Hobie falls through the portal, landing on Miles' bedroom floor. Wait, no. Ceiling. Definitely the ceiling. Or maybe Miles listens to music upside-down on the ceiling. Whatever's holding his bed up there must be strong.
He releases his hold, and falls directly onto Miles' bed, his head colliding with the younger boy's shins, ass falling off the edge and dragging the rest of him downwards to the floor. "Fuck," he says, leaning against the bed. He wasn't expecting to make a super cool entrance, but something more impressive - or at least dignified - than that would have been nice.
"What are you doing here?" Miles asks, having tugged off his headphones. He's sat up, looking down at Hobie where the punk is sat on the floor, rubbing his head.
"Wanted to visit. Gwen gave me the coordinates." He holds up his wrist, showing off the mismatched watch, still displaying EARTH-1610 as the destination.
"So you snuck into my room?" Miles sits up, angrier than Hobie would have liked. "What if I had been at Visions?"
"I went there first, love," Hobie says, putting his hands up. "Your roommate's wearing your Jordans again, by the way."
"Ganke-" Miles starts, then remembers the Spider-Man in the room. "You couldn't have, oh I don't know, met me outside or something?"
"What did you want me to do, throw pebbles at your window or something?" Hobie plants his feet underneath him, combat boots leaving muddy streaks on Miles' bedroom floor. Oops. He'll clean that up later.
"I don't know," Miles says.
"We're not a fucking rom-com, love," Hobie winks as he climbs up backwards onto the bed, sitting just beyond Miles' feet.
"Why are you here?" Miles tucks his feet underneath his legs, criss-crossing them. Cute as any bird his friends have ever pointed him at back home.
"Told you. Wanted to visit." Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Hobie starts to pick his fingers. A bad habit, he knows, but it's better than smoking indoors. And it keeps him from staring at Miles for too long. "What're you listening to?"
"Invincible," Miles says. "Aminé," he adds, before Hobie can ask who wrote it.
"Never heard of it," he says, leaning back. He sprawls over the foot of Miles' bed, looking around. This kid had a good childhood, it looks like. Knickknacks everywhere. Homey.
"Right, you're not into music with melodies and stuff."
"People say that about hip-hop and rap, you know. You've never even listened to punk, I bet."
"You don't listen to hip-hop," the shorter boy says, and it's true. He doesn't. But instead of giving Miles the satisfaction of being right, he leans back, folding his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He could get used to this.
It's at that moment that Miles' mother pushes the door open. Hobie's halfway out the window before he realizes leaving will make it worse to explain. There isn't even a fire escape. How would Miles explain that? Ms Morales will think he's a drug dealer, or suicidal, or something. No, he'd better stay.
"Hello," she says, and Hobie climbs back in, hands folded politely behind his back. It's time to make a good impression.
"Hello, Ms Morales," he replies, and she immediately brightens up.
"British?" she says, judgemental, then shakes her head. Smiles. "You must be friends with Miles."
"I'd say we're pretty close, yeah," he nods.
"Mijo, why do none of your friends ever come in through the door?"
"I dunno," Miles shrugs, still glaring at Hobie. He's cute when he's mad.
"Wanted to see if I could, right, love?" Hobie says, and somehow that explanation's enough.
"Like that girl Gwanda?"
"Exactly," he nods, and doesn't dare make eye contact with Miles this time. Gwanda? Really?
"Forgive my manners. Welcome. I assume Miles hasn't offered you anything to eat or drink?"
"I would've, Mamá, but he only just got here." Goddamn, Miles is endearing when he's being a good son.
"I don't even know your name!" She turns a bit to glare at Miles, keeping Hobie in her peripheral vision.
"Hobie," he holds his hand out to shake. Time for a big grin. Charm her.
"Nice to meet you." She turns to face him again and shakes it. "I'll get some snacks ready. Miles, you're being a bad host. Give him a tour."
Hobie watches as she closes the door behind her, leaving it two inches open. He turns to Miles, slowly, a different, more rebellious grin spreading across his face. What to start with?
"You called her Ms Morales?" Miles asks. Oh, he's starting. Fair enough. It is his house.
"You never told me her name!"
"But Ms? What happened to hating authority?" Despite the instructions from his mother, he doesn't get up. Just sits there, still frustrated at Hobie's intrusion. If he could just be happy to see Hobie, like he was to see Gwen, that would make this visit so much more fun.
"Parents don't count. Children are a fucking nightmare. And I love it when a spider-person has loving parents," Hobie explains, putting his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket.
"Doesn't happen as often as you'd hope."
"I'm sorry," Miles says, sensing what Hobie isn't saying. There's silence for a moment, before Hobie realizes he ought to be filling it instead of watching the way Miles tugs at his sleeves when he's uncomfortable.
"Gwanda," Hobie says, and doesn't add anything, just lets the name hang in the air. Smirks a bit as he flexes his hand inside his pockets. Watches Miles try to formulate what he wants to say. He's awful adorable when he's thinking.
"She's the one who came up with it, actually."
"Oh my god. I need to make so much fun of her for that. Gwanda. It's beautiful."
Hobie pulls his hands from his pockets and crouches to take off his combat boots. He can't keep his filthy boots on if he's going to be climbing all over Miles' room.
The sound of Miles' mother's voice, and a man's voice - Miles' father, probably - are faintly audible from somewhere in the rest of the house. Kitchen, if Hobie had to guess.
"I like this guy much better than that Gwanda girl," Miles' mum is saying. "He called me Ms Morales."
"Wow," Hobie whistles softly. "Your mum really does like being called Ms Morales."
"Snuck in his window? Dressed like some sort of hoodlum?" Miles' da. "Sounds like trouble. What'd he say when you asked if they were friends?"
"He said they're pretty close." Oh, perfect. She's taken on that universal mum tone that means she thinks her child's gotten into some romantic endeavour. Lovely. If only she were right.
"He seemed too polite to be selling, anyway."
"I don't believe Miles would be buying drugs. I definitely don't believe he's stupid enough to get them delivered to his bedroom." Really? After Hobie made the effort to climb back in, even though he was almost out the window? Give him a little more credit than that. "It's been a while since we've heard about Gwanda," Miles' da adds. Apparently he's coming to the same conclusion as his wife. Lovely. "You think they broke up?" This is just one not-quite-true romantic assumption after another.
"I think this might be related to what Miles was trying to tell us," she replies. "I think he and Hobie are more than just friends." Footsteps. Her voice is coming closer to the bedroom door, still two inches open.
Hobie looks at Miles, who looks like he might implode with embarrassment. How does he manage to look good with every facial expression? Hobie whispers, "I'm gonna mess with them," and crosses the room to sit beside Miles on the bed, leaning his whole torso on him. Maybe it's not entirely to mess with Miles' parents, but he's enough of a contrarian little shit that it's a plausible excuse.
"Knock knock," Miles' da says, and Hobie springs upright, crossing his legs, making the situation that much more suspicious. He can have fun with this. "We've got food."
"Thank you so much, Ms Morales. Mr Morales," Hobie says, stretching across Miles to grab a tray full of snacks from Mr Morales. His elbow bumps into Miles' nose, but there's no time to apologize. He's too busy making this boy's parents love him.
"Our pleasure," Miles' da is absolutely beaming. How bad are Miles' usual friends, if a little honorific is enough to get him this happy?
"Miles, remember to give Hobie a tour," Ms Morales says, pushing her husband aside to stand fully in Miles' room. "Be a good host. I've trained you better than this."
"He just got here, Mamá," Miles protests. "I will. Just give me time."
Hobie puts the tray of snacks on his lap. Potato chips. Sorullos, still hot. Two glasses of water. Two apples. It's been a while since he's had fresh fruit. He leans back, stretching before slinging his right arm casually over Miles' shoulder, grabbing an apple with the other. Smiles at Ms Morales and takes a bite of the apple, as if he's not practically lying on top of her son. As if the warmth of Miles' body under his arm, even through four layers of clothing, isn't making his heart beat just a little bit faster.
"You boys have fun." Mr Morales nods solemnly before leaving. He's clearly got no idea how to act in this situation. Ms Morales stays in the room for a few more awkward moments.
"Safety first, remember," she says, still smiling with that Proud New Mother-in-Law expression. Miles must be blushing really hard right now, because she adds, "Don't jump out the window. Leave through the door, please."
The door is returned to its position of two inches from its frame, and Miles rolls off his bed, out from under Hobie.
Hobie leans over to look at the younger boy over the edge of the bed. "What're you doing down there? I was having a robin hood time."
"What are you doing?" Miles asks, deadly quiet, the frustration that's been simmering in him finally boiling over. "You sneak into my room, somehow make my parents absolutely love you, and then for some crazy reason you make them think we're dating."
"I'm sorry," he replies, just as quietly, swallowing a bite of apple. He adjusts the way he's sitting so that he can lay on his stomach on Miles' bed and comfortably make eye contact with the boy on the floor, still eating his apple. God, he misses apples. Delicious. Eve was right to leave Eden for this.
"You don't seem very sorry."
"I like to stir the shit. If you want me to go clear things up with them, I can do that." He grips the apple in his mouth, pushing himself upright. Takes the apple from his mouth so he can talk. "I can't be the first mischievous little shit they've encountered. It can't be too surprising. And then they can go back to hating Gwen for stealing you from right under their noses."
Goddamn, he hopes he kept the disappointment out of his voice. If Miles doesn't want to fake date, that's well within his rights. They can be regular friends. They can.
"I don't even know," Miles says, combing his hands through his hair. "Why did you have to come visit me right now? I would have been so much more prepared for this if you'd just given me a little more time." Time for what?
"Oh, you know how it is," Hobie smiles. "I need funds, I need drugs, I need guns, I need love." Now he's gone and done it again. Gwen would be so disappointed in him. He can imagine her right now, cursing at him to have a genuinely emotional moment instead of hiding behind someone else's words.
"Pardon?" Miles asks.
"I wanted to have a dicky bird with you."
"What?"
Right. Cockney slang didn't make it to Manhattan in this universe. "I just wanted to talk to you. We're friends, aren't we?"
"Yes. I think. I don't know."
"We've both told you already, but in case I need to repeat it, there's nothing going on between me and Gwen. We're just friends. You can stop resenting me for giving her a place to stay when her da kicked her out." Oh, that's much harsher than he meant to be. It's the truth, but he's trying to get Miles to like him, not hate him. Goddamnit.
"At this point, I don't care if there's anything going on between the two of you. If there were, it would make it easier." Miles is rubbing his forehead with both hands. If only he could do that without hiding his pretty face.
No. This isn't the time. "Am I the person to talk to about it?"
"I don't really have a choice at this point, do I?" Miles asks.
"You've always got a choice. I can mind my own business."
"I can't choose between you and Gwen." Does this mean what Hobie hopes it means? Better not to assume.
"Then don't. Have your cake and eat it too."
"I don't think that's an option, in this case."
"You can always have two cakes," Hobie says, rolling off the bed to sit on the floor beside Miles. "Why choose?"
"Because that's just cheating with extra steps, isn't it?" Miles asks, hands falling so he can look at Hobie, as if he knows the answers to everything. He doesn't know the answers to everything, but he does know the answer to this.
"Non-monogamy can be ethical," Hobie says. He doesn't dare lean his head on Miles' shoulder. "Pavitr's dating Gayatri, but we screw around sometimes. It's all okay because she knows we've got a different deal from what she and Pavitr are doing."
"What?" Miles asks. And he's cute when he's confused, too, eyebrows knitted above those beautiful grey-brown eyes. "You're dating Pav?"
"Not dating, really. Friends with benefits. Some of those benefits are more romantic, some of them are more sexual. Relationships don't need labels, love." He needs to stop himself before he starts one of his tirades about how labels should be used to build communities, but they're just being used to emphasize differences. Gwen's told him to stop being so upset about it, that it doesn't matter as long as the people are happy with the label.
"That's an option?" Miles asks.
"Everything's an option. You've just got to remember people don't know about all of them."
"So you're saying I can date multiple people, and as long as both of them have talked about it and are okay with it, it's not cheating?"
"Cheating's a betrayal. If everyone's agreed to it, it's not a betrayal. Free love and all that, right, love?" This is the point at which Hobie wants to lean over and kiss the other boy so hard he forgets what universe he's in. But that's not what Miles needs right now.
"What did you say it was called?" Miles asks, before remembering who he's talking to. "Sorry. You hate labels. I'll google it, or something."
"Polyamory," Hobie says, still so quiet he can hear Miles' parents hit the buttons on the remote to turn on the television. "That's the noun. Polyamorous is the adjective. A polycule is a polyamorous relationship. It can be any shape."
"Polyamorous. Polyamorous." Miles tests the feel of the word in his mouth. He returns, finally, to regular volume. "I should give you a tour before my mom comes back to tell me off again."
"Your house is beautiful," Hobie says, trailing two steps behind Miles as they walk through the hallway.
"This is the bathroom," Miles says, pushing its door open. It's clear the Moraleses take tidiness seriously - a little bowl of potpurri sits on the tank of the toilet. Even the little tray they keep the soap on is clean. It's all so neat and pristine and well-cared for, it makes Hobie a little bit jealous.
"My parents' room," Miles doesn't open the door. Hobie wipes apple juice on his pants, lifts his hand to trail his fingers along the wall as they walk along.
"I mean it," Hobie says as Miles leads him to the kitchen. "You can tell there's a family living here. A real family." He stops to look at a picture of a grinning baby he's assuming is Miles, held tightly by a younger Ms Morales, the Hudson River visible in the background.
"This is the shelf where we keep our plates."
"Hello, boys," Ms Morales says from the couch in the living room. She seems very happy to finally like one of her son's friends. He should bring Pavitr here. Everyone loves Pavitr. "Miles, haven't I taught you how to give a proper tour? Don't bore him."
"Miles could never bore me," Hobie says before he can stop himself. Whoops. Predictably, Miles turns to glare at Hobie. But that's not frustration tugging the corners of his mouth up.
"How'd you two meet, Hobie?" Mr Morales asks, and Hobie startles a little. He hadn't even seen him there, sitting right beside Ms Morales.
"Gwanda introduced us," he says. "She's my drummer."
"You're in a band?" Mr Morales asks.
"We don't do much in terms of making music, but we have fun," Hobie nods. He looks around, wondering where to put his apple core. Rather than ask, he decides to put it in his pocket. Rick'll be able to plant an apple tree at home, maybe.
"What kind of music?" Mr Morales must be desperate for a conversation topic, because, well, just look at him. From the ends of his wicks to the soles of his combat boots, Hobie's a punk boy. Well, his combat boots are still beside Miles' bed, but it's still obvious.
"Punk. Grime. You know. Nothing with melodies and stuff." Miles makes another face at him, and this one's definitely not frustration. Much more teasing. This is good.
"As long as you're having fun," Mr Morales says. That's one way to put it. The best show Hobie ever played was the time he chopped Norman Osbourne's head off with his guitar. It didn't take, but it was still fantastic.
"Oh, we have fun," Hobie smiles.
"Where do you go to school?" Ms Morales asks.
"Bronx Collaborative," Miles says, before Hobie can tell her he doesn't go to school, because schools were one of the first things to go down the drain when Osbourne took power.
"Do you know Brendon?" Ms Morales asks. "Brendon Kolak? He goes there. I'm friends with his aunt."
"He's here to visit me, not hear about your friends' nephews. Stop interrogating him," Miles says, grabbing Hobie's arm to drag him back into the bedroom. Damn, his attitude has taken a turn. Their conversation about polyamory must really have helped.
"Remember to leave through the door," Mr Morales calls after them. "And Miles! Two inches."
"Why the big about face, Miles? Thought you wanted me gone," Hobie asks. Should he take his arm out of Miles' grip? Probably. But he doesn't want to.
"Can I kiss you?"
"Yeah, I guess, but we should ta-"
Miles cuts him off, stretching his arm up to pull Hobie's head down so he can press their lips together. As nice as it is, Hobie has to shake the shorter boy off, because they really do need to talk first.
"We should talk first," Hobie says again, quietly but more assertive this time. "And I need to talk to Pavitr, and Rick, and you should talk to Gwen. You can't rush into things like this. Relationships shouldn't hurt people." He bends over slightly to grab a sorullo from the tray on the bed, not quite as hot anymore. Bites into it slowly, savouring the taste of fried cheese. He should cook more often.
"But you're right here, and they're not," Miles protests, not quite as quiet as earlier, but quiet enough that his parents probably can't hear. "We can be like you and Pavitr. Friends with benefits. And the benefits are kissing."
"We can, and I'd love that, but first you need to make sure you actually want this, not just the idea of it. You're young. I don't want you to commit to a daydream. And talk to Gwen." Hobie sits on the bed, and takes another. No sense in letting Ms Morales' snacks go to waste.
"Are you rejecting me?" Miles asks. "You can just say you're not interested in me like this. I'm not that young."
"If you're serious about wanting to be with Gwen and I, you need to talk to her. I won't reciprocate anything until you talk to her." Miles' lips look so soft from here, pursed yet again in frustration. But he needs to push Miles away right now so he can hold him closely someday, guilt-free.
"I don't get you," Miles says, sitting beside him on the bed. "Why pretend we're dating if you don't want to act on it?"
"Pretending to date is a very different thing from actually dating," Hobie says, leaning down to reach for his combat boots. Oh, right. There's that muddy streak he meant to clean up. "You got a rag?"
"Are you leaving?" Miles asks, passing him a box of tissues.
Hobie wipes up the mud, spitting on the tissue and scrubbing extra hard to make sure it's all gone. "I think I've overstayed my welcome, haven't I?"
"When are you coming back?" Miles doesn't argue, and that hurts almost as much as having to let him down. If everyone were here to talk through things and state their boundaries, Hobie would already have his shirt off. But they're not, so he can't be kissing Miles.
"When Gwen tells me you've talked to her," Hobie shoves the muddy tissues in his pocket, beside the apple core. Tucks his boots under his arm so he doesn't track mud through the rest of the house. "There might be mud on the ceiling. Sorry, love."
He opens the door wide enough to leave, not turning back when Miles says goodbye.
"Have a fight, or something?" Mr Morales asks, and Ms Morales slaps him gently on the side of the head. "Sorry. It was nice to meet you, Hobie."
"You too, Mr Morales. Ms Morales." He waves before crouching to lace up his boots.
"That blue lace mean anything, boy?" Mr Morales asks, having gotten up to give him a proper goodbye. Shit. Hobie was hoping to get in and out without having to face the cop side of Miles' da.
"I like the colour blue," Hobie lies. He can tell Mr Morales thinks he knows what it means, but without proof he can't be mad. He's glad he remembered to take his ACAB pin off his jacket before visiting. "Why, sir? Does it mean something to you?"
That usually smooths things over with cop fathers. It worked with Gwen's da. "Don't worry about it."
Thank god. "Thank you again, Ms Morales. The sorullos were delicious."
"Come again soon," she says, holding her arms out for a hug. Hobie's never been one to pass up a hug, so he hugs back. She gives great hugs. Miles is lucky.
Hobie leaves through the front door, making sure to wave from the sidewalk, in case Mr and Ms Morales are watching him leave. He turns into the first alleyway he sees before hitting the button on his watch to go back home.
He should really learn Miles' parents' names.