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Hobie Brown didn’t do teams.
He didn’t do rules. Orders. Committees. Uniforms. And yet, there he was, boots kicked up on a console in the Spider Society’s headquarters, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the new kid arguing with Miguel O’Hara.
Again.
“You’re not listening,” Miles said, hands flying with emphasis, his voice sharp and unwavering. “There’s got to be another way to stop the anomaly. We don’t just—trap them. We help them.”
Miguel’s growl was audible even from across the hall. “This is not a debate.”
Hobie tilted his head, twisting a pick between his fingers. He had to admit—he liked the kid’s nerve. The first time he’d met Miles Morales, the kid had been caught in a net of canon events and heartbreak, confused and furious and still stupidly hopeful. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to interfere.
And yet, there he was.
Every. Damn. Time.
“‘S funny,” Hobie said aloud, mostly to no one. “He’s got better instincts than half the lot here, and he’s still the one catching hell for it.”
Beside him, Pavitr leaned in, eyebrows raised. “You’re going to jump in?”
“Nah.” Hobie popped his gum. “He’s got it.”
Miles didn’t back down. He never did. He had that kind of tenacity that made people nervous — like he knew what he was fighting for. Not for attention, not for power, but because it was right. That was rare. Hobie had seen enough so-called heroes crumble under pressure. But not Miles. Miles held.
And Hobie noticed.
He didn’t mean to notice the rest, not at first. The sharp curve of Miles’ cheekbones when he smiled. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about his art. The effortless way he dropped into a swing, flipping upside-down mid-flight, wind singing against his suit. Hobie prided himself on being unattached. Unshaken. But then this Brooklyn Spider showed up, mouthy and brave and genuine, and the strings started to pull.
Hobie was no stranger to chaos. He thrived in it. But Miles Morales was the kind of chaos that stuck. Quiet, slow-burning. Like the first strike of a match that didn’t catch right away—but refused to go out.
⸻
Later that week, Hobie found himself in one of the back maintenance corridors, tinkering with a portable watch charger he’d been modding. The buzzing hum of circuits filled the space—so he didn’t hear Miles come up behind him.
“Hey,” Miles said, suddenly close enough to startle him. “Is this where you hide when you don’t want to go to briefings?”
Hobie didn’t flinch, didn’t look up. “Bold of you to assume I ever go to briefings.”
Miles laughed, dropping to sit cross-legged across from him on the floor. He looked out of place in the sterile metal hall, black suit half-zipped, curls flattened by his mask, cheeks flushed like he’d been sprinting. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Miguel’s looking for you.”
“Miguel’s always lookin’ for someone to yell at,” Hobie said, glancing at him now. “You volunteerin’ to be the messenger boy?”
Miles shrugged. “Figured I’d rather see what you’re working on.”
Hobie narrowed his eyes, impressed despite himself. “You nosey, Morales.”
Miles grinned. “Only a little.”
The two of them sat in companionable silence for a minute. Hobie’s fingers moved over the wires like muscle memory. But he felt the weight of Miles’ eyes on him—curious, not judging.
“You mod everything yourself?” Miles asked.
“Everything worth using,” Hobie muttered. “The Society tech’s fine, but it’s boring. Predictable.”
“I like predictable,” Miles said. “Sometimes.”
“Yeah?” Hobie arched a brow. “You don’t fight like you do.”
Miles shrugged. “I like knowing how things work. Doesn’t mean I wanna follow the blueprint.”
That made Hobie glance up. “Now you’re speakin’ my language.”
He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked this version of Miles — not the one snapping at Miguel, or dodging multiversal threats. Just… a kid with questions. With curiosity. With his sleeves pushed up and that spark in his eyes.
“You ever play guitar?” Hobie asked suddenly.
Miles blinked. “What? No. Why?”
Hobie pulled a battered six-string from behind the toolbox beside him. “C’mere.”
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
Miles hesitated, then scooted forward, letting Hobie hand him the instrument. His fingers were clumsy, unfamiliar.
“No, no,” Hobie said, reaching around him to correct his grip. “You’re holdin’ it like a violin. It’s not delicate. It’s a fight.”
“Oh, I get it. Like fighting with rhythm.”
“Exactly.”
Their hands touched—brief, incidental—but Hobie noticed the warmth. The way Miles didn’t pull away. The way the space between them was shrinking, one chord at a time.
⸻
By the time the anomaly mission kicked off the next day, Hobie found himself stepping closer to Miles without thinking.
It wasn’t just the mission. It was him.
Miles, grinning beneath his mask even when they were surrounded. Miles, asking questions even when no one wanted to hear the answers. Miles, who flinched when people got hurt—but never when someone yelled.
Hobie had learned how to survive by not caring too deeply. Miles had learned by caring more.
It messed with his head.
During the heat of battle, when Miles dove in front of a collapsing support beam to save a bystander, Hobie’s chest tightened.
He swore under his breath and leapt in after him.
They both hit the ground hard—Miles’ arm thrown over the civilian, Hobie bracing the fall with a makeshift shield from his gauntlet.
“You alright?” Hobie asked, breathless.
“Yeah,” Miles said, stunned. “Are you?”
“‘Course.” Hobie stood, pulling him up by the wrist. “Can’t let you go throwin’ yourself into wreckage every time someone’s in trouble.”
Miles looked at him, a little dazed. “Would you rather I didn’t?”
Hobie’s voice went low. “Would rather you didn’t get yourself killed. ‘Specially not today.”
Miles blinked. Then—“What’s special about today?”
Hobie didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, he let go of Miles’ wrist and turned away.
He didn’t know what he’d meant.
Or maybe he did.
And that was the problem.
⸻
They regrouped after the mission in a safe zone just outside the collapsing dimension. Everyone else was bickering over strategy and logistics. Hobie was tuning his guitar.
Miles wandered over again, silent this time. He sat down beside him, close enough their knees touched.
“Thanks,” Miles said quietly. “For earlier.”
Hobie didn’t look at him. “Don’t mention it.”
“I will, though.”
Hobie sighed. “Knew you would.”
Another pause. The quiet hum of strings between them.
“Why do you do it?” Miles asked suddenly. “All this? You don’t seem like the join-a-society type.”
“I ain’t,” Hobie said. “But I reckon I’d rather tear it down from the inside.”
Miles considered that. “You don’t trust anyone?”
“Not really. But you…” Hobie trailed off, catching himself.
Miles leaned in. “Me?”
Hobie glanced at him now, finally. Really looked.
And Miles looked back.
Not in awe. Not in fear. But like he saw him.
Hobie swallowed.
“…you got a decent head on your shoulders. Might be the only one here not totally drunk on power.”
Miles grinned. “That a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
They both laughed. Hobie realized it was the first time in a long while that laughing didn’t feel like pretending.
⸻
That night, Hobie laid back in his portal-bedroom—a half-punked out studio floating in his own dimension. He stared at the ceiling, half-playing a riff he couldn’t finish.
He saw Miles when he closed his eyes.
Not in costume. Not mid-fight.
But grinning, a little breathless, guitar in his lap, sleeve rolled up, eyes bright.
He’d been in the multiverse long enough to know what danger felt like.
But this? This was different.
This wasn’t danger.
This was something worse.
Something better.
Something real.
He plucked a note. Let it ring.
Then whispered to no one: “Bloody hell.”
—
There were a thousand reasons Hobie shouldn’t have gotten attached.
That’s what he told himself, anyway. They were from different worlds—literally. Hobie was all sharp edges, rough noise, protests scrawled in spray paint and worn like a badge. Miles was color and movement and quiet conviction. He was soft-spoken, but never soft. Naïve, but not foolish. Hopeful, even when hope was a longshot.
They weren’t the same. But when Hobie saw Miles, something about him made the noise in his head go still.
Which was infuriating.
⸻
The next few weeks moved in a blur of missions and shifting schedules. Hobie kept telling himself to chill—keep it light, keep it friendly, don’t get stupid—but it got harder every time Miles glanced at him mid-swing or called out to him in that voice, half-teasing and too warm.
“Oi,” Hobie said one day after a team debrief, casually bumping his shoulder against Miles’. “You ever stop makin’ friends wherever you go?”
Miles raised a brow. “I dunno, is that what we are?”
Hobie froze.
Miles grinned at his expression, walking off without giving him time to answer.
“Cheeky little—” Hobie muttered, unable to fight the smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
⸻
He should have known the real trouble was coming.
It happened during a mid-level breach on Earth-472—a glitchy, backwater world with collapsing architecture and a villain that could warp canon threads. The team split up to handle it, but Miles stayed near Hobie the whole time.
At first, it was easy. Natural. They moved well together—like they’d been fighting side-by-side forever. Hobie could call a move, and Miles would follow without question. And Miles knew when to not follow orders too, which Hobie respected more than most things.
But when the villain backed a small group of civilians into a glitching building and the roof cracked, Miles didn’t hesitate.
He went in alone.
“Miles!” Hobie shouted from across the street.
No response. Just the sound of crumbling concrete and a bright flash of red and black.
By the time Hobie got to him, the building was half-down and Miles had shielded the family with his body, electricity sizzling off his web-shooters in erratic pulses.
“You ever think before you jump into disaster zones?” Hobie snapped, kneeling beside him.
Miles groaned, rolling to sit up. “Yeah. I just never listen to myself.”
“You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the bloody point.”
Their eyes locked. Miles’ mask was torn along the cheek. Hobie could see the bruise blooming purple under his eye. He looked like hell. And still, he grinned.
“You worried about me?”
Hobie stared at him.
Too long. Too hard.
“…Of course I am.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense.
It was heavy.
Hobie helped him up. Didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to.
⸻
That night, they both ended up at the Spider Society HQ again, laying low after the chaos. Pavitr and Gwen disappeared to run recon, leaving Hobie and Miles alone on a lower balcony overlooking Nueva York.
Miles had his sketchbook open, legs dangling over the ledge.
Hobie stood behind him, guitar slung low, watching quietly.
“You draw all this from memory?” Hobie asked, leaning down to see.
Miles tilted the page. It was a full spread of the day’s chaos—debris, light fractures, the angle of Hobie’s body standing in front of the collapse.
“I try,” Miles said. “Sometimes I draw stuff so I don’t forget how it felt.”
Hobie’s eyes flicked to the page again.
He hadn’t known Miles had been watching him so closely.
“You ever think about publishing it?” Hobie asked, sitting beside him now.
Miles snorted. “Right. A graphic novel about multiversal anomalies and how I fell on my face trying to save everyone.”
“I’d read it,” Hobie said, honest.
Miles looked at him then, soft and a little surprised. “You mean that?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
Another quiet moment.
Then Miles asked, “Do you ever take people back to your world?”
Hobie blinked. “What, like, for tea?”
“No, I mean—like, your home. Where you live.”
“…Nah. Not really.”
Miles nodded, like he understood. “Yeah, makes sense.”
Hobie watched him for a beat.
Then he said, “Come tomorrow.”
Miles glanced at him. “Wait—seriously?”
“Yeah. You keep starin’ at me like I’m a weird art project. Figure you should see the environment that made me.”
Miles laughed. “You sure?”
“No.” Hobie stood, holding out a hand. “But you’re comin’ anyway.”
⸻
The next day, they dropped through a glitch gate and landed in Hobie’s world.
It was noise and color and grime and rebellion. Giant spray-painted walls. Neon signs half-broken. Train tracks running above the sky like veins. It was alive—breathing through the cracks, pulsing through the paint.
Miles looked around, wide-eyed. “Yo. This is insane.”
Hobie smirked. “Welcome to Camden.”
He took him through alleyways, rooftop shortcuts, and underground spots no portal could chart. They passed buskers playing punk fusion with holograms and anarchist kids protesting outside parliament buildings with spray cans and posters.
Hobie was in his element here—leaning against walls, flipping off surveillance drones, weaving between shadows like he’d been born to bend them.
Miles followed with his hood up and his eyes glowing. And Hobie noticed how easily he fit in—like he was meant to be there.
When they finally stopped, it was at a rooftop overlooking the river, paint peeling from the ledge and cables trailing like ivy down the side of the building.
Hobie sat with his legs out, guitar across his lap. Miles stood at the edge for a moment, just watching.
“Man,” Miles said, “it’s loud, but it feels honest. I like it.”
“That’s the idea,” Hobie muttered. “World’s always tryna tell you what to be. Thought I’d build a space where it couldn’t.”
Miles sat beside him. “You did good.”
Hobie played a low chord. “Don’t say that too loud. Might ruin my image.”
“I already ruined it. You taught me how to play E minor.”
“Oi, don’t tell anyone I’m secretly sentimental.”
Miles grinned. “Secret’s safe.”
⸻
They stayed up until midnight. Talking. Playing. Laughing. Sharing stories of childhood and trauma and the moment they knew they couldn’t be normal.
Hobie told him about the riots. About losing friends. About how music kept him from breaking.
Miles told him about Uncle Aaron. About choosing to stay soft in a world that expected him to harden.
Hobie said, “You’re braver than me.”
Miles said, “You’re wrong.”
Hobie didn’t argue. Because in some ways, Miles was braver.
⸻
At some point, Miles leaned back, arms folded under his head, staring up at the stars above Hobie’s corrupted skyline.
“Y’know,” he said, “if the multiverse was fair, we’d all get to pick the people we stick with.”
Hobie stayed quiet.
Miles continued, voice softer, “Sometimes I think I found mine already. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that yet.”
Hobie looked at him.
“Say it anyway.”
Miles turned his head, met his eyes. “I’m glad I met you, Hobie.”
And that—that was the moment.
Hobie didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pretend not to hear.
He just let the words sit. Let the air shift between them.
Then he whispered, “Yeah. Me too.”
⸻
That night, Hobie didn’t go back to HQ.
He stayed in his world. Laid flat on the roof after Miles left through the portal. The scent of ozone still lingered. His fingers itched to strum something that would match the ache in his chest.
And he finally admitted the thing he’d been dodging for weeks.
He was falling.
Fast.
Hard.
And there was no use fighting gravity.
—
It started with an excuse.
Miles had texted him late one night—just a simple “yo, you up?”—and Hobie, who had in fact been wide awake lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling of his punk-ass bedroom, had stared at the message like it was a trap.
He didn’t reply immediately. That would’ve made it obvious. Instead, he waited a respectable thirteen minutes. Just long enough to pretend he wasn’t waiting for a text from a boy who’d sketched him into three different pages of a multiverse mission log.
Then he sent:
“Always. World don’t sleep. You wanna talk or portal in?”
And Miles?
Miles answered with a picture of his hand already on the watch.
⸻
This time, Hobie didn’t take him anywhere.
Not at first.
He just let him in—like really let him in.
Miles stepped through the glowing rift into Hobie’s flat and blinked at the organized chaos. The place was stacked with mismatched furniture, spray cans, stripped guitars, loose blueprints, resistance posters, vintage tapes, and cables. So many cables.
The floor was concrete. The ceiling was covered in scribbled lyrics and resistance slogans. And in the middle of it all: Hobie, barefoot, wearing old joggers and a sleeveless shirt, standing like he didn’t even notice how soft he looked in the low light.
“You live here?” Miles asked, eyes wide.
Hobie leaned on the doorframe. “Nah, I haunt it.”
Miles snorted and walked in, turning a slow circle to take it all in. “This is so you. Like—exactly you.”
“That a compliment or an insult?”
“Compliment. Definitely.”
“You lookin’ for my tragic backstory? ‘Cause I keep it in the back cupboard with the broken amps.”
Miles grinned. “Nah. Just wanted to see where the revolution sleeps.”
Hobie arched a brow. “I don’t sleep.”
“You don’t eat, you don’t sleep… what do you do?”
Hobie took a step closer. “Right now? You.”
Miles choked on air. “Wait—what—”
“I’m jokin’,” Hobie said with a smirk, brushing past him. “Mostly.”
⸻
They spent the night doing nothing. The kind of nothing that makes time blur and the air feel heavier than it should.
Hobie sat on the floor, tuning one of his old guitars while Miles curled up on the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knees. Every now and then, Miles would ask about something on the wall—an old flyer, a protest photo, a cracked vinyl sleeve. And Hobie would answer, not with the full story, but enough.
Enough to make Miles understand this wasn’t just a room. It was a living thing. A history of a thousand quiet rebellions stitched into every corner.
Eventually, Miles pulled out one of the spare pencils he always carried and tapped it against the paper.
“Can I draw you again?” he asked.
Hobie didn’t even look up. “You’re gonna whether I say yes or no.”
“True,” Miles said, and got to work.
⸻
They ended up on the roof again—late-late this time, when the whole world felt like it had forgotten them.
Miles sat with his legs dangling over the edge, same as before. Hobie stood behind him, fingers twirling a cigarette he wasn’t lighting, just spinning.
“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t Spider-Man?” Miles asked, voice quiet.
Hobie thought for a second.
Then said, “Probably still fight. Still mess things up. Still piss off the right people.”
Miles looked up at him. “So… not that different.”
“Not really.”
“You think we were made for this?”
“Think we made ourselves for it.”
Miles hummed like he was turning that over in his head. “I think I’d still draw. Even if I wasn’t Spider-Man. Even if no one ever saw it.”
“Then it’s who you are.”
“And you? You’d still play?”
Hobie gave him a look. “Mate, I’d play the guitar even if my fingers got chopped off. I’d find a way.”
Miles laughed, tipping his head back. “That’s disgusting and kind of sweet.”
“’S me in a nutshell.”
They fell quiet again. The wind tugged gently at the edges of their clothes. Somewhere below, a train rumbled past.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” Miles asked after a while.
“What?”
“This. Us. Different worlds. Different versions of Spider-Man. Different everything. And somehow we’re sitting here, talking like—like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
Hobie didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped forward and sat beside him.
Their knees bumped.
They didn’t move apart.
Miles turned to look at him, mouth parting slightly like he was going to ask something—but then Hobie looked back at him, and the words disappeared from both of their tongues.
There was a tension between them—tight and electric. The kind that hummed just beneath the skin. Hobie’s heart was pounding, but his voice came out calm.
“Say it.”
Miles blinked. “What?”
“Whatever it is you’re not sayin’. Say it.”
Miles hesitated.
Then, voice low: “I think about you a lot. Like… more than I should.”
Silence.
Hobie stared at him.
Miles kept going. “I know we’re from different worlds. I know we’re supposed to stay focused on the job. I know it doesn’t make sense. But when I’m around you, it’s like—like I see things clearer. You make me feel like I’m not alone in all this.”
Hobie’s throat tightened.
“And when I leave,” Miles continued, softer now, “I miss you. Not just because of the missions. I just… miss you.”
Hobie leaned in without thinking.
Their faces were inches apart now.
“You ever gonna kiss me, Morales?” he whispered.
Miles blinked fast. “Are you asking or daring me?”
“Both.”
Miles’ breath caught. His fingers twitched.
But then—
A sudden alarm from his watch buzzed loud in the air between them.
An emergency ping from the Society.
They both froze.
Miles groaned. “Of course.”
Hobie leaned back, frustrated but not angry. “Multiverse really said ‘not today.’”
Miles stood slowly, brushing off his pants, the moment hanging half-finished in the space they left behind.
“I’ll see you after,” he said.
Hobie gave him a look. “You’d better.”
⸻
Back at HQ, things were tense. A universe was destabilizing, and Miguel was on edge.
Hobie barely registered the briefing. His mind was still on the rooftop. On the way Miles’ eyes had looked in the dark. On the way he’d said I miss you.
They weren’t just teammates anymore.
He knew it now.
⸻
After the mission, Hobie caught Miles in the locker corridor.
Miles had changed back into his usual hoodie and jeans, curls damp from a shower, hands shoved in his pockets like he was still trying to hide something too big to fit.
They didn’t speak for a moment.
Then Hobie asked, “Still thinkin’ about that kiss?”
Miles looked up, surprised—but then he smiled. “Yeah. You?”
“Nonstop.”
Miles stepped closer. “You gonna do something about it?”
Hobie stepped in too, the space between them closing like a heartbeat.
But he didn’t kiss him.
Not yet.
Instead, he leaned down and whispered, “Next time. When the world’s not watchin’. When you’re ready.”
Miles nodded once.
And Hobie walked away before he could do something reckless.
⸻
Later that night, Hobie was back on his rooftop.
Alone.
But not lonely.
He sat with his guitar, fingers slow on the strings, letting the music speak what his mouth couldn’t.
He knew now.
This wasn’t just some fleeting crush. Wasn’t just admiration or tension or lust.
He knew the difference.
He was falling in love with Miles Morales.
And it wasn’t just gravity anymore.
It was choice.
It was momentum.
It was real.
—
The mission should’ve been routine.
Contain an anomaly, stabilize the glitch, evacuate the locals, move on. Easy.
At least, that’s what Miguel said when he sent them in.
But Hobie had learned the hard way not to trust anything that started with the word “routine.”
The moment their boots hit Earth-1629, Hobie knew something was off.
The sky flickered in fractured slices, cutting between twilight and morning with each blink. The buildings jittered between decades—one second glassy and clean, the next covered in ivy and crumbling. The air smelled like static and ash.
“You feel that?” Hobie said, glancing at Miles beside him.
Miles nodded, mask already on. “Yeah. This place is glitching hard.”
Pavitr’s voice crackled through the comms. “Portal’s unstable. I’ll stay near the exit in case we need to evacuate fast.”
“Smart,” Miles said. “Let’s split up—cover more ground.”
Hobie didn’t love it, but he nodded. “Don’t do anything heroic without me.”
“Not making any promises.”
They bumped fists before peeling off.
Hobie told himself not to worry.
He was lying.
⸻
The mission spiraled out fast.
The anomaly—a corrupted version of Spider-Man with too many limbs and a shattered canon—was more powerful than expected. It moved like a glitch itself, jumping through frames, impossible to predict.
Miles was the first to engage. And Hobie was too far when it happened.
He heard the crash before he saw it.
“Miles?” Hobie barked through the comms. “Talk to me.”
Static.
No answer.
He sprinted.
Buildings warped as he ran—stone turning to glass, then fire escapes, then entire walls glitching out of existence.
He found Miles under a pile of half-phased debris, mask torn, blood at his temple, breathing too shallow.
Hobie’s heart stopped.
He dropped to his knees and tore the debris away, panic clawing up his throat.
“Miles—Miles!” he shouted, pulling him out.
Miles stirred, coughing. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not,” Hobie snapped. “You idiot. What were you thinking?”
Miles blinked slowly. “He had a kid. Caught in the blast radius. I had to—”
“You had to nearly die?”
“I had to save him.”
“You think I care about the bloody anomaly’s kid more than you?”
Miles froze at that.
Hobie hadn’t meant to say it.
He didn’t care.
He was shaking. Couldn’t tell if it was fear or adrenaline. His hands were pressed to Miles’ ribs, checking for broken bones even as his brain shouted He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s breathing—
Miles stared at him.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“No,” Hobie said, voice rough. “Not even a little.”
Their foreheads touched, sweat and blood between them.
“Don’t scare me like that,” Hobie breathed.
Miles’ hand found his wrist and gripped it tight. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
“I’m sorry.”
Hobie exhaled slowly. “Don’t be sorry. Be careful. I can’t lose you.”
Miles looked at him, really looked.
And that’s when Hobie knew—he couldn’t pretend anymore.
⸻
They got out.
Barely.
Pavitr stabilized the portal long enough to drag them through, and the anomaly was locked in containment.
Miguel praised the mission in dry tones.
Hobie ignored all of it.
He carried Miles to medical himself.
Sat beside the cot, arms crossed, bouncing his knee, until the med-bot confirmed no internal bleeding.
Then he waited until the room was empty.
Miles lay there, eyes half-open, sluggish from the painkillers, but awake.
“You didn’t leave,” Miles mumbled.
“Would’ve taken a forklift to move me.”
Miles smiled, slow and dazed. “You like me that much?”
Hobie didn’t smile back.
“Miles,” he said, voice low. “Look at me.”
Miles blinked up at him.
And Hobie said, “I’m in love with you.”
Just like that.
No preamble. No dramatics.
Just the truth.
Miles’ breath caught.
Hobie continued, softer now. “I’ve been tryin’ not to say it. Thought I was being smart. Thought I could keep it clean. But today—watchin’ you under that rubble—”
He swallowed.
“I’ve lost too many people. I can’t lose you too.”
Miles reached up, hand brushing Hobie’s jaw. “You’re not gonna lose me.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”
Silence bloomed between them.
And then—
“You love me?” Miles whispered, like he was scared to believe it.
Hobie nodded once.
Miles smiled again. Different this time. Wide and slow and sure.
“Good,” he said. “’Cause I love you too.”
Hobie didn’t breathe.
Then—“Say it again.”
Miles tugged him closer, fingers curling in Hobie’s hoodie.
“I love you,” he whispered against his cheek.
Hobie kissed him.
Not hard. Not rough.
But like a knot unspooling.
Like something that had been waiting a long time to be said in a language without words.
⸻
They stayed like that for a while.
The machines beeped gently. The light dimmed.
Miles fell asleep with his hand in Hobie’s.
And Hobie sat there, still and silent, feeling the beat of something new in his chest.
A rhythm he couldn’t ignore anymore.
A glitch in his system.
A heartbeat not entirely his own.
—
After that night, nothing between them returned to what it was.
Not because it had changed too much—but because it had finally made sense.
They stopped dancing around it. Stopped hiding behind tension and teasing. The current that had always run between them finally had a name.
Love.
Hobie Brown was in love with Miles Morales.
And Miles was in love with him too.
It should have been terrifying. Two spider-people, from different dimensions, breaking every unspoken rule of the multiverse. But Hobie had never been good at following rules, and Miles had never been afraid to rewrite them.
They didn’t label it. They didn’t rush.
But they knew.
And so they built something—quietly, carefully, like threading a needle between timelines.
⸻
Hobie noticed the small changes first.
Miles always sat closer now. Shoulders brushing. Thighs pressing.
He’d reach for Hobie’s hand when no one was watching, thumbs brushing knuckles in absentminded patterns.
He left drawings around Hobie’s flat—half-finished sketches on napkins or scraps of paper, all of them intimate: the curve of Hobie’s jaw mid-laugh, the crinkle in his eyes when he smirked, his hands mid-chord.
And Hobie, in turn, started writing songs he never shared with anyone.
Until one night, he played one for Miles.
No lyrics. Just melody.
And when it ended, Miles was staring at him with wide, stunned eyes.
“You wrote that?”
“Yeah.”
“For me?”
“Yeah.”
Miles reached forward and kissed him like it was the only answer that mattered.
⸻
Their lives didn’t get easier.
The multiverse didn’t slow down. Anomalies didn’t stop. Miguel didn’t magically approve.
But they had each other now.
And that changed everything.
They started working more missions together, without needing to ask.
They moved in tandem—unspoken signals, shared instincts, rhythm in every step.
During one mission on a collapsing timeline, Hobie swung under Miles just in time to catch a falling building with a reinforced webline.
“You good?” he shouted.
Miles shouted back, “Better when you’re here!”
And Hobie, grinning wildly through the chaos, shouted, “Yeah, yeah, admit it—you need me!”
Later, when they were alone, Miles nudged him and said, “I don’t need you. I choose you.”
That shut Hobie up for a good two minutes.
⸻
One night, they landed on a rooftop in Hobie’s world after a long mission.
The sun was setting, bleeding orange across the sky. Music drifted up from the streets—some local band playing too loud and not on key.
Miles was barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, curls flattened from his mask.
Hobie stood beside him, arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder.
“You ever think about the future?” Miles asked quietly.
“All the time.”
“Scary, huh?”
“Terrifyin’.”
Miles leaned back into him. “Still wanna do it with me?”
Hobie didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. If it’s with you, I’ll risk it.”
Miles turned in his arms, smile crooked and soft. “You mean that?”
“I never say what I don’t mean.”
“Good,” Miles said, and reached up to kiss him.
This time, they didn’t pull away.
⸻
Back at HQ, the other Spiders started noticing.
Pavitr was the first to say it out loud.
“You two are so obvious, it’s kind of embarrassing.”
“Jealous?” Hobie asked.
“Deeply,” Pav said, sighing.
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Just don’t start making out mid-mission, please. I beg.”
“We make good distractions,” Miles said, grinning.
“Too good,” Gwen muttered.
Even Miguel eventually said something—just a short, dry: “Keep your personal lives off the field.”
To which Hobie replied: “Can’t promise anything, bossman.”
⸻
They didn’t need anyone’s approval.
But it was nice to have it.
It made the world feel a little less heavy.
⸻
The final confirmation—the thing that truly sealed it for Hobie—came quietly.
It was late. They were back at his flat. The rain drummed gently on the roof.
Miles was asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, mouth parted slightly.
Hobie sat across the room, guitar on his lap, watching him.
And it hit him.
Not like a jolt. Not like a crash.
Like a sunrise.
Slow and inevitable and warm.
He loved him.
Deeply. Fully.
And he didn’t need a dramatic moment to prove it.
This—right here—was enough.
The quiet. The closeness. The knowing.
⸻
Still, he wanted to say it. One more time. Without fear. Without pretense.
So he walked over, crouched beside the couch, and brushed a hand against Miles’ cheek.
Miles stirred, eyes fluttering open.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” Hobie whispered back.
“I fall asleep again?”
“Yeah. ‘S fine.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
Then Hobie said, simply, “I love you.”
Miles blinked.
Then smiled.
“I know,” he whispered.
Hobie smirked. “You cheeky little—”
“I love you too,” Miles interrupted, pulling him down, “so shut up and kiss me.”
And Hobie did.
⸻
They were from different worlds.
Different stories. Different scars.
But they chose each other.
Again and again.
Across every rooftop. Every fight. Every glitch.
Hobie Brown fell in love with Miles Morales not all at once—but through moments.
Through sparks and silence.
Through laughter and wreckage.
Through the way Miles looked at him like he saw straight through the noise—and never once turned away.
And when Hobie finally let himself jump?
He didn’t fall alone.
Miles caught him.
And held on.
—————
The rain patters soft against the windows, a low rhythm like the city breathing.
Hobie’s in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, loose flannel pants hanging low on his hips as he leans over the kettle, waiting for it to boil. His piercings catch the warm light spilling from the stove hood. There’s a gentle hum vibrating in his throat — some old riff he hasn’t finished.
Behind him, the floor creaks.
He doesn’t turn. Just says, “Mornin’, sunshine.”
Miles yawns behind him. “You’re too awake.”
“I’ve been up for an hour.”
Miles wraps his arms around Hobie from behind, pressing his face between his shoulder blades. “Ew.”
Hobie laughs, and the sound rumbles low and real.
“Coffee or tea?” he asks.
Miles mumbles, “Surprise me.”
Hobie sets out two mismatched mugs—one with a chipped rim that Miles swore he’d throw out a year ago (but never did), the other with a hand-painted spider logo Miles made on a dare.
Steam curls. Light spills through cracked blinds. The city outside is blurred and soft, muted by the rain.
When Hobie turns, Miles is leaning against the counter now, hair short and neat, a faded spider-logo hoodie hanging loose around his frame.
He looks tired in that grown-up way. The kind of tired that comes from doing good work for a long time.
Hobie hands him a mug.
Miles sips. Then smiles. “Tea?”
“Surprise,” Hobie says, mock-cheerful.
They stand in the kitchen, drinking in silence. The kind of silence that means everything’s okay.