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i.
There are a few things Miles is expecting to see when he swings into his room, minutes before the summer sunset. His mamá, for one, lovingly berating him for being late to dinner. His bed, clean and empty enough to collapse onto so that his limbs can recover from the day’s accumulated injuries. Maybe a stray protein bar on his desk, if he’s lucky.
Miles is not a lucky person, so he gets Hobie Brown instead. Hobie, who’s lounging on Miles’ bed like he belongs there.
(The issue, the big kicker, the problem at the bottom of it all, is that—well, Miles kind of wants Hobie to belong there. In his room, on his bed, limbs too long and made longer by the shadows of the descending sun. That’s neither here nor there, though.)
Miles hurriedly pulls off his mask. “Hey…? Um. Not that I’m not glad to see you or anything but, uh. Whatcha doin’ here?” He collapses heavily onto the chair in front of his desk, though the weak knees are to be blamed on crime. Crime-fighting. Criminals! Nothing to do with the way Hobie sits up languidly and stretches, letting the light hit all of his piercings in sparkling, silent melody. Miles wants to die, kind of. It’s fine.
Though it’s only been a little more than a month since the Multiversal Cock-up of the Century (Hobie’s moniker, not his), and since Miles chose to come clean to his parents about being Spider-man, this isn’t the first time Hobie’s been at the Morales household. In fact, he’s the most frequent out-of-universe visitor, and Miles’ mom takes a surprisingly strong shine to him, though his dad always seems to look at Hobie as if he’s a poisonous gecko in a tank. However, Hobie usually sends a short message through his watch before stopping by.
(Hobie-styled homemade watches that only Miles and Hobie have, now, since Miles probably won’t ever be officially instated into Spider Society and Hobie essentially excommunicated himself from the organization. Gwen and Pavitr got their official watches back soon after the Spot was defeated, and Miles can’t help but still feel a seed of squirming dejection in his chest from knowing he’s barred from being in the place he feels the most himself.)
And, yeah. The Crush, with a capital-C. It’s a recent development. Miles had only figured out that his feelings of gratitude and admiration towards Hobie were less than platonic because of Ganke’s tired response to Miles’ effusing: “Dude, I get it, you’ve got a crush on him. Can you help me with this kinematics stuff now?”
It’s humiliating. Miles doesn’t wanna talk about it.
Hobie grins loosely at Miles, interrupting his racing thoughts. Had he been staring? God, Miles had absolutely been staring.
“Keep your hair on, now. Just have a home delivery for ya.”
From behind him, he pulled out a faded tupperware that clicked as he shook it around, and—
“My hoodie!”
Miles had been looking for the damn thing, but he assumed it’d been lost in his laundry basket or something. It was a simple black hoodie, with his attempts at using fabric paint winding around the cuffs and the cowl of the hood.
Hobie tosses it to him and Miles catches it with ease. “Did I leave this with you or something?” It’s hard to imagine. If Miles intentionally left anything with Hobie, it would’ve been the only thing occupying his thoughts.
“Nah, mate, you left it on the rooftop of some building when we were swinging ‘round in 10208.”
Miles remembers Earth-10208 well, with its saturated colors and casual abundance of superheroes. There wasn’t much to do there but swing aimlessly with Hobie, so they’d quickly gotten distracted by a cafe and then a live band and maybe Miles, in his rush of switching in and out of civilian clothes, had forgotten his hoodie. Hobie hadn’t forgotten it, though.
Miles smiled, then quickly tried to school his expression into something cooler—a little less besotted, maybe. “Thanks. I owe you one.” But their excursion to 10208 had been a week ago, give or take, so… “Didn’t it start, you know, start glitching out?” Miles imitates a little bzzt noise then clamps his mouth shut. That’s enough self-humiliation for the hour, he thinks.
Hobie shakes the tupperware again, a playful look flashing across his face. “That’s where these come in.” He pops open the cap and places something small on his hand, though Miles can’t really tell what it is. “Made these myself. Those watches are only good for so much, y’know, can’t really help if ya wanna make an overnight pack in case of emergencies. So I made ‘em a bit smaller, asked Margie to make some illicit reproductions at the spider bureaucracy hub, and,” he shrugs flippantly, “Bob’s your uncle, innit. Stuck one of these in the cuff of your hoodie for a test run, hope you don’t mind.”
Miles feels the inside of the cuff, and his finger circles around what feels like a button that’s messily stitched onto the cuff. “And they work? No glitching?”
Hobie leans back with a self-satisfied raise of his eyebrows. Miles keeps his eyes firmly away from the way a snatch of skin peeks from his shirt, teasing a glinting piercing. “They’re aces, my guy. Maybe Pav can finally get that sleepover he’s been angling for, I’m giving him and Gwendy their own set.”
Miles’ mind shies away from the mention of Gwen, but the practical uses of Hobie’s invention are staggering, and he can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “Hobie. Hobart Einstein da Vinci Brown—”
“Come off it, who the hell is Hobart—”
“How the hell do you not only recreate the watch that probably took years and years and years of work, but make it tiny?” Miles smiles behind his hand. This guy is a damn genius, he thinks. “You’re a damn genius,” he says. The theory stuff in physics is easy to him, the equations and the math, but the actual hardware of it all is beyond his scope, and the fact that Hobie just does it? Christ.
Hobie’s lips press into a line. “S’not the exact same, though. Miguel might be a wasteman of the highest order, but he’s got the lil holograms and whatnot.” He doesn’t look put off by this, though. It’s just a statement of fact.
“Well, yeah,” Miles admits. Some of the technology at Spider HQ is beyond what his mind can even comprehend. “But it’s still really cool. You’re really cool.” Miles clams up after saying that. How many times can a dude say another dude is cool before it reveals a little too much? The rules of masculinity still evade Miles, sometimes.
Hobie clears his throat before abruptly standing up. Miles, just a second slower than Hobie, acutely registers how graceful Hobie is before scrambling to his feet as well, leaving just a foot between them. “Right,” Hobie starts, “I’ll leave this with you.” He hands Miles the tupperware before focusing on his watch. “Just get a hold of your mum’s sewing kit and have at it, yeah? I’ll be leaving, got places to be even though time is nothing but a social construct, you get how it is.” The portal opens and Hobie looks up from his watch.
Miles can’t respond to the unexpected exit with anything more than, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I’ll… see you later?”
They stare at each other. Miles isn’t entirely sure why, especially when the portal is just sitting there. His stuff is beginning to float, and handling the cleanup isn’t on his list of things he wants to deal with today. Hobie’s face looks sharper, somehow, under the harsh orange glare of the portal.
Hobie clears his throat again. His hand comes up for a moment, too close to Miles’ face, and before Miles can ask if he’s got an eyelash somewhere, Hobie’s hand lands two heavy pats on his cheek. It’s almost like how a tía would pat his cheek, except for the fact that it’s Hobie. Hobie, who just nods and steps through the portal without another word.
A second later, and Hobie is gone.
Miles barely avoids getting brained by one of his sneakers on the path of descent, and he stares out into nothing, the coolness of rings and the roughness of calluses and the curve of a large palm taking several moments to process in his mind. A manic chuckle bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, and he collapses onto his bed as he had planned to do before. It’s dark outside now, and all Miles wants to do is begin planning his last will and testament before going right to sleep, but curiosity forces him to open the tupperware clutched in his tight grip.
They’re not exactly buttons, with uneven edges and two holes in the middle that are so small that they seem like afterthoughts. That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that while the buttons are in Hobie’s mismatched style, they’re all in different shades of yellow. Miles’ favorite color, which he had offhandedly told Hobie as they were swinging through some unremarkable iteration of New York.
Miles lets out a wordless groan. “I can’t do this, man. I can’t be doing this, this is too much for a person to handle.” His hands come up to cover his warm face. “I need to retire from bein’ a vigilante and then I gotta hide my face forever and then move to Greenland.”
A knock on the side of the doorway alerts Miles to the presence of his mamá. “I’d hope you let me and your father know before you make any big plans like that, Miles.” Great. Amazing. Not only did Miles have to go through a Hobie-induced mental breakdown, but his mom had to witness all of it too. “Change out of your suit and come have dinner, it’s already late.”
Miles can feel his face continue to burn, but his mouth softens into a smile and he playfully sighs as his mom shakes her head and retreats from his room. His eyes catch on the buttons.
“Wait, Mamá, you have a sewing kit, right?”
ii.
A shirt, a jersey, another shirt, hoodie, jacket, a jacket that might’ve been stolen from Hobie, another jersey.
Miles’ closet is about to look like a tree without leaves by the time he finishes tossing everything out, but he just needs to find one thing. One measly article of clothing that’ll alleviate the unease in his chest, the anxiety that feels like his danger-sense but is really just from his stupid brain.
It’s early in the morning—his period kept him tossing and turning all night, and there was really no point to laying in bed for any longer—but Miles was hoping he could go for a Sunday stroll, hang out with Ganke, do something, but he’s not about to be doing shit if he doesn’t have his binder!
The T-patch on this thigh itches and Miles resists the urge to pick at it. It’s normally not a huge deal if he doesn’t have his binder, is the thing. His chest is flat and doesn’t bring up a lot of dysphoria, and the spider-suit works like a compression shirt anyways. But it’s just… one of those days. Miles needs the grounding snugness of a binder around his chest, but his closet is empty of any.
Miles runs a hand over his face. “I swear. I had at least five in here yesterday. And they just upped and walked away?” He lets out a wordless groan of despair. “Damn!” This calls for drastic measures.
Miles’ mom is mid-bite when Miles sidles up to her with a kiss on the cheek and a placid smile. The growl of Miles’ stomach reminds him that, yes, he needs to eat breakfast. However, there are more important matters at hand. “Good morning, mamá.”
She looks a little suspicious of his easy going expression, but kisses him on the cheek as well. “Morning, mijo. You going out today?”
Going out could mean a multitude of things. Spider-manning, graffitiing, sitting on a rooftop to do nothing but eat bodega-bought snacks and watch the cars passing by. Miles shrugs, noncommittal. “I don’t really know yet. But, uh… you haven't seen any of my binders around, have you?” Please don’t say you did anything with them, please, please, please.
Rio finishes off her quesito with an air that Miles can’t decipher. “Well,” she says leisurely, “I put most of them in the washing bucket.”
Miles abandons his calm expression with dizzying speed. “Mom!” He knows he sounds like an annoying little kid, elongating his vowels in petulant displeasure, but it rankles. His binders need to be hand-washed, and he knows that if he tries to do it himself, his mom will insist that he’s doing it wrong. But she won’t get to washing them until God-knows-when.
“Miles, sabes que no lavas tus binders lo suficiente, and I don’t want you to get a—a rash or something! Don’t worry too much, okay? I’ll wash them with the gentle detergent and I know you still have a few binders lying around in your room somewhere because I didn’t put all of them in.”
This makes Miles pull up short. See, his mamá has the unusual and handy skill of remembering the most mundane details about Miles’ clothes, from where and when he got them down to the country of manufacturing. If Rio Morales says that she didn’t put all of Miles’ binder in the laundry, then that's a hard fact. Miles must, by the law of motherly omniscience, have a binder somewhere.
Miles lets out another groan, but lets his chin rest carefully on his mom’s shoulder. “I don’t… I don’t like it when you go through my stuff,” he mumbles. “Even though I know it’s totally well-intentioned and that I should’ve washed my binders and that you just want lo mejor para mí.”
Rio sighs and pats the back of Miles’ head in commiseration. Her hands are warm and small, making Miles want to become smaller to fit right into her palms. “That was my fault, mijo. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Miles’ parents have a hard time saying I’m sorry, just the plain words in their devastating glory, but they’ve gotten better at saying it in a few more words. That was my fault, my bad, you maybe might’ve been right about that one tiny thing. Maybe it’s a part of growing up, or because of the sudden shadow of tragedy across Miles’ face that became clear to his parents after his confession to being Spider-man, but he has to appreciate it. He hugs his mom fully, and sets out to find a binder before he implodes.
It takes an embarrassingly long time (and after Miles has the brief and harebrained idea to use his webs as a makeshift binder) to remember the overnight packs stowed away on Earth-138, 50101, and 65—Hobie’s cramped flat, Pavitr’s family home, and Gwen’s mood-ring apartment. He had the foresight to put a binder in each of those packs, and it was becoming increasingly evident that the ticket to his success lay in those other dimensions.
So. The new issue Miles has to face: which type of embarrassment does he want to endure today? Miles already knows he’s not mentally equipped to deal with Hobie’s quiet smirks and the inevitable arm around his shoulder, so that’s a no-go. Miles likes Pavitr, but he doesn’t know him all that well. As for Gwen… nope. Absolutely not. Just spending a few minutes at her place to drop off his pack was enough to let Miles know that he and Gwen, when they weren’t hopped up on the adrenaline and anxiety of saving the world, were at the unpleasant stage where they just didn’t know how to talk to each other, at least not yet.
Miles isn’t about to push his luck today.
meows morales: can i come over for a min ?? can’t find any binders at home but there’s one in my overnight (T_T)
pav bhaji: ofc bro!!!!!!! 👍🏽😙
Miles sets the location on his watch to Mumbattan, right outside of Pavitr’s home. Miles likes Mumbattan, similar to New York in the way that it nevers loses its brightness, but his plan is to grab his binder and then make a quick exit. He already knows that an uncharacteristic irritation at everyone and everything sits right under his sternum, and he doesn’t want to subject Pavitr to his period blues. After a quick knock on the door and a few seconds of rocking backing forth on his heels, the door opens.
Instead of Pavitr’s sunny smile, an equally sunny but considerably older face appears in the doorway. Glass bangles clink around her wrist as she opens the door further, and the wrinkles on her face deepen as she sees Miles and smiles. Miles’ face softens into a reciprocal smile, and he raises his hand into a wave before remembering to press his palms together in front of his chest, almost a set of prayer hands. The motion is undoubtedly awkward, but Pavitr’s maybe-grandma only laughs before mirroring it.
“Are you Pavitr’s friend? Spider-friend?”
Well, at least there’s no reason to pretend that Miles is a student from an international school or something. “Yes, ma’am. Is Pavitr here? Should I come back?”
She nods. “Yes, he is only getting something from his room. You do not have to stand outside—come in, come in.” She ushers Miles inside with a gentle hand to his back, and he only has a moment to toe off his sneakers before stepping inside. The smell of cardamom is the right amount of overwhelming, and Pavitr’s grandma’s hand anchors Miles. “Are you in school, beta? Which standard are you studying?”
Miles doesn’t know what a standard is, nor does he know what being called beta is supposed to mean. However, he’s saved from whatever faux pas he would’ve committed by Pavitr bounding out his room. “Same standard as me, daadi!” In Pavitr’s hand is Miles’ binder, folded into a neat black rectangle with a glint of the yellow button, and it travels through the air as Pavitr gestures back and forth between Miles and the elderly woman. “Miles, this is my grandmother. Daadi, ye mera dost aur fellow Spider-man Miles hai.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Miles says politely. She nods.
“Oh, and here’s your binder, bro. Y’know, it’s kinda funny—we use the same brand, so I guess the company exists across a bunch of universes. Weird, right?” Pavitr hands the rectangle to Miles, though something in Miles’ face must make him pause before clapping him amicably on the shoulder. “Hey, you should stay for tea. My aunt and uncle are both out right now, but my brain went on auto-pilot and I made way too much.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I don’t wanna—”
“Intrude? Don’t worry about it! C’mon, I insist. Don’t worry about daadi, she’s gonna be tuning into her usual soap operas.” Pavitr leans in, conspiratorial. “They’re actually not that bad, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Miles falters. His mom is expecting him to be out doing things, but it’s not like he actually has anything planned. “Well, alright. If you insist.”
“I do!”
The three of them move as a unit into the kitchen, where daadi bats at the both of them to sit down at a round little table by the window as she filters the tea and pours it into dainty cups. She sets each cup down on a saucer in front of each boy and takes her own cup to the living room. Miles hears the tiny buzz of the TV as it adjusts to being turned on, and then the beginning of a theme song in melodic Hindi.
It’s just the two of them, now. Miles’ binder is still balled in his hand. Pavitr straightens. “Oh! D’you want to put that on right now? There’s a bathroom,” he points across from him, “over there.”
Miles can feel his face warm as he rubs a hand across his neck. “Sorry, but are there pads in there? Time of month and all.”
Pavitr replies easily, “Yup, bottom… left cabinet, I think.” He eyes Miles. “Do you have back pain?”
“How—I mean, yes? But how’d you know that.”
“I’m good at reading people!” Pavitr grins. “Anyways, the same cabinet should have a little green container with ointment in it, and if you put it in your back it’ll work miracles.”
“I’ll take your word for it, man,” Miles replies gratefully, before ducking into the bathroom.
When Miles comes back, fingers sticky and smelling strongly of eucalyptus, his chai is still warm. He must look less tense, because Pavitr sighs happily at him before taking a sip of his chai. Miles takes a sip of his own, before widening his eyes at Pavitr.
“This is really good.”
Pavitr points at him. “And now you’re never allowed to go to Starbucks to get a chai tea again.” He puts extremely dramatic finger quotes around the words ‘chai tea,’ and Miles chuckles. The tea is sweet and a little spicy and warm, and he relaxes fully amongst the sounds of daadi’s show and Pavitr’s excited rambling about some bad guy he took down with, of all people, Peter Parkedcar.
A rotating group of people come in and out—Pavitr’s aunt and uncle, who are both reserved but sweet, and daadi, who places her cup in the sink before returning to her show—but Miles’ comfortable bubble of sociability is prodded at when Pavitr moves onto a mission he had with Gwen.
“It went well,” Pavitr concludes, chin resting on his hand. “But it’ll be the last official thing we do, I think.”
Miles blinks. “Are you getting fired?” If aiding Miles as he went to save his dad wasn’t enough for Gwen and Pavitr to get kicked out of Spider Society, he can’t imagine what would be enough.
Pavitr blinks back, owlish. “Did Gwen not tell you?” Miles shakes his head and firmly avoids thinking about how he and Gwen haven’t talked properly in a while. “We’re pulling a Hobie and quitting, bro. No point in staying at Spider HQ when they went through so much trouble to try and…” He pauses. “Hunt you down, pretty much. As Hobie would say, fuck the oppressors!” The last words are spoken in a badly-imitated British accent and with a little laugh, but Pavitr’s smile drops quickly upon seeing Miles’ expression.
“Woah. Your face did a lot of things right now, Miles. Are you okay?”
Miles is a little shell-shocked, actually. He knows, really, that Pav and Gwen leaving wasn’t just for him but rather for the dismantlement of the institution—thanks, Hobie—but it feels like it has a lot to do with him anyways.
“Wow,” Miles says. “I mean, um. This is news to me. It’s just… a lot, I guess. Aren’t you gonna miss it?”
Pavitr smiles, and his eyes scrunch up. For a moment, he looks unmistakably like his grandmother. “We don’t need all those other spiders, Miles. And besides, I’ve got you and Hobie and Gwen, and I’m perfectly happy with that. I like you guys!”
Miles’ heart clenches painfully. It’s a weird feeling, he thinks, to be needed by someone who he needs with equal desperation, blood family aside. “I like you too.”
“Ah,” Pavitr says, leaning back into his chair with the face of someone who knows something they shouldn’t, “but you definitely like one Spider more than the rest, don’t you? I’m good with this stuff, so don’t even try to lie, buddy!”
How did he know?!
Miles was gonna have to do some damage control.
“What do you mean?” Miles says. He crosses his arms before remembering that crossed arms indicated defensiveness, and Pavitr’s sharp eyes would definitely be able to catch that. He uncrosses them.
“Oh, you know,” Pavitr twirls his hand around. “It’s just the way you act around a certain cool person. Who’s also in a band. And is a Spider. You’re not subtle.”
Miles holds his ground. “I really have no idea what you mean.”
Pavitr groans, hair flopping to the side as he tosses his head back. “Your crush on Gwen, bro!”
“Gwen?”
For once, Pavitr looks somewhat caught off-guard. He tilts his head. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Were you expecting me to say someone else?”
“No! No, not at all. Let’s talk about my crush on Gwen, yup.” Miles puts on a smile with too many teeth.
But it’s too late, and Pavitr picks up everything Miles is trying so hard not to put down. “Wait, so a cool Spider-person? In a band? Who’s not Gwen? That can only mean…”
Miles braces himself with a grimace.
“HOBIE?”
iii.
Miles stares at his watch.
It stares back at him.
How do I even approach this?
He can’t be like, “Hey, I need to talk to you,” because that’s way too foreboding. He also can’t try and slither his way into conversation because Gwen hates it when people aren’t direct with her. Which is deeply ironic, Miles thinks, but he banishes the thought because it feels too unkind.
Miles’ thoughts are broken by two sharp knocks on his door before his dad pokes his head through the doorway. “Hey, Mom’s gonna be home late so I’m gonna order something. Any preferences?”
Miles tries to relax his tensed shoulders and look nonchalant. “Nah, I don’t really care.” He hopes his dad will accept the answer and leave, but Jeff’s begins to angle his body more towards Miles.
“You need help with something, Miles? You look kinda,” he does a little shoulder shimmy, “frazzled.”
To be honest, Miles avoids talking about Spider-man stuff with his parents—to keep them from worrying, yeah, but also to avoid flack from his dad specifically.
(“You should really think about the cost of property damage when you’re swingin’ around, man,” he’d dryly remarked once. That was too embarrassing for Miles to ever want to voluntarily recreate.)
But Miles is also trying to exercise emotional vulnerability, or whatever the counselor at Visions had said to include in his college essays, so he sighs and pats his bed as a quiet invitation for his dad to sit down. He does.
“I’m tryna… talk to a friend? Who kinda hurt me? Because I don’t wanna be walking on eggshells around them anymore, you know. But I don’t know how to say ‘hey, can we talk’ without getting all up in my head about it.”
Jeff straightens up, righteous. “Was it Ganke?”
“Why d’you always gotta blame Ganke first?”
“Gwanda?”
Jeff knows her name is Gwen. He just thinks calling her Gwanda is funny.
Miles’ mouth twists. “Well. Yeah.”
Jeff claps once. “I knew you two were acting weird when she came by. Weirder than usual, anyways.” He thinks for a few moments, eyes darting over the details of Miles’ room. “I mean, maybe I’m the wrong person to ask about this stuff. But you just gotta take that leap, you know? Else it’s gonna eat at you and you’re gonna be walkin’ on eggshells forever. Better to have a hard conversation than to have to do that.”
Miles knows he’s right, but still. It’s difficult. Also, part of that monologue sounded ripped-off. “Have you been talking to Peter?”
“Is that the monochrome one?”
“No, that’s Noir, I’m talking about the one with the baby. Actually, that’s not even import—”
Ping!
Both of their heads swivel towards Miles’ watch. The watch face says simply: ‘You have one (1) message from gwanda.’
Jeff lets out a laugh. “She’s got more guts than you, I can tell you that much.”
“Alright, alright, you can order the food now.”
Miles shoos his dad out of his room before opening the message.
gwanda: hey. ive got your shirt. come by and pick it up later?
meows morales: sure, when ?? (^ ^)
gwanda: 7?
meows morales: ٩( 'ω' )و
It’s 6:30, so Miles has plenty of time to ruminate (or, in other words, panic) about what exactly is going on. When did Gwen even get a shirt of his, and why? Why was she returning it now of all times? Was he expected to just grab his shirt and then leave?
No way. Miles needs to talk to Gwen, and regardless of how unconventional the first step to that may have been, he’s gonna see everything through.
The half hour passes quickly and slowly, and at 6:57, Miles sets course for Earth-65. The second he stumbles out of the portal—he hasn’t quite learned how to stick the landing yet, not on this version of Earth—and wipes the sweat of his palms on his pants, the watercolor drips of the sky turn into a sour yellow. It matches the apprehension curling in his throat. It’s like a demonized version of the butterflies he used to get around Gwen, like wasps and scorpions clawing at his stomach instead, and he can’t even say why.
He can understand why Gwen did what she did, but he still can’t shake the image of her in Mumbattan from his head, her hand reaching out to save the canon instead of Miles.
As he knocks on the door of Gwen’s apartment, Miles wonders if Gwen’s view is the same nervous yellow.
The door creaks open and there’s Gwen, with a tied up grocery bag in her hand. Miles’ shirt is probably in it. She looks tired. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
She inclines her head towards the sidewalk. “Wanna walk with me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Upcoming canon event, Miles thinks nonsensically, someone is going to die.
They walk along the path, passing by runners with tiny dogs and mothers with strollers and old couples with linked arms. Miles wonders what the conspicuous distance between himself and Gwen looks like to other people. He inhales sharply.
“I—
“I stole your shirt.”
Miles looks at Gwen, who’s looking at the concrete. This wasn’t how he was expecting this to go, but it’s all good. He can roll with this. “I was wondering why you had one of my shirts, cuz I definitely don’t remember lending you one.”
“It’s the summer camp one that's too small on you. I knew you wouldn’t miss it.”
Alright, Miles takes back what he thought earlier. He doesn’t think he knows how to roll with this. “And did you… wear it?”
Gwen laughs, but it’s halfhearted. “Nope. I guess I needed something to motivate me. Because you probably don’t care about the shirt, but it’s still yours. And if I took it, I’d have to return it eventually, right? Which means I’d have to talk to you eventually. So here we are, I guess.”
“Here we are.” Miles has nothing to say but that. They walk for a few minutes more before Gwen’s eyes, as sharp and bright as ever, land on Miles’ face.
“I’m just,” her voice trembles minutely, “really, really sorry, Miles. And I know I said it before, but I’m really—I messed up. I messed up so badly and I was a terrible friend to you because I wanted to, I don’t know, believe that all the stuff Miguel was saying, about fate and the universe and shit, made me need to hold myself less accountable for my own life. Because if it’s all planned out, if it’s all beyond me, then there’s nothing I can do, right? But I could’ve done so much. I let you run around with a bright red target on your back, and I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s, I mean it’s not okay, but I understand—”
“You shouldn’t have to, Miles! You shouldn’t have to play devil’s advocate to try and rationalize why what I did was right, because you did what I thought wasn’t possible. You saved your family and the universe. I thought that I’d have to sacrifice your friendship for the greater good, but I didn’t have to! And it ended up being so much more harmful for you than it ever was for me.” She lets out a deep, shuddering breath, and doesn’t react when Miles touches her hand. “I don’t want to be a bad friend to you, Miles. I care about you so much, too much, for me to want that. And I’ve been trying to take things into my hands again, even if it’s all really up to fate. I’m not going to give into fate if that means giving you up.”
“And I guess that means stealing my clothes, huh.”
“I guess so.”
Miles hadn’t noticed until now that the yellow of the walls and the sky had morphed into a gradient of sage green, contemplative beiges and browns. He frowns slightly, weighing the words in his mouth. “I don’t think I’ll think of you the same way. Or see you the same way. For a while, at least. But I still care about you and I love you and I’ll probably forgive you one day, but it’s hard to forget, you know. Cuz being an anomaly didn’t feel as bad as feeling… unwanted. Or unneeded, I guess, by the people who I needed. Who I still need.”
“Yeah.” Gwen says the word in an exhale, swaddled in warm air.
There’s really only one thing to do. Miles opens his arms and she barrels into them. It reminds Miles of when Gwen made her first visit, the way she hugged Miles with a strength that belied her slim figure. She hugs him just as hard now, and he pats her back. “We’ll be okay, Gwanda.”
Gwen shoves him away in mock-disgust, face twisted into a wince threatened to be broken by a small smile. “Don’t tell me you have my contact name still set as that.”
“And my dad still calls you that, so. You’re welcome.”
As they walk back, the air turns cool while the colors turn warm, into pumpkin orange and silky pink. Their elbows brush as they walk.
“So,” Gwen says slyly. “I was with Pav the other day.”
“Signing your two week notices?”
She lets out a sharp ha! “Something like that. And he told me something really interesting. In retrospect, it was kinda obvious.”
There is no way. Was the entire world about to know about this damn crush before Miles was ready to even think about it too much? Miles stops right there, feet planted on the sidewalk, before he starts whisper-screaming. “Did Pav tell you about my crush on Hobie?”
Gwen pulls on Miles’ elbow, as smug as a cat with cream. “Nope! But you just did.”
Miles lets himself get pulled without much resistance. “Damn. I just got played.” He’s not that mad about it, but he feels a little silly.
“Like a fiddle.”
When they arrive back at Gwen’s door and Miles opens up his portal, Gwen shoves the plastic bag in Miles’ hand. He’d nearly forgotten it. With a lighter chest and a rainbow of watercolor scenery dazzling his eyes, Miles waves goodbye.
iv.
“Hey. Hey. Miles. Pssssst.”
Miles’ eyes open to a squint. “Wha’?”
There’s a portal right above his bed, with Peter’s unrepentant face sticking through. Miles doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s definitely not any hour he wants to be awake at. Peter’s arm sticks out of the portal, and something fuzzy gets tossed onto Miles’s face. He bats at it with the awareness of someone awoken from deep sleep, and it falls to the side of his bed.
“I’m not really sure how, but your sock ended up in my laundry, and I only know it’s yours ‘cause you’re the only knucklehead who wears socks with rubber duckies on them, and anyways, it started glitching in the laundry basket because there’s no button on it, but I only just remembered to give it to you because Mayday just fell asleep, so. There ya go, bud.”
Miles mentally checks out of Peter’s explanation when he realizes it isn’t all that important, so he slowly curls up on his side with his eyes fluttering to a close. “Mhm.”
“Okay, bye, kid. Keep better track of your socks.”
“Bye, Dad.”
Miles is already on his way to sleep again, and he misses Peter’s expression—a cocktail of delight, fondness, and surprise. The portal closes, and Miles is already caught in the grasp of a heavy, dreamless rest.
i.
To celebrate Gwen and Pavitr’s exit from Spider Society, Miles suggests a day out in his New York.
He gets a cake from the panadería—chocolate, with the word ‘retirement!’ written in red above four tiny spiders wearing party hats—and manages to deliver it safely to his place without anything happening to it besides the tiniest smudge of frosting along the side.
Rio and Jeff are surprisingly committed to making the whole thing a party, with Rio cooking enough food for an army and Jeff stringing up threads that read C-O-N-G-R-A-T-S across the walls.
(“You guys do not need to do all this, trust me.”
“Miles, can we not celebrate your friends no longer being conscripted child soldiers?”
“I’m—I mean, that’s a unique way to phrase it, so when you put it like that…”)
Miles hears the others before he hears the doorbell, with the three of them squabbling like puppies over who got to ring it, only for Miles to open the door before a finger could get close to jabbing the button.
“Oh wow,” Gwen says wryly upon seeing the extent of the decorating. “Someone must be really happy about Pav and I losing our jobs.”
Before Miles can retort back, Hobie pulls him close with an arm over the shoulder. “Hey now, can’t we all be glad you’re not a cog in the machine as a child soldier anymore, Gwendy-gyal?”
You won’t believe this, but my dad said the exact same thing, Miles thinks, though he refrains from casting and comparisons between Jeff and Hobie for all of their sakes.
Gwen only responds with a fond eye roll before Pavitr catches sight of Miles’ parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Morales! Hello, it is so nice to see you two again!” He gives them both warm hugs, and Miles can’t help but wonder if the ability to charm parents is part of Pavitr’s spiderly power-pack. “Mrs. Morales, did you make all this? And there’s cake? Oh, man. Please, lemme help with the plates.”
“He’s real good at that, ain’t he?”
Miles startles at the sound of Hobie’s voice right by his ear. “Wh—what?”
“Pav with charmin’ the parents.”
“Yeah,” Miles murmurs. “I’m convinced it’s a super-power.”
Hobie does the thing where the corner of his mouth goes up and he makes a heh. “Not one you’d need, blud, you’re plenty charmin’ as is.”
Before Miles can comprehend anything besides the blood rushing in his ears, his mom ushers him to an empty seat before telling him to eat well. He misses the loaded glance exchanged between Pavitr and Gwen as he mechanically goes about placing food on his plate.
Besides that brief heart attack, everything goes surprisingly well, with Miles’ friends and parents chatting amiably about inconsequential things between bites of food. By the time everyone finishes their food with a slice of cake, Miles feels like curling into a ball and falling asleep then and there, with the overlapping voices of his friends and family acting as the backdrop to his dreams. But he planned a day out, not a day of stuffing themselves full and getting sleepy, so he helps clean up and waves goodbye to his parents as they all spill out of the front door.
Miles had kind of forgotten how it felt to walk around Brooklyn instead of swinging, and he enjoys it even more with Pavitr’s arm around his shoulders, Gwen’s hand on his wrist, and Hobie walking backwards and a few steps ahead to regale them with a tale of how he got ambushed while getting chips at the fried chicken store. Miles is deeply convinced that the majority of the story is fabricated, but he listens attentively anyway, if only to watch the way Hobie’s hands move alongside his story.
Pavitr and Hobie try to get into fights with birds at the park, Miles egging them on as Gwen films on her phone. They eat too much food from the bodega, despite being full from before, and groan dramatically while clutching their stomachs. There’s a store that sells vintage furniture and records but also fishing equipment, and while Hobie and Miles flip through vinyls, Gwen and Pavitr curiously poke at fishing hooks and cushy chairs.
Finally, though, they reach the place that Miles had been aiming for all along. When Miles waves at them to jump the barrier that blocks away the abandoned subway station, Hobie cackles delightedly. “Oh, my days! What happened to good boy Miles, eh?”
The three other teens vault over the gate with ease, and Miles playfully punches Hobie’s arm. “Wasn’t much of a good boy when I got half the universe on my ass, why’re you still surprised?”
Hobie’s eyes are indecipherable when he looks down at Miles. “Can’t say I am, actually.”
Miles can feel the speed of his heart raise dangerously.
“Miles, did you do this?”
Pavitr’s voice rings out from ahead of them, and Miles’ grin is tinged with bittersweetness. His heart feels heavy as he sees traces of Uncle Aaron everywhere, but he thinks Aaron would’ve liked his friends. He hopes so, at least.
“Uh, yeah. This is where I got bit, actually.” The statement lands heavier than it was intended as the four of them stare at the emblazoned EXPECTATIONS across the wall. “It’s… been a while since I’ve been here.”
Miles takes a moment to look at the mural. Gwen’s proud, strong face. Peni’s bright smile, Noir’s sweeping coat. He’s grown a lot since he painted this. Their silence gets broken once Miles coughs. “There’s some spray paint in a cart somewhere, and those big paint buckets. I was thinking about adding you guys,” he gestures to Hobie and Pavitr, “on here. So I can do that now and we can just paint together, for a bit?” Miles didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but he’s doubting his plan at the most inopportune moment.
“Are you sure?” Gwen has her eyebrow raised, and Miles can already feel himself scrambling to come up with something cooler to do, but she follows up her question sheepishly. “I’m really bad at drawing, and I don’t think switching to paint is going to help me suddenly become better. I don’t wanna ruin this with my little stick figures.” Pavitr nods in agreement.
“It’s totally okay! I’m totally fine with it! I want you guys to be a part of it, you know. Else I wouldn’t have brought you over.”
And with that, the hesitation is broken. Hobie shakes the spray paint cans with the ease of a seasoned delinquent, and Miles tells him so. Miles sets up his ladder to begin on the curvature of Pavitr’s face, the marks on his mask and the mischief in his wide eyes. Gwen yells in surprise when the spray paint sprays with more force than expected, and Pavitr details each thing he paints as he paints it: “Okay, and here is the stick version of Gayatri and I—you can tell it’s me because of my luxurious hair, and you can tell this is Gayatri because I gave her a pretty necklace and pretty hair and a pretty smile.”
Miles finds himself falling into the same comfortable lull he had earlier in the day, with the chatter of his friends and the spray of paint acting as a soothing background as he sprays the waves of Pavitr’s self-proclaimed luxurious hair. It’s while Hobie is telling another fantastical story and Miles is pausing to stretch his legs that he notices it.
There’s a dainty bracelet on Pavitr’s wrist, stacked amongst other bracelets. Miles would’ve assumed it was Gayatri’s if he didn’t know that it belonged in Gwen’s jewelry box, and also because he knows Gayatri doesn’t have the tiny, glitching button looped through the thread. Thinking about it, Miles is wearing one of Pavitr’s t-shirts under his hoodie. Hobie has one of Miles’ old belts slung low on his hips, and Gwen, as always, is donning Hobie’s Chucks. They’ve all collected pieces of each other, as small as they are. Miles’ chest feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, and he tamps down his uncontrollably fond beam before someone asks him what he’s thinking about and he has to reveal how sappy he is.
Miles doesn’t know how much time passes, with the way he’s absorbed in his spraying, but a little tug at the cuff of his pants alerts him to Hobie. Hobie, Miles realizes with glee, who finally has to look up to Miles when he’s on the ladder. A glance around tells him that Pavitr and Gwen disappeared somewhere, and his glee disappears as he imagines the impish smiles on their faces as they deliberately leave him with Hobie.
“C’mon, Miles. S’been a while, and Gwen’s old man wants her back soon.” Hobie’s hand leaves Miles’ leg when he moves to step down, and he’s hit with the force of how much he wants that touch back. Miles descends quickly, not wanting to leave Pavitr and Gwen alone and outside for too long, but when he turns from the final step, Hobie’s there. Right there. As in, within Miles’ breathing space.
“Um. I’ll just? Move?” Miles says. Whispers it, really, because Hobie is right there, and speaking out loud feels like it would shatter something careful.
“Now, wait a minute. You jack this from me, Peter Pan?” Hobie’s voice is low, the scrape of sole over gravel, but his eyes are glimmering. His fingers come near Miles’ neck, and before Miles can instinctively flinch away, Hobie clasps the pendant of the necklace Miles is wearing.
Okay, so, funny story. Miles may or may not have taken a long-term loan on Hobie’s necklace, otherwise known as theft. But, in his defense, it looked something more along Miles’ sense of style, with a plain black cord and circular white pendant, instead of the spiked and sparkly stuff Hobie leaned towards. He couldn’t be blamed if he thought it was his.
“I. Do you. Do you want it back?”
Hobie shakes his head. “Nah. Gotta support the even distribution of resources and all that rot.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Hobie smiles and then delivers the killing blow. “Looks better on you, anyways.”
Miles is going to die. Miles is going to die right there, in the abandoned subway, and the culprit’s never going to be found because the guy lives in another dimension. Miles laughs nervously. “Thanks.”
Hobie’s fingers continue circling the pendant but his eyes remain on Miles. I really fucking like you, Miles wants to say. You’re cool and smart and funny and I like you so much. But the words stay simmering in his stomach, in his chest. He can face a lot, so much, too much, but not this. Not yet, not when he can recall so vividly the hope and hurt he’d felt with Gwen. His face looks—pleading, probably. Desperate for something he can’t name. Hobie’s hand moves, finally, and he gives Miles those two heavy pats again, right around the curve of his cheek into his jaw.
Miles might not be the best with feelings, but he knows damn well Hobie doesn’t do that to Pav or Gwen. He’s pretty sure.
“No problem, love.”
It’s smooth as butter, smooth as his hands are rough. It takes every ounce of strength in Miles’ body to keep his knees from buckling. Miles can tell his eyes are wide, with imaginary little error messages running across his pupils. Hobie definitely knows about my crush on him, Miles thinks. Not a single doubt under the sun. But the relaxed, indulgent look on his face tells Miles enough—Hobie's willing to wait it out, play the long game, even though he probably doesn’t believe in patience because he doesn’t believe in time as a social construct.
Hobie takes a step back, giving Miles room for his awareness to expand further than just the circle of their bodies. He throws a wink at Miles, the absolute bastard, and takes long strides towards the bars of the barrier, where Pav and Gwen’s voices echo from. Miles snaps from his stupor to catch up, and they go their way.
Despite how fundamentally mismatched they are—down to the DNA, down to the universe—the sound of their laughter mingles in perfect harmony as they walk out onto the Brooklyn streets. As Miles’ hand brushes against Hobie’s, another line of harmony against the rest of the music they make, he embraces it all, like a flower turning its face towards the inevitable warmth of the sun.