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Miles jerks awake, blinking hard in the darkness and gripping the bed. His heart pounds in his ears. His breath is loud and ragged.
He was—
Miguel was—
His chest aches like those claws are still crushing his wild, racing heart. Miguel was heavy, over two hundred pounds of rage, but his words were heavier.
You’re a mistake.
An anomaly, always have been.
You don’t deserve to be here.
He pulls out of Hobie’s arms, kicks the comforter away, and sits up. His pajama shirt is soaked with sweat.
Hobie stirs, stretching his long limbs. “...Miles?”
He shakes his head with a hand on the back of his neck. “M’fine, amor. I’m just gonna get some air.”
The bed dips. Hobie drapes himself over his back and hooks his arms around Miles’ front, sweat and all. His face presses into the crook of Miles' neck and his voice is muffled. “Want company?”
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” Miles shrugs him off and stands, straightening his pants. His web shooters are in the drawer of the nightstand and he fastens them one by one. Hobie watches.
When Miles takes off his shirt to change it, the cool air of HQ is a phantom pain on his healed scars and he winces. Why’d he come back here? It’s silent at night, with no traffic or yelling to bleed into white noise. It was designed to help with the whole danger of overstimulated senses, but so far it’s only ruined his sleep schedule.
Hobie says, sounding annoyed all over again, “I can still hurt him, love. Say the word.”
“No Hobie,” Miles answers, exhausted. When he turns back, Hobie is sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring his scars. “That won’t help me sleep at all.”
“It’d help me,” Hobie mutters, holding out his arms. Miles gently tosses the replacement shirt and walks into the offered hug, bent over to cradle him. Hobie’s cheek presses into his stomach; the scars don’t hurt when he touches them. “I’d fucking hibernate.”
“I know.”
“You’re too nice, love.”
Miles sighs. “I know.” He kisses Hobie’s forehead and pulls out of his arms. Then he tilts his face up, thumb resting on the rise of his cheekbone.
Hobie’s hands fall to his hips. He looks soft without his piercings or hard skulls or ripped clothes, eyes a little swollen with sleep and hair in a dark bonnet. He’s looking up at Miles like an open book, obsidian eyes hiding nothing.
Miles kisses his forehead again, rubbing his cheek, then returns to the hug.
Hobie mumbles into his skin, “Love you.”
“I love you too.”
They can’t seem to say it enough these days; when the world has shrunk to just the two of them, since Gwen is awkward and Miguel won’t look at any of them and Peter can’t seem to find the correct words anymore and Pav is trying to keep them all together through pure determination and optimism. These nights, as Miles wakes up choking and screaming from the horror of being flayed alive.
It’s easy to be with Hobie. The one who’s been rooting for him without fail, even before they met. They never come to HQ without each other anymore.
Miles pulls away and shivers from the sudden lack of body heat. Hobie gets up and follows him to the window.
“You really don’t have to be up with me.” Miles pulls open the window, breathing deep as the cool air billows into the stuffy room. “I feel bad.”
“Well,” Hobie takes his hand and spins him back around. “Don’t. I’m with you, Miles.” Hobie lifts their joined hands and squeezes. “Always have been. Always will.”
Miles looks at him a little longer, then rises on his toes and Hobie bends down for a kiss.
Miles pulls away first and looks out over the minimalist, cold nightscape of Nueva York. At least there are stars, millions of them, dotting the sky.
Behind him, Hobie murmurs, “We could go to your universe.”
“Then I’ll never leave.”
“Can I at least sit with you?”
“Hobes, amor, get your rest.” Miles grips the top of the window frame and pulls himself up onto the side of the building, crawling up. “One of us has to.”
Hobie leans out the window, resting back on his elbows and looking up at him. His voice echoes in the quiet air. “Can’t sleep without you.”
Miles turns on his back, knees bent and feet flat on the building. Like he’s lying on the floor, but vertical. Stable, with the cold, hard building pushing against his spine. The ground is thousands of feet straight down. It helps; like he’s taller than his problems. He breathes in and out. In for five seconds, and then out for seven. His eyes squeeze shut.
Miguel slashing at him through the cocoon, blood red eyes enraged as the behemoth spider above locks him in, Margo’s wide eyes meeting his own in horror—
Earth-42 Uncle Aaron smashing the bag, its contents spilling and he stares at what could’ve been his insides all over the floor—
Prowler Miles, dead inside, no father, no joy, eyes as cold as a tomb—
Arms wrap around him and long legs bracket his own.
The cool air stings the tears running down his own cheeks.
“I’ve got you,” Hobie whispers right in his ear. Real. Miles grips the arm around him as tight as he can, with a weak gasp. “I’m here, okay? I’m always here.”
Miles gives a tiny, jerky nod, then leans his head back against Hobie’s chest.
Hobie presses his face back into Miles’ neck. “It’ll be okay. I promise, you’ll be okay.”
Miles squeezes his arm. Maybe if Hobie keeps saying it enough, he’ll finally believe it.