softly and shrugged, which made him exhale for a long moment in pain, trying to breathe through the sharp stab that radiated through his skin. “It’s just a-“ deep breath “a scratch…”
“Like hell, Miles-“ Hobie dropped to his knees, and reached out, before he seemed to realize what the proper protocol for this was and he rushed off to grab the first aid kit.
Minutes later, when Miles had been cleaned (worst experience of his life, and he’d had to fight the damn creature) Hobie stood from where he’d been kneeling and frowned at Miles. His aura had gone dark gray, the light flirty pink that Hobie always had around him was gone, replaced with concern and worry for his friend.
“Alright, mate. You’re done, you’re alright now.”
“T-thanks, Hobie.” Miles was shivering now, from the antiseptic and from his body being open to the frozen air of the room. Hobie had cut gauze to line his scratches and covered them up, and when he saw Miles, he grabbed a blanket and slid it over him.
“Ya sheets need a cleanin’. I dunno how else to keep ya warm…” Hobie seemed to think for a long moment, and then he turned and glanced at his guitar. It must have struck some idea in him because the next moment he was slowly pulling off his boots and taking off his vest. He kept going until he was just in his jeans and a t-shirt, and then he turned back to Miles.
“Scoot over, mate.” And then he crawled into bed and slipped in beside Miles, curling into him and Miles realized what he was doing.
“You’re trying to keep me warm.” He said quietly and Hobie looked at him, soft and gentle, and Miles shivered again, but this time, it was from something else. Butterflies were flying through his bloodstream, moving up and down and making his body fizzle with the feeling.
“I am keepin ya warm, Morales. Don’t you go underminin’ my abilities.”
“We can tell Miguel about this. Maybe he’ll add it to your Super Powers Fact Sheet.”
Hobie turned his face away from Miles and whispered again, “no, I probably won’t tell anyone about this.”
Miles blinked and then blinked again and then reached up and turned Hobie’s face toward his. “I love you,” he whispered, and that was all the warning he gave his best friend before he leaned forward and pressed their lips together. For a short, terrifying moment, Miles thought he’d messed up, but then Hobie’s finger traveled to his jaw and he held him gently. A moan fell out of Hobie as he slipped his tongue into Miles’ mouth, being ever so soft, going slow for Miles to pull away if he wanted to. And when their tongues tangled together, Miles pulled away to take a breath.
“I love ya too, sunflower. Now, go ya gotta sleep.” Hobie cuddled up closer and closed his eyes, and Miles thought to himself, if they could bottle up Hobie, he’d be the best pain medicine.
I say that I'm fine, I tell you all the time. Keep thinkin' I'll find a cure.
I'm so scared of my guitar, 'cause it cuts right through to the heart. I can’t lie to it the same way I lie to you.