Running From Daylight

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/47913388.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Spider-Man: Spider-Verse (Sony Animated Movies)
Relationship: Hobie Brown/Miles Morales
Character: Hobie Brown, Miles Morales, Rio Morales, Jefferson Morales (Earth-
1610), Gwen Stacy | Spider-Gwen, Pavitr Prabhakar, mentioned -
Character
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Modern
Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Strangers to Lovers,
Fluff, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Late Night Conversations,
hobie is a photographer, miles is an art student, Meet-Cute, Attempt at
Humor, Humor, Unlabeled Hobie Brown, very fashionable hobie brown,
Good Friend Hobie Brown, miles speaks spanish, Insomnia, Mental
Health Issues
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-06-16 Completed: 2023-06-25 Words: 18,280
Chapters: 3/3

Running From Daylight

by untent

Summary

Only the stars know what actually happened every friday night.

Looking back Miles decides it should stay that way.

 spotted a very fashionable idiot
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—----
Wednesday

Miles stays in the car for a moment, knowing that the second he steps out of this car, the next
chapter of his life will start. He feels his mother’s eyes on him; a warmth comes with her soft stare.
Miles exhales heavily and looks out the window at the massive campus of the college. He feels his
breath get shallow, looking at the intimating size. The anxious weight is somewhat lifted from his
chest once his mother’s hand gently touches his shoulder.

“mijo, ¿estás listo?” She whispers softly; Miles nods with another sigh. He didn’t know why he
was having so much trouble with this. It’s not like he will never see his parents again; hell, he was
only a few hours away. Maybe the idea of being alone was the problem, but that isn’t true. Most of
his time in high school was at Brooklyn Visions, and he tended to stay in the dorm. Whatever the
reason, it was causing a pit to form in Miles’ stomach. He opens the door to the car pulling his
headphones down so they hang around his neck. He shuts the passenger door with a thud,
following his mother down the sidewalk and up to the primary office door. The college was
massive; the campus had a small, 24/7 train system going to and from the dorms and the main
campus every 10 minutes. As they reach the door, Miles glances at the courtyard surrounded by
the circular-shaped main building. The yard was one of Mile’s favorite areas he visited a year ago;
the ground was covered with a giant mural of two dragons circling each other in the sky. It was
also in a beautiful art style, a mix of modern street graffiti with a surprisingly gorgeous watercolor
vibe. It was a school project, and everyone had the opportunity of putting in their own input on
what would cover the courtyard. Miles wishes he could’ve been a part of it, but it had happened
before he was born- it is still amazing how well they have preserved it.

The mural was then surrounded by a colosseum-inspired sitting area; each level had its own work
of art done by a class of that year. And the sitting area was surrounded by a circle of trees, all
different kinds, which were clearly well taken care of. The trees had hundreds of vines falling from
their branches, with flowers growing freely across each vine. The courtyard was filled with
students sitting on swings on the glass or the stairs. Miles couldn’t wait to draw it.

He tears his eyes away from the jewel of the school and back towards the office door and the task
at hand. He jogs up to hold the door open for his mother.

She smiles and places a hand on her chest. “que caballero,” Her smile has always been contagious;
he finally smiles for the first time since they got there. She moves her hands to her hips, raises her
chin slightly, and looks victorious. Miles snorts and follows her inside; the outside is undoubtedly
his favorite part, but the inside does not fall behind. Beautiful glass art hangs from the ceiling, the
colors complement each other, and the hundreds of paintings on the walls pull it together. They
make it to the front desk, and Rio greets the lady behind the desk. She has a darker complexion,
with a beautiful halo of dark curls surrounding her face. The lady glances up at Rio and stops
typing. She smiles at them from behind her desk and claps her hands together.

“Hello, welcome to campus. Are you here for a visit?” A gentle smile settles across her face as she
waits for an answer.

“No, not today; this is my son, Miles; he is a new student and moving in today.” Rio’s words are
spoken quickly with maybe too much excitement. She places one hand on the desk and one on
Miles’ back, the lady behind the desk’s smile widens, and she stands, reaching out a hand to Miles.

“Well, it is excellent to see you; my name is Jessica Drew. Let’s get you set up and ready to go,”
Miles shakes her hand, his mother following suit. The clicking of the keyboard echoes through the
front office.

“Let’s see, Morales, is your last name correct?” Miles confirms with a yes. She pulls up his file and
scrolls through, searching for something.

“Okay, so you are in hall Reche. Does that sound correct?”

“Yes, it,” Miles responds, leaning over the desk to peek at the screen.

“Amazing choice, by the way; I always loved that hall.” She sighs, a genuine look of pride in her
eyes.

“Yea, I really liked the decks, and- oh, the view is pretty sweet too, so honestly, a win-win to me,”
Miles rambles about his choice of the hall; Jessica only chuckles and turns her chair to roll over to
the printer. While the printer hums to life, she opens a filing cabinet and rummages through the
papers. She turns back to the Morales’ holding a card and some forms.

“I’ll have you sign here and here-” She points to the bottom of both papers, “here is your key and a
map just in case.” The Morales duo thank her, and Miles quickly signs the form. He had to pull his
mother out of the building when she found out Jessica was 8 months pregnant, and she just HAD to
know every detail.

“Awww, mijo! You must listen to how she met her husband; it’s the sweetest story!” Rio exclaims,
much to Miles’ dismay; she grabs at his shoulder seemed to hold herself up while she aws at the
story.

“Mamá, you’re actin’ like I haven’t been standing here the whole time-” Miles grabs his mother’s
arm, pulling her towards the door, “Now come on, we are losing daylight!” Miles hisses with no
venom to it. Jessica waves them off and retakes her seat, the room once again filled with the
clicking of a keyboard.

Miles exhales heavily once he finally makes it outside; his mother whips fake tears from her eyes
while complaining about how cruel he is to her. Miles rolls his eyes and gestures for her to help
him. They stopped back at the car and unloaded his few suitcases; luckily, the dorms were all
furnished already, so he didn’t need to bring too much. Rio takes the two smaller ones, and Miles is
stuck with two bigger ones. Ignoring this apparent so-called revenge, he follows her to the train
stop.

The train stop is also covered with tasteful artwork; Miles glances up at a screen displaying the
next train’s arrival. 3 minutes. Missed it by 7 minutes, huh? I wonder what those extra 7 minutes
were used for... Miles thinks; he side-eyes his mom with no spite; she notices his side-eye and rolls
her eyes, flicking him in the forehead.

“OW, what the hell, Mom!” She seems to forget the side eye; crossing her arms, she gives him a
knowing look, “Oh come on, mamá, I’m 18 now. I think I can say hell without getting a glare from
you,” She shakes her head, and with a shaky exhale, she stares up at her son.

“You’re right, it’s just hard cause you will always be my little boy, and it’s just hard to imagine
how fast you’ve grown,” Miles’ face softens at her sudden shift in demeanor. He mutters softly in
Spanish, ‘I love you’ his moms’ bottom lip quivers slightly, and she pulls him into a hug. Her son
returns the hug and kisses her cheek. The moment ends when Rio lets go; she whips away real tears
this time and walks over to the entrance. Miles stands there momentarily before quickly following
her; he notices the locked gates, and his eyes wander to the side where a scanner is nailed to the
metal support pole. He holds his card against it, and it opens with a quiet beep. They both enter.

Just as they do, they hear a distant whistle and rush to the platform’s edge. The train comes to a
slow stop once it reaches the platform; a loud whistle is set off, announcing its arrival to the
waiting students. The doors open with a sharp snap, and the Morales wait a moment for the few
students on the train to get off and out of the walkway. The train was very well cleaned for how
often it is used; its green and white floor and walls seem to shine a little against the setting sun.
They take their seats, and the train sounds another whistle announcing its departure. Miles glances
out the window at the platform. A blur of color sprints across the platform and towards the train.
They’re not gonna make it was his first thought, and his second thought was,holy shit, what an
idiot cause the blur of color does make it to the train, barely, the person can jump through the
closing doors and immediately falls against the wall next to the doors. Their breath came out in
heavy gasps. After a minute, they pushed themselves up from the wall and flopped into a chair.

Miles looks away quickly but glances at them again, only more discreetly this time. The blurry
idiot is a guy around Miles’ age and tall as fuck. But the height wasn’t the most notable thing about
him; it was his hair; it was in wicks. Miles has never tried wick dreads, specifically because of their
needed maintenance. But this guy had beautiful hair and was clearly well taken care of. Miles took
note of his outfit, jeans littered with patches, a leather jacket with pins and studs. That was all
Miles could look at before the guy caught his eye. The annoying cool idiot waves a hand in Miles’
line of vision, breaking Miles’ concentration; realizing he had been caught staring, Miles drops his
eyes to the floor in front of him. He glances back up at the other, and the idiot is waiting for him
this time; Miles holds his glaze this time- wait, did he just wink at him. Miles feels heat crawl up
his neck and end at his ears. He looks away and, this time, doesn’t try to look back.

The rest of the train ride felt like hours, and the occasional looks from the fashionable idiot weren’t
helping Miles’ raging emotions right now. His mother seemingly didn’t notice the silent
interaction, and if she did, she was doing a great job preventing herself from teasing him into
oblivion. Finally, the train comes to a stop; its whistle blows loudly, shaking the train with its
intensity. Miles stands with his mother and silently prays to the gods that the idiot won’t get off
with them. Oh god, he was standing too. Miles watches with horror as the guy stands to his full
height; the worst part is that he continues to watch Miles with a look of intrigue.

Both exit the train, the three of them being some of the only passengers; the platform wasn’t too
busy either. But that wasn’t shocking, considering how late they got to campus. He cringes at the
memory of his mother busting through the door, yelling about how late they would be. It wasn’t
his fault he slept through every alarm he set- he was tired.

The idiot quickly passes them and continues towards whichever hall he lives in. Miles lets out a
breath, knowing he probably will never have to see this guy again.

Oh.

Miles’s insides scream when the idiot enters Reche Hall’s main lobby. Either his mother finally
caught on, or she finally felt like saying something.

“maldición, Miles, ¿qué te pasa?” Miles’ brain continues to short circuit that even his second
language sounds like gibberish. His mom smacks the back of his head gently, getting his attention.
“Please answer my question, mijo,” They keep walking as Miles explains why he is so
 embarrassed.

The silence of the night is disturbed by Rio’s laugh, “seriously? God, you are so much like your
father sometimes,” She says while laughing. Miles shoves his hands in his pockets and slouches in
on himself.

“Come on, Mom, let’s get me moved in already,” Miles begs; she covers her mouth to muffle the
laughter when they reach the lobby door. The sun was now reaching the sky’s edge, the glass door
reflecting the blinding sun into their eyes. The Morales duo enters the building, and the lobby is
based on a theme of black and white comic books. The walls are covered with lines and text
bubbles; each bubble has handwritten blurbs and some signatures. The floor has lines, characters,
and text bubbles filled with quotes from popular comics. The couches and chairs are all in shades
of gray, white, and black. They make it to the elevator; Miles checks his key and then hits the
third-floor button.

“This school’s incorporation of art never stops amazing me,” Rio whispers; Miles glances at her
noticing her attention is on a photograph that hangs in the elevator. It was a beautifully taken
photograph; the angle, the lighting, everything was perfect. Also, there was a unique marker letting
you know who the photographer was. It was the almost broken look to the photo; each area in the
image was split somehow, and several different colors bled through the cracks. Miles takes out his
phone and fumbles to find the camera app. He makes sure the flash is off, snaps a picture, and
quickly double-checks that it was saved. The doors open, and the Morales duo sets out to find
room 308.

Room 308 was at the end of the hallway by a small window overlooking Reche Hall’s yard. Miles
opens the door, the room has a desk, bed, couch, closet, and bathroom, and Miles guesses a kitchen.
Wouldn’t call it a kitchen, though, considering it was a small triangle pushed into the corner of the
room. Rio sighs happily, falling into his bed.

Miles chuckles, “Don’t get too comfortable now,” She hums loudly in response, resting an arm
across her eyes. Miles ignores her for now and brings the clothing suitcase to the closet; he opens it
up, beginning the long and treacherous unpacking journey. Rio joins him along the way speeding
up the process tenfold.

It takes about an hour and a half to fully unpack everything. Rio dusts off her pants and starts
collecting her things, her son waiting by the door. She rushes over, squeezing him tightly; she feels
the tears coming back when he returns the squeeze.

“mijo, you have to promise me to never change for anybody; you deserve this and to be here. Don’t
even let any tell or make you feel otherwise, promise me,”

“I promise, mamá,” Rio gives him one last squeeze before opening the door.

“Hey mom-” She turns to Miles, a gentle smile on her tear-streaked face, “te amo,”

“te amo, mijo” Rio leaves with a wave; once the door clicks, Miles feels the reality of the situation
finally weighing on his shoulders. This was it, the start of the second chapter in his life. The
beginning of his art career and the start of college.

In hindsight, Miles had no idea what was going to happen.

And neither did another certain someone.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

hello hello hope you enjoyed it! I decided to write this on whim and I needed the
practice lol

I'm already editing chapter two so that will follow shortly,

lemme know you thought, comments and kudos are very appreciated! :D
 met the very fashionable idiot
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—----
Wednesday night

The clock read 3:53 am.

Miles hasn’t had a moment of rest, as his brain ran through every possible situation that could
occur tomorrow. Long schedules always stressed him out, and tomorrow’s was a page long,
meetings, orientation, and unfortunately, his mom had to sign him up for a ‘meet your teachers!’
thing. Miles exhales and throws his blanket to the bottom of the bed; he looks around his bare
room; it’s too empty. Miles stares into the darkness letting his emotions take center stage; he is
lonely. But Miles can’t complain. He picked the hall with no roommates, so it’s his fault. But now
that he was alone in the room’s darkness with his own thoughts, he regrets it.

Fuck this, he thinks. He decides to at least put up some of his decorations, and he opens the two
smaller suitcases. He gets all his posters and lights, which wrap around the doorframe leading out
to the deck. The posters are congregated around his desk and bed; Miles grabs the blanket and
opens the sliding door leading out to the deck.

Miles felt a smile cross his face; the deck was the whole reason he wanted to live in this hall. The
was about the size you would think, a small square with a canopy and twisted metal railing. Half of
the left side is filled with a wide couch adorned with pillows and a few folded blankets. The other
half had a small table with two chairs; right behind it was a storage box. He walks over to it and
curiously opens it; there is just an old dirty tennis ball in the corner. Guess they missed something.
He shrugs, turning back to the couch. He falls against it with a huff. Miles stares up at the canopy
covering him from the stars; it sucks that he can’t look at the stars. As if the world read his mind,
something caught his eye: a remote tucked beneath one of the pillows. He reaches for it; the plastic
is cold in his hand. It has two switches, he clicks the top one, and some lights hum to life,
illuminating the deck in a soft amber glow. The second switch is next; at first, nothing happens;
then the canopy above him shifts slightly, and it starts to fold towards the building, unveiling a sea
of stars.

—---
Thursday

Miles wakes up on the deck, he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it was good. He whips some
drool from his cheek as he searches for his phone. He concludes that he must’ve left it inside; he
blinks a few times and realizes where the sun is.

It was at its highest point in the sky.

“FUCK, no, no, no,” Miles is wide awake now; he sprints into the room and scrambles for his
phone. He grabs the closest pair of pants he can find in the closet and brushes his teeth while
attempting to pull a shirt over his head. He trips a few times on his way out the door; he leaves his
foot in the door for a moment to ensure he has everything. He checks the time; he already missed
‘meet your teachers!’ (which he isn’t totally beat up about, like who plans for a 7am meet and
greet?)
Although the orientation would be wrapping up by now, the only thing he will make it to is his
meeting with his adviser, thank god. He makes it to the train stop, and it’s already boarding; he
sprints through the gates and tries to navigate the crowd of students as quickly as possible. He ends
up barely making it, barely; he slides in through the doors and falls against the wall of the train. He
breathes in heavily, trying to catch his breath; when he has enough air to breathe normally again, he
looks around for a seat. A few people still looked at him, and he felt deja vu. Lovely, now, he is an
idiot and a less fashionable one.

The train came to a stop; Miles took it slower, weary of all the other freshmen boarding the train.
He hops off and jogs out of the train stop and towards the offices. He enters the same building as
yesterday and walks to the front desk. Jessica is there again today, intensely focused on whatever
she was typing.

Miles approaches, clearing his throat to make his presence known; Jessica lifts her head and offers
him a gentle smile.

“Morales, nice to see you again,” Miles nods, returning the greeting.

“You are here for your adviser meeting?” Miles nods again.

“You certainly like to nod, don’t you,” She quips while typing something into the computer. Miles
sheepishly laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. She handed him a paper with the room number
and where to go; he thanked her quickly and started for the elevator. He hits the up arrow and waits
with a nervous shake to his legs. The doors open, and Miles almost runs straight into someone, that
someone was also the fashionable idiot from last night.

“You alright?” The stranger asks, his voice thick with a British accent. Miles nods, muttering a yes
before rushing into the elevator before it shuts. Miles’ embarrassment only grew whenever this
man was around. Seriously he needed to stop running into this guy like that.

—--
Thursday night

“The meeting went well, nothing too notable, just planning classes,” Miles explains to his mother
over the video call. She is holding his father’s clothes, so half of the screen is covered by shirts or
pants.

“How did orientation and the meet N greet go? You haven’t motioned them?” Miles groans loudly,
falling back against his bed. Rio immediately stops folding and picks up her phone to talk to her
son with full attention.

“Mjio, tell me what happened,”

“Soy tan estúpido mamá,’ Miles runs a hand over his face, and he feels frustrated tears prick at his
eyes.

“Miles, no, no lo eres,” She counters; Miles sighs and looks her in the eye through the screen.

“I overslept again; the adviser meeting was the only thing I made it to,” He hears her sigh, a
worried frown across her face.

“How bad was it last night, honey?” Miles doesn’t respond, he never liked getting her involved
with his issues, but she always wanted to be. He knew it was because she cared, but he didn’t like
to be vulnerable with her; it made him worry more about her since it always ended with her crying
while they hugged.
“It wasn’t terrible, don’t worry,” Miles’ default answer to this question. He rolls over so he can
look up at the ceiling. He hears her mutter something then a heavy exhale follows her words.

“Miles, I won’t push it,” He hears the waver in her tone. “But please remember you can tell me
anything; I only want you to be happy and safe,” He finally turned to face her; he could see the
sparkle of tears in her eyes. It made him want to curl up into a ball and die.

“Mamá, I gotta go now,” She nods, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Alright, te amo mijo,”

“Te amo mamá,”

Miles hangs up the call and slams his phone against the bed; he bites his hand to muffle the scream.
The frustrated tears finally fall, ending his night by drowning him in his own regret.

—---
Friday

Today was his first class, and Miles tried to only sleep from 12 to 3 to ensure he woke up on time.
It didn’t go as planned, but he woke up at 4 in the morning, which was close enough for him. Miles
grabbed an energy drink from the fridge, opened a yogurt cup, crushed a granola bar, and dumped
it into the yogurt. He goes over to his desk and sets up his sketchbook; he takes a bite of his yogurt,
and while he thinks about what to draw, he pulls his headphones over his ears. It had been a minute
since the last time Miles got to just sit down and draw. He ends up just free-handing whatever pops
into his head first. Of course, the first thing his brain considers is an idiot who is a little too cool
looking for his own good.

The yogurt is long forgotten as Miles gets into his headspace. Everything he deals with goes away
when he draws, and he is finally free to pour his anxieties onto the page. The tiredness from the
countless nights of insomnia disappears when his headphones go on, and his pencil starts moving.
The lines seem to draw themselves, and soon the image of the stranger is clear. Miles looks down
at the page, smiling; his art style suits the stranger.

By the time 9 am rolled around, Miles had filled two pages of sketches, all of the strangers with
varying colors and styles. Miles stretched his arm towards the ceiling; he closed his sketchbook
with a thud when he stood. Miles packed some art supplies and a few granola bars for a snack
between classes and lunch. He threw out the yogurt cup and shuffled over to the door, headphones
still on and blaring music as he left the building.

Thankfully he made it to class early; only a few others were scattered around in the seats. He
searches the room for an empty chair, preferably away from the larger groups of students. The seat
that is the perfect distance for him is two rows back from the front. He takes the chair one over
from a girl sitting in the row behind him so he doesn’t block her view at all. Miles puts his bag on
the ground and removes his headphones, tucking them into the bag. He takes out his sketchbook,
and he ends up looking over his work while waiting.

“Pst!” Miles flinches a little in surprise; the girl behind him is staring right at him, he meets her
gaze, and she waves with a smile. Miles gives her a questioning look.

“Hey, I’m Gwen; I just wanted to say I love that piece!” She points to the first drawing of the
fashionable stranger. Miles questions why she was looking over his shoulder in the first place, but
she seems harmless enough.
“Oh, thanks,” Miles thanked her and smiled a little with pride at his work. Gwen suddenly gets up,
grabs her stuff, and vaults over the desk between them, sitting beside him.

“You don’t mind, right?” Miles knew this tone cause his mother had it all the time. She wasn’t
asking, this was a statement, and she wouldn’t move even if Miles said otherwise.

“Yea- no, you’re okay,” He responds in a rushed tone; victorious, she smiles and leans over to ask
him something. Just as her words start to leave her mouth, the teacher rushes in, papers falling out
of his bag and a baby resting on his hip.

“Sorry, sorry, everyone! The baby needed to be changed- you know, the drill,” The teacher
apologizes. His words are hard to understand with how much he is moving. Miles watches the
teacher; the man runs his hand through his shaggy brown hair while he sets up a baby cage. The
redhead went in, and the teacher exhaled heavily, his hand rubbing his beard stubble.

“Alright, class, please excuse my rushed arrival-” He turns to the whiteboard and writes out a
name. “My name is Peter B. Parker, and welcome to human anatomy 201,” The class settles in for
the lecture when the door swings open.

Dios mío Miles groans internally; he just CANNOT get away from this guy. The fashionable
stranger struts in and up to Professor Parker. The professor mutters a few thank yous, and the
stranger reaches in for the baby, who is very excited to see the man; she jumps up and down till he
reaches out to scoop the baby up and spin her around once. He waves to Gwen beside him, and she
yells a greeting waving him off. Miles catches the stranger’s gaze and gives Miles a knowing
smirk; he salutes Miles and closes the door behind him.

Oh great, she knew him, which means she knew the exact man with whom he filled two pages in
his sketchbook. Miles’ head hit the desk.

—----
Friday night

The rest of the day went by quickly; Miles needed clarification about this man. Miles just can’t
understand why he is so intrigued by him. It was definitely starting to annoy him a little bit. He
throws his bag on his bed, and the sketchbook falls out and lands on the ground, opening the two
new pages filled with the stranger. Okay, maybe it was bothering him more than just a little bit.

He makes himself a sandwich and sets up a little nest outside on the couch. He takes bites of the
sandwich while mindlessly scrolling through his phone. The hours pass, and the sun has long since
set when Miles starts the first bit of homework of the day. His mother always said he was self-
sabotaging with how late he stayed up doing projects for school. But sabotaging or not, that’s the
only time he can really seem to focus.

Miles is lost in his research that he doesn’t hear the sliding door right below him snap open. What
he hears is a distant greeting, which fades into his ears, and he doesn’t register the words.

With a loud sound of something hitting metal, Miles jumps and quickly turns around, hurting his
neck a little. He moves his laptop to the side, and he rubs his neck with a soothing motion as he
listens for the voice again.

“You goin’ deaf up there?” A stranger’s voice calls out, their words thick with a British accent.
Miles crawls over to the source of the voice and peeks over the fence’s side. The decks are
diagonally angled, so each student can see the sky clearly. So the deck below him was more to the
side of him. Either way, the minute Miles sees who the voice belongs to, his stomach drops. Before
he stood the fashionable idiot from the train. The British man smiles at him and lifts his hand,
pointing at Miles before falling back to his side.

“Hey, you’re the guy who keeps starin’ at me, right?” Miles’ stomach dropped even. Further, the
other was still light-hearted, smirking at him. It didn’t help; Miles still felt like digging his grave
and dying there.

“Uh- yea, sorry about that,” Miles crawls into himself, his shoulders slouching while his hands are
busy fiddling with themselves. The idiot shrugs and looks out at the forest outside the campus.

“I don’t mind the attention-” He lifts his hand, gesturing at Miles again, “as long as it’s good
attention,” Miles nervously smiles. He was more confused about why this guy was even talking to
him. It was out of the blue, and it was also like 2 in the morning. Miles guesses the other takes note
of his confusion since he seems to turn more towards his room, only glancing at Miles a few times.

Miles wants to end this interaction here and never speak to this guy again, save himself from the
embarrassment later. But there is just something about this guy, so he takes a deep breath, in and
out.

“I promise it was good attention,” He says with as much confidence as he can muster. With that,
the British man turns towards Miles again; he leans forward against the railing and crosses his leg
over the other behind him.

“The names Hobie, Hobie Brown,”

“Miles Morales,”

“Miles Morales,” His name rolls off Hobies tongue with ease, “that’s the name of my stalker,
aye?” Any warm feeling Miles had washed away, and he gave Hobie a blank stare.

“I wasn’t stalking you,” Miles denies, “if anything, you are the one I can’t get away from,” Hobie
laughs; it’s rough but has this soothing warmth to it.

“You wanna get away from me? You hurt me, Miles,” Hobie shifts his weight, uncrossing his
legs, putting a hand on his chest, and the other falls against his forehead in a mock display of pain.
“I’ve always been told how irresistible I am,” Miles rolls his eyes, trying to discourage this
behavior, but Hobie’s dramatic antics managed to pull a laugh from him.

“What you workin’ on up there?” Miles glances over at the forgotten laptop lying off to the side.

“Just some anatomy homework, nothing too serious,” Hobie hums in response, and a comfortable
silence settles over them. Miles was ready to return to work when he heard the shuffling of feet on
Hobie’s deck. Miles looks back at the other to find he isn’t in the same place as a second ago but
finds it almost immediately. Hobie was pulling himself up by the bar of Miles’s deck; Hobie’s got
a good hold on it, hopping up and over the fence. He landed on the couch, taking his seat next to
Miles.

“You don’t mind, right?” A knowing smirk on his face.

Why did everyone in his life have to be like this?

Miles scoffs but doesn’t say anything to Hobie about leaving.

—----
Friday
The week was average; Hobie was a much more frequent occurrence on the daily. If Miles wanted
to stay away from him, talking to him was a sure way for that not to happen. Not that Miles hated
his company; the guy was funny and all-around understanding. When Miles wasn’t in class, he was
with Hobie; sometimes, Gwen would join them. Their duo used to be a trio, but their friend Pavitr
is back home in India now.

Miles groaned as he rolled towards the edge of his bed, searched for his phone, and rocked his
headphones on the ground.

“Shit,” Miles grumbled; it was too early for this. He checked the time, and it wasn’t too early; it
was 11 o’clock in the morning. In a moment of panic, he jumps out of bed and frantically checks
his schedule while rummaging through his closet.

Thank god, no classes today.

He double-checks his assignments; there is one more extended project and one he could finish
today. The assignment is to have two anatomy sketches done by class on Sunday. Easy enough, it’s
the second project that has him stumped. Even in class, he didn’t know how to approach this; it’s a
four-month-long project, with which month being the next part. And apparently, once the four
months conclude, the school is hosting an art gallery-type thing, showcasing the freshman class’s
art from this project. And on top of that, this mystery guest will announce their identity closer to
the gallery date.

This is all amazing on the surface level; the only problem is Miles has no fucking idea what to do.

Miles sets his phone down and sits down with an exhale; he has the whole month to figure it out.
It’s gonna be okay. He doesn’t need to worry about it. He always comes up with something. No
difference this time, right?

It is now 3pm, and Miles has been staring at this page for too fucking long. And what does he have
to show for the last three or 4 hours? Nothing.

Miles pushes away from his desk in a huff; nothing is coming to mind that would be grand enough
to put in an art gallery. So he decided that some food and fresh air would help. Miles walks over to
his small fridge; he needs more sustenance and to buy food soon. Dining hall it is then; he shuts the
fridge with his hip, grabs his phone and key, and is out the door.

The hall was empty; usually, a few students would be coming and going, and the long hall would
become like a seating area for a few girls and their friends as they chatted about the day. He turns
to the elevator, smacks the down button twice, and leans against the wall while he waits. The doors
open, and two students exit, giving Miles a nod. He returns the gesture and takes his place in the
elevator; he slides his hand across the buttons, searches for one, and clicks the button for the main
floor. While the humming of the elevator puts him to sleep, he notices the piece that hangs on the
wall, his seen it many times now, but he hardly gets to look at it properly.
It is a photograph, but the colors leaking from the cracks are painted. Miles walks up to it, staring
at it the whole ride down. Then it hit him; he figured it out! Now he needs a photographer, many
watercolors, and spray paint. The doors open with a ding, and Miles almost forgets what he came
down for; he walks past the students waiting to get on, bumping into one by mistake.

“The hell, man,” The male student mutters, watching Miles walk away in a daze.

The dining hall in Reche is the smallest in the school; it has 15 tables and 6 food choices. The
hall’s ceiling, however, is a twist on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling; instead of angels and humans, the
students painted cats. Blasphemy or not, it is pretty cute. Miles fills his plate with waffles,
drowning them in syrup and semi-fresh strawberries. He surveys the tables for a place to sit and
spots Gwen scrolling through her phone while mindlessly chewing on a sandwich.

“Hey, Gwen, mind if I join you,” Miles asks; Gwen looks up at him and immediately smiles.

“Miles! Yea, sit,” She scoots over a little, padding the area beside her. Miles sets his food down
first, dropping his phone alongside the plate. Gwen glances over and whistles.

“You want some waffles with your syrup?”

“Haha, very funny,”

“No, seriously, man, the waffles probably got completely soggy by the time you got over here,”
Gwen poked at the fluffy goodness with her finger. Miles slaps the top of her hand with the back of
his fork; she snaps her hand back and scowls at him.

“That was your own fault,” Miles states, cutting a piece of the waffle and stabbing it.

“I’m gonna tell Hobie you’re being mean to me,” Miles takes a bite of the waffle and shrugs.

“He’s mean to you all the time,” He counters with a mouth full of waffles.

“Ew, finish chewing first, dumbass,” She scrunches up her nose in disgust, shoving him slightly.
He chuckles a little, cutting himself another bite of waffle. They fall into a comfortable silence.
Gwen occasionally showed Miles whatever funny or cute thing she was looking at while he
finished off his two waffles. He exhales happily, pushing his plate a little before him; Gwen has
already finished her sandwich. She grabs his plate and stacks the two on top of each other.

“Have you figured out what you’re gonna do for the freshmen art gallery?” Miles looks at her and
smiles.

“Yea, it’s a funny story. Actually, it hit me on my way down here,” Gwen chuckles and asks him
what he’s thinking of doing; Miles’ smile drops slightly.

“Oh god, don’t do that to me; what’s wrong, man,” Gwen asks, nervously touching his shoulder.

“Nah, it’s nothing huge; I just need to find myself a photographer as soon as possible,” Miles
slumps down on the table, resting his chin on his arms. He feels Gwen’s touch leave his shoulder,
and she lays her head on her arms, staring at Miles.

“Now, what if I told you I know one of the greatest photographers in the school?” Miles’ head
immediately snaps up, staring at Gwen. She smiles, coming back up from the table as well; she
leans back, her hands resting on the edge of the bench.

“And you know him too,” Miles raises an eyebrow; Gwen and Hobie are the only people he knows
the best at this school.

“Man, do I have to spell it out for you, Miles,” Gwen laughs at Miles’ sudden frown?

“It’s Hobie; you’ve probably seen his work; the one in the elevator is one of his best,” Miles’s jaw
drops; there is no way that’s Hobbies work. Gwen waves a hand in front of his face.

“Miles, earth to Miles,” He shakes his head and goes to stand up; he grabs his phone and hugs
Gwen.

“Thank you so much. You just saved me so much time,” Miles waves goodbye and rushes back to
his room. As he leaves the dining hall, he can hear the distant laughter from Gwen.

—----
Friday night

Miles realized too late that he should’ve asked Gwen if she knew where Hobie was because
searching the campus for the man was not Miles’ brightest idea. By the time Miles got back to the
dorms, the sun was already halfway hidden by the herozion. He got back to his room and fell into
bed, he wanted to just curl up and sleep, but the claws of insomnia held his eyes open, forcing the
heaviness to weigh down on him. Miles lies there staring at the ceiling; he doesn’t know how long
he has been there. Any hope he had for sleep was extinguished.

Clank.

Miles sat up to glance around; he couldn’t see anything of note. So he laid back down.

Clank. Clank.

Miles gets up this time, it’s nothing in his room, so it had to be from outside. He opens the sliding
door and looks around; the sun is setting now, so he turns on his lights. When he reached the
couch, a small ball of something hard hit him square in the face.

“OW!” Miles cries out; he rubs his face and mutters in Spanish under his breath, “Que carajo,”

“There you are, Miles,” the sound of Hobie’s voice causes Miles to forget about his forehead, and
he rushes over to look over the side of the fence. Hobie had this stupid smile across his face.
“Gwendy said you were lookin’ for me?” And with that, Hobie jumps up like the last time and
climbs over the fence; he sits next to Miles on the couch. Miles snaps out of whatever daze this
man puts him in and turns to Hobie, prepared to beg for his help.

“Yes, so I have this project for the freshmen art gallery, and I had this really cool idea, but I need a
photographer. I was talking to Gwen, and she said that you are one of greatest she’s seen and that
the elevator picture was from- which is amazing and is partly the reason I thought of this-” Hobie
laughs at him and grabs his shoulders; forcing him to stop talking for a second.

“Mate, you gotta slow down, alright? Can hardly follow what you are saying,” Miles feels the heat
of embarrassment rush up his neck again and cover his whole face this time; he drops his face into
his hands and groans.

“Sorry, sorry, I tend to ramble when I get excited,” Hobie doesn’t say anything; he just taps the
crown of Miles’ head. Miles looks back up at him, and once again, he is floored by Hobie’s stupid
smile.

So Miles gets straight to the point this time, “I was hoping you would help me with my project?”

Miles prepares for the worst, “yea, sure, don’t get much going this first few weeks of the semester
anyway,” Hobie shrugs, dropping his hands from Miles’s shoulders; Miles jumps at him, hugging
him as tightly as he can muster.

“Thank you, thank you! I promise I only need you for the first few parts; gotta finish planning it
tho,” Miles trails off; it took a second before Hobie hugged him back, clearly taken by surprise.
Damn, Hobie’s really warm, like a comfortable warmth, feels like a spiky cloud, if that makes any
sense. Miles could almost stay here forever.

“You good, Miles?” Hobie’s voice interrupts his train of thought, Miles realizing that this hug is
lasting too long, he jumps away and stands up, putting as much distance between them without
looking like a scared weirdo. Hobie seems indifferent to the weirdly long hug; he watches Miles
with that stupid amused smile.

“Let me go get my stuff,” Miles’ words are fast and slurred together; he slides the door open and
jogs over to his sketchbook on the desk, his laptop, and a pen. He comes back out, shutting the
door behind him; Hobie is now lying down, switching the lights on and off again. Miles snorts,
snatching the remote back from him; he switches them on and opens the canopy. Miles put down
the stuff and picked up Hobie’s legs, dropping them on the other side so he had space to sit down.
He grabs the laptop, opens a new document, and invites Hobbie to share it.

“Alright, Miles, paint a picture for me,” Miles feels a little giddy; he always feels this way when
talking about his work; his mom used to video it when he was younger. He really hated it once he
got past the age of 10. Miles went on to describe a little bit of what he was thinking; it would be a
picture of street art; he wasn’t sure what it would be at the moment, but once he was done, Hobie
would take a picture of it, Miles didn’t want it to have cracks Hobie is known for though.

“You don’t mind that, right? Damn it, I should’ve asked, sorry,” Miles panics, realizing taking
away the cracks takes away the ‘Hobie’ aspect.

“Nothing to worry about; this is your piece. You just don’t have a camera or the proper
understanding of photography, right?” Miles exhales, relaxing slightly.

“Yes, that is exactly right,” Hobie smiles and gestures for Miles to continue. Miles goes on to the
second part of the piece; after the street art and pictures are done, and perfect Miles was thinking
about adding watercolor-like raindrops to give the viewer the feeling that they are looking through
a window on a rainy day. The rain would be multi-colored, but what is art without a bit of fantasy.

“Also, the fact that you made the piece in the elevator is even more perfect because I have no idea
how you got a photo to work so well with the paint,” Miles says, putting his laptop to the side.

“Wasn’t too hard, just need to print it on a paintable paper, the hard part is making it look super
high quality,” Miles should fall slightly, thinking about the piece in the elevator and how crystal
clear it was.

“But I got some tricks up my sleeve, so don’t worry about that,” Hobie pats Miles’s arm; he starts
moving closer to Miles to get a better look at Miles’s laptop.

“What kind of ideas do you get for the street art?” Miles pulls up another doc filled with pictures of
the art with a vibe similar to what he is thinking; he wants it to almost look like a portal to another
world that opens right into the wall. Hobie gives his thoughts, confirming and agreeing with Miles’
ideas.

“Do you always agree with people? Or just me,” Miles asks, half joking; Hobie snorts and leans
back against the couch.

“Nah, you are a rare case, love,” Miles’ brain pretty much imploded; Hobie seemed to realize
because that stupid smile that Miles couldn’t read crossed his face again. Miles tries to respond,
but his mouth has run dry.

He clears his throat a few times, “Oh? Is that so,” He closes his eyes in defeat with how unsteady
his voice sounded. Hobie doesn’t point it out, but Miles can tell he noticed it.

They end up discussing a few other components of the street art, and they decide on a time to scope
out possible areas to paint. Next friday morning, when they agreed on a time, Miles set 5 alarms to
ensure he woke up early enough.

“Alright, I’m gonna hit the sack; you probably should too,” Hobie says; he stands up, stretching his
arms above; Miles slaps himself mentally for even considering peeking at the exposed skin.

“I would if I could,” Miles jokes, but there is no joy in the humor; he regrets it immediately.
Typically, people looked at him like he was a dying puppy on the side of the road. So he tries to
play it off even more.

“Insomnia’s like the reaper without the scythe, ya know, keeps you up and scared but doesn’t have
the heart to kill you,” Ok, Miles, that was worse than the first joke. God, he sucks at this; he falls
back, resting his arm across his eyes. He feels the couch dip with new weight; he lifts his arm a
little, watching as Hobie climbs over the fence and jumps back to his dorm.

Great, scare away another person with your fucking trama dumping. Good job, Miles; Person of
the Year goes to you. He feels his eyes sting with tears; he rubs his eyes with the arm over the top
of them, trying to push the tears back. What catches his interest is the sound of Hobie jumping back
over the fence. He sits up with a questioning look. Hobie is back on the couch as if he never left,
and he brings a bag with him.

“Figured it’s better to wake with someone else, right?” Miles’s mouth falls open; this man is
unpredictable; Miles thinks he will do one thing he turns around and does the opposite. Hobie
laughs at Miles’ confusion and shock.

“You’ll catch bugs like that, love; what’s on your mind,” Hobie asks while pulling a container of
blueberries from the bag. Miles’ brain stutters again with the use of love.

“I just can’t figure you out, Hobie,” Miles exhales, defeated by this man; Hobie’s laugh is the
loudest Miles has heard yet.

“Get used to it Miles. No one can figure me out; I like to keep ’em guessing; it makes life more
fun,” Miles should’ve expected that answer; he just laughed and stole a blueberry.

Hobie stayed awake with him for several more hours before he fell asleep on his own. Miles smiles
at his sleeping figure, his head hanging half off the couch and his arm touching the ground. Miles
shifts to move his head so he isn’t hanging upside down. Hobie doesn’t wake but grumbles
something inaudible in his sleep. Miles falls back to his original spot and fights his brain for rest;
he imagines the reaper looming over him, holding the switch to turn his brain off so he can finally
sleep just out of reach. He reaches for it almost every night, but he is never successful.

—--
Friday

Miles’ week was rough; his insomnia kicked in with full force, leaving him only 6 hours of sleep to
work with. His anatomy assignment got full marks, and he finally has a draft sketch for street art.
He was getting ready to meet up with Hobie, and he was excited as he could be; he honestly felt
like a dead man; his limbs were so heavy. Speaking of Hobie, Miles has found it rare to find
someone like him. Hobie has been coming up to the deck almost every night; he sits and talks with
Miles about random things he likes, things Miles likes, family, or just a video he found on his
phone. The only person who would sit awake with him was his mom, and he thought she was one
of a kind.

He rubs the tiredness from his eyes and slips into his jeans. He grabs his sweater and layers his
coat over top of it. He leaves his room and checks his texts with Hobie, second floor, room 207. He
enters the elevator and heads down to the second floor.

He finds Hobie’s room rather quickly and knocks on the door; there is a moment of silence, but
before Miles tries to knock again, he hears a thud and a string of curses following the sound. He
raises an eyebrow to the door. The mumbling gets closer to the door, and Hobie flings it open.

Oh.

Shirtless. Skin. GOD IS HE SIXTEEN AGAIN.

Miles wants to scream, so he flicks his eyes to the wall next to Hobie.

“Mornin’ Miles, come on in, gotta finish gettin’ ready,” Miles hums in response, not trusting his
voice to speak. Hobie turns around and wanders back to the bathroom, picking up a guitar that fell
over along the way, which is probably what made the noise. Miles’ is burning at the moment
because all his brain can focus on is Hobie being shirtless in front of him. He has a great back,
though, and probably does pull-ups. Miles physically smacks himself in the face and reminds
himself that Hobie’s back is not why he is here.

“Feel free to sit down or somethin’ be out in a minute.” Hobie disappears into the bathroom,
leaving Miles alone. While walking over to Hobie’s bed to sit down, he looks around the room. It’s
cleaner than he expected, which sounds mean now that he thinks about it. The room has just as
many posters as Miles’ does, only more band related; he has a keyboard too. The kitchen is fuller
than Miles’, and dishes are starting to pile up in the sink. Miles makes it to the bed and hops a little
to sit down, bouncing back up. The bed isn’t made, and the large black blanket lays crumpled up in
the corner; Miles sees a pair of socks rolled in on themselves, nestled in the blanket. Just then, the
bathroom swings open, and Hobie hurries over to his desk to grab his phone and camera.

“Sorry, Hobie, but if you sleep in socks, that’s a deal breaker for me,” Hobie snorts and walks over
to grab the socks; he turns to throw them into a laundry hamper.

“A stalker digging around in my bed is a deal breaker for me,” Hobie jokes; Miles rolls his eyes
and opens his mouth to respond, but Hobie got him with that.

They both head for the door; Hobie opens it, letting Miles out. They walk to the elevator and head
down to the main lobby. They make it outside and lead to the train to leave campus; thankfully,
Hobie does own a car making this trip a lot easier. They end up outside an abandoned factory;
Miles walks ahead of Hobie, looking for a good place for his portal. Wall after wall wasn’t right;
Miles exhaled heavily through his nose, frustrated with his bad luck.

“Miles,” Hobie calls out from behind him. “How’s this spot look?” Miles follows his voice and
finds Hobie got inside the building through a hole in the brick wall. He steps over the pill of brick
and looks at where Hobie is thinking. It was a good spot; the metal and brick seemed to mix on the
wall. He glances at Hobie, who is looking at it through his camera; he takes a few pictures and
walks over to Miles.

“See how it looks on the camera, definitely otherworldly, in my opinion,” Miles nods. He walks
closer to the wall surveying the surface with spray paint in mind. This would work.

“This will work perfectly, good eye man,”

“Oh? I’ve upgraded to man now, aye? I’m honored,” Miles rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“I’m sure I’ve called you man before, so don’t get too excited,” Hobie chuckles and leaves it alone.
They exit the building, and Miles saves the location in his phone before they go.

—-----
Friday night

By the time they return, the sun is set, and the campus is asleep. They board the train and begin the
ride back to the dorms. Miles rests his head back on the seat; the lack of sleep starts getting to him.
He can feel Hobie staring at him; the warmth in the stare is not missed by him either.

“Sleep gonna be a problem tonight?” Miles cracks open an eyelid and glances at Hobie; he rests his
head back against the seat, now looking Miles directly in the eye.

“I don’t really know unless I try honesty,” Miles sighs, closing his eyes again.

“Want some company?”

“I would like that, yea,”

It’s like already a routine for them, Hobie stays up as late as he can, and Miles always has to
reposition the other. They talk about random things and eat whatever Hobie or Miles can find in
their kitchen. Tonight, however, Hobie asks Miles a more serious question.

“How long has insomnia been a problem for ya?”

Miles is surprised, to say the least; he sets the bag of chips to the side next to his laptop. Its soft
glow shines against the bag. Hobie is sitting with his legs crossed, facing Miles now. Miles turns
only slightly; he glances at Hobie and takes a deep breath.

“I’ve always had issues staying asleep, ever since I was young,” Miles sighs heavily and begins to
fidget with his hands. “It wasn’t until I was around 16 that it barged in and ruined my life for good,
and I know what you are thinking,” Hobie raises an eyebrow watching Miles with a trained eye.

“Why don’t I go on medication? The answer to that is the only meds I have tried have worked very
little or not at all,” Miles falls back, flinging his legs out so he is spread out on the couch.

“I guess I kind of give up on getting help,” There is silence after this; Miles holds his breath in
anticipation. Hobie crawls over to him; he taps Miles’ arm with the back of his, making Miles
move it. He lies next to Miles, and Hobie turns to face him. Miles looks back. Compassion isn’t
something Miles has seen in Hobie’s glaze before. It’s always a little mischievous, but Miles finds
softness in those brown eyes this time.

“Miles,” Hobie starts.

“Hobie,” Miles laughs a little when Hobie scowls at him; Hobie drops the scowl and smiles at the
artist. He reaches out to grab Miles’ hand and interlocks their fingers; Hobie’s hand is rough but
warm, and his hold on Miles’ hand is soft, allowing Miles to let go at any point. And then he
makes a promise Miles’ has never forgotten.

“As long as we know each, I will always make sure you are never awake alone anymore; that’s a
Hobie promise,” Miles snorts, a heat climbs up his neck and to his face.

“Well, I’ve had a Hobie promise before; how reliable is it?”

“I always keep my promises, don’t believe me? Ask Gwen,” Hobie lets Miles’ hand go; Miles
immediately misses the comfortable warmth.
“Thank you,” Miles lets out a shakily exhale, and he feels a genuine smile across his lips.

—----
Friday

It’s been a week since Hobie made the promise, and he is proving to be an excellent late-night
bubby. He would arrive with food, now he has been bringing his laptop, and they have been
pirating movies occasionally. When Miles asks why not just use a streaming service, Hobie’s
answer is- the corporations got enough money already. So Miles has stopped asking, they have
gotten closer as well, and it’s not just in his head. Gwen tells him that whenever they are together,
he just kisses the guy already. Miles doesn’t deny that he has caught feelings for Hobie; it’s
obvious even to him. No, Miles likes to say he’s just delaying the conversion that will start. Gwen
always rolls her eyes at this, finding this game of cat and mouse childish and not worth either of our
time. And Miles can’t deny she’s probably right, but he has a good thing going right now and
doesn’t want to lose it.

At the moment, Miles is back at the old factory with Gwen and Hobie. Music is playing through
his speaker. Gwen and Hobie, who are mainly here so Miles doesn’t get murdered in the middle of
nowhere, are sitting on a blanket, working on their assignments. Miles is tapping his foot in rhythm
with the beat while sorting through his paints. He grabs his base color, pulls up the mask around
his neck, and gets to work.

A few hours pass and Miles isn’t close to being done; he has been stepping on and off a stool to
reach the highest part of the painting. At least the base color and some edges are done, he sighs,
wiping sweat from his brow. Miles walks over to the other two. He lowers the mask and squats in
between the two. He eyes Gwen’s lunch and feels his stomach grumble a little. Maybe she won’t
see him; he reaches out and can steal some blueberries before she smacks his hand away.

“Damn, Miles, out of the goodness in my heart, I came out here with you two, and what do I get for
it,” She closes her laptop with a smack. “Two fucking thieves,” Miles tilts his hand to the side,
confused.

“I have had to fight off this bitch over here for the past two hours,” She gestures at Hobie, who just
had that smile on his face. Miles snorts and takes a seat between them.

“It’s lookin’ good, by the way, love,” Gwen laughs at the nickname; Miles smacks Hobie’s arm,
his cheeks burning.

“Este hermoso idiota va a ser mi Muerte,” Miles mutters, knowing neither can understand him.
Hobie raises an eyebrow at the use of Spanish.

“If you’re gonna play that way, I want you to teach me Spanish,” Miles chokes on his water; Gwen
immediately jumps on Miles’ back, shaking him back and forth.

“Me too, Miles!” Gwen demands, still shaking him.

“Alright, alright! Stop shaking me. You’re gonna break my neck,” Miles lets himself laugh a little,
not even really all that mad about it.

“So hola, means hello-” Hobie and Gwen tackle him, with Gwen holding his hands above his head
and Hobie taking a seat on his chest. Miles coughs at the loss of breath for a moment.

“Come on, Miles, everyone and their mother knows how to say fucking ‘hello’ in Spanish,” Gwen
remarks shaking her head with disapproval. Hobie nods along, agreeing.
When Hobie leans, hovering over Miles’s face, he is so close Miles can feel Hobie breathing, and
Miles stops breathing altogether. “For example, tell us what you just said, love,” Miles’ brain
freezes; it seems to do that a lot around this man.

“How about you get off me first,” Miles counters, his voice as steady as he could make it. Hobie
hums in agreement and swings his leg over Miles; Gwen also releases his arms.

“Este hermoso idiota va a ser mi muerte,” Miles repeats. “Simply translates to ‘this idiot is going to
be the death of me,” Miles glances Hobie’s way; he doesn’t miss that mischievous smile. Gwen,
however, burst out laughing.

“You are so fucking whipped, my god, Miles,” Gwen says between laughing fits. Miles groans
loudly and slaps her arm. She stops laughing, but the smile stays. With a few more Spanish words
added to their vocabulary, the three pack up and start the drive home. Gwen runs ahead, calling out
a shotgun and frantically trying to open the car door, even though Miles had no problem being in
the back.

—---
Friday night

The night fell short after they arrived at the campus, and like clockwork, Hobie ended up on Miles’
deck with food again. Miles joins him shortly after his jump up here; Hobie gives him a quick
wave and looks back at his computer. Miles slides onto the couch next to him, looking over his
shoulder at the screen; Hobie is submitting an assignment now. While Hobie scrolls through his
files, searching for the correct one, Miles’ chin falls into the other’s shoulder. Hobie didn’t react to
it, so Miles leaned in a little more onto Hobie’s shoulder, the top of his head tucked in the crook of
Hobie’s neck.

“I wasn’t jokin’, you know,’ ‘Miles lifts his head a little, glancing at Hobie from his spot on his
shoulder. “About learning some Spanish,” Miles stares at him, surprised; Hobie turns his head a
little, catching his gaze. Again, that warmth in his eyes saved only Miles, reserved for their long
nights beneath the stars.

“Oh, why?” Miles can’t help but ask; none of his friends in the past had thought about learning
Spanish. Which wasn’t all bad; he could talk to Mom about things he didn’t want them to know
about. But the thought that someone would actually care enough about him to learn about half of
his heritage. It was new to him, shocking even.

“I want to learn about what’s important to you, and Spanish is clearly a big part of your life,” Hobie
clicks submit and shuts the laptop; he turns around, and Miles is sitting in front of him. “So I want
to learn about it,” Miles felt like crying and kissing this man, but he played it safe and tackled
Hobie into a hug, ignoring Gwen’s voice in the back of his head and yelling at him.

Miles pulls up from the hug and realizes the potion he has put them in; he looks Hobie straight in
the eyes as he hovers over him. Their legs are tangled, and Miles’ hands are on either side of
Hobie’s head. Miles’ month goes dry; this angle is doing amazing things for Hobie right now; the
soft light from the deck lights is making his piercings shine and the rest of his glow. Neither of
them moves, both just staring at each other. Hobie seems to be more aware than Miles, but he is
just as lost in the amber color of Miles’ eyes. As if something was pushing Miles towards Hobie,
he couldn’t stop himself; he wanted to kiss this idiot.
Hobie is in the same boat; the pull towards Miles feels supernatural. He couldn’t stop if he wanted
to, it was hard enough avoiding the thought of kissing Miles, but now it’s all come back to bite him
in the ass.
“por favor detente antes de que me arrepienta de esto,” Miles whispers, mainly to himself.

“Love, I hope that was Spanish for kiss me,” Hobie reaches up towards Miles’ face, and he gently
touches the side of his face. Miles falls into the touch, relishing in it; the pull has stopped
momentarily, both waiting for one of them to make the first move. Miles decides fuck it; he will
figure it out later. He grabs Hobie’s shirt collar pulling him up a little so they sit slightly. He
doesn’t allow Hobie to breathe before he leans in and kisses him. Hobie immediately returns the
kiss; his hands drop to Miles’ waist and stay there. Miles’ hands slide up to rest around his neck;
one hand stays behind Hobie’s ear holding his face in place. The kiss itself is gentle; they weren’t
going to rush this- or that was the plan at first.

Because, god, Hobie is an amazing kisser. Miles can’t get enough of this man; he lets Hobie deepen
the kiss by opening his mouth and tilting his head. Hobie’s hand slides Miles back, holding him
while he lowers Miles onto his back. Once Miles is safely on his back, Hobie keeps one hand tight
on Miles’ waist, and the other slides up his neck, and he leans Miles’ head back so he can start
moving down Miles’ jaw and neck. Miles is panting, lips wet with saliva, his own and Hobie’s; he
groans a little while Hobie works on his neck. After hearing the noise, Hobie returns to Miles’ face
kissing his lips again; they continue this for a few more minutes before Miles pulls away for air.
He lets his hands fall from Hobie’s neck as he stares up at him, taking deep breaths. Hobie grabs
Miles by hand, their fingers naturally interlocking; he pulls him up and places Miles on his lap.
Hobie pecks his lips a few more times before stopping completely.

“God, I’ve been waitin’ on that one,” Hobie remarks, smirking; Miles laughs and smacks his
shoulder.

“Better late than never, right?” Hobie hums in agreement and leans up to kiss Miles again. He is
excitedly met in the middle by Miles; the kiss is shorter and soft, with so much care being carried
with it.

—---
Friday - 3 months later

The trio stands in front of Miles’ handy work. The first part was done, the piece was gorgeous, and
the color palette he went for was a sunset, but they made it hundreds of years in the future when
the sun died, so they remade the sun as a machine. So he added greens and blues alongside orange,
red, and yellow. The portal itself is hexagonal; Hobie and Gwen have both said how shocked they
are that he could make the portal look like it’s pulsing. It’s all in perspective and angles, as he told
them anytime they asked.

“Alright, cariño, your turn,” Miles calls out to Hobie; the photographer snatches his camera and
gets a gage of how it looks on camera.

“Beautiful as always, love,” Hobie says, kissing Miles quickly. Gwen gags next to them.

“I swear, Gwendy, you wanted us together so badly, and now you hate seeing it?” Hobie asks, half
joking. Gwen rolls her eyes, reaching up to flick him on the forehead.

“I lack hindsight, I guess; I didn’t think you guys would have balls to make out in front of me,”
Miles raises an eyebrow; he glances at Hobie, then Gwen, then back to Hobie before responding.

“I’m sorry; when did we ever make out in front of you?”

“Just now, too much Hobie, too much,” Gwen’s bitch face breaks as he tries to hide her laughter.
Miles pushes her a little and pulls her away, letting Hobie be in his element. The picture-taking was
definitely the easiest part of this project, and Miles was feeling the pressure with the art gallery
only a month away.

Hobie finishes in 10 minutes; he walks up to Miles and shows him his two favorites.

“This one is closer to what you originally wanted, but-” Hobie clicks to the next one, “this one is
calling my name.” Miles switches between the two, and he finds himself agreeing with him.

“Yeah, I see what you mean; let’s print that one,” Hobie nods before shutting off the camera.

“Alright, Miles, Gwen, I’ll drop you off at campus, and I’ll get the printing process going,” the trio
nod, and they leave the factory behind. Gwen and Miles end up walking back to the dorm together,
discussing random things.

—-----
Friday night

Around 5pm is when Miles starts setting up his painting area. It’s out on the deck, and the picture
will take up over half of the floor, so the little space for Miles is all he can have. Hobie arrives
shortly after; he hands the picture over first and jumps over, landing on the couch with much
practice.

“Aye, love,” Miles glances up from the ground, “come here and give me a kiss before you
disappear into your art zone” Miles laughs but stands up and walks over to Hobie; he leans down,
grabbing Hobie’s face while kissing him softly.

“Thank you, I am a man with simple needs; now go paint,” Hobie smiles at Miles and smacks his
thigh.

“Calm yourself, cariño. I got a month to finish this; I gotta focus,” Miles lightheartedly warms
Hobie; the other just shakes his head and opens his laptop.

Miles was surprised to find that he was actually falling asleep while trying to paint. He continues to
nod off and snaps awake again. He doesn’t try to stop Hobie when he feels his partner’s hands
gently take the brush from his hand, he almost wakes up just to put away the brushes correctly, but
he falls deeper into his consciousness when he hears the water and paints clean mixture splash
against the sides of the cup he put it in, the wood handles clatter together when Hobie safely
deposit the brush with its counterparts. Still, in a daze of half-sleep, Miles feels himself being lifted
from the ground, hears the sliding door, and finds himself lying in his bed. His eyes crack open just
long enough to see Hobie wrapping him in his blanket, his eyes fall closed again, and he hears the
sliding door shut and the click of the lock. The bed dips slightly with another’s body weight. Miles
immediately cuddles back against Hobie’s chest, sighing heavily at the comfortable warmth,
making him increasingly tired. He feels Hobie’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

As much as he needed to paint now, Miles decided that sleep was more important. The art gallery
isn’t going anywhere yet.

“Night love” is the last thing Miles hears before his conciseness leaves him.

Miles doesn’t regret kissing Hobie, never. But the regret lies with his mistake that almost makes
him lose everything he has gained.

And Hobie wishes he was a more patient person.

Chapter End Notes

So that ended up being much longer then I expected, and it was so long in fact that I
crushed grammerly when checking my punctuation
but I hoped you enjoyed and the next chapter will be shorter then this one but still
quite long (its also when all the angst happens ;))
And I should've warned ya I'm a hopeless romantic so its gonna be a maybe a little too
cute
Hope you enjoyed! :D
 almost died because of a fashionable idiot
Chapter Notes

Sorry took a little longer then I wanted it too, my week got super crazy so I didn't have
as much time to write unfortunately.
But! here it is thank you so much for reading and I really enjoyed writing this :D

See the end of the chapter for more notes

—--
Friday

There is only a week until the art gallery, and Hobie hasn’t seen Miles this anxious over something.
He won’t leave the painting; Today, Hobie hasn’t seen his partner once, thankfully, Miles will
answer his texts, but it’s usually short replies, and each response could be hours apart.

Hobie stares up at his ceiling, a heavy exhale leaving his lips; he glances at the sliding door. He
felt the need to go, to just follow his routine and jump up to Miles’ room. But he respects his
decisions; Miles said he wanted to finish the painting today and leave him alone until he texted
Hobie. He sits up, looking around his room for anything to do. Hobie finished his assignments
already and has no classes today, either. Also, he wasn’t feeling guitar practice at the moment. He
ends up wandering around the room and ends up at the sliding door; he places his hand on the
handle and pauses.

He could listen to Miles.

But he has never been one to listen to orders before. Besides, he will only say hi; he won’t stay
long. He feels a giddy smile grace his lips and slides the door open with a swing of his arm. He
stares up at the deck above him; he climbs onto the bar, and with one leap, he grabs the fence
pulling himself up and over the bar. First, he notices that Miles isn’t laid out with all his brushes on
the deck. Confused, he looks through the glass of the sliding door leading to Miles’ room. Hobie
finds the artist hunched over the canvas, brushes littered the floor, and there is an untouched bowl
of mushy cereal. He scowls. Did he not eat then? Miles has been having an issue with forgetting to
eat throughout the day. But now Miles has something he didn’t have before- Hobie. And he has
made it his daily mission to ensure Miles eats at least one decent meal. His train of thought is
interrupted by a frustrated groan coming from inside. Miles sets the brush down and falls onto his
back; the sound of the door opening drags Miles’ attention away from the ceiling.

“Hobie? What are you doing here,” Miles asks; his eyes light up, and his posture relaxes slightly.
Hobie walks over to the other, squatting down and resting his arms on his knees. Miles side-eyes
him and mutters under his breath, “I thought I asked to be alone,” however, there is no hostility to
his words.

“I know, and I won’t be here long, I promise,” he raises one of his hands and tries to whip some
paint away; it is mainly dried, so it doesn’t go far. “I was just checking on you,” Miles’ drops the
charade leaning into Hobie’s touch. Hobie sits down all the way and turns his attention to the
painting. It looked done to Hobie; the raindrop effect looked even better than he thought it would,
it was a gorgeous mix of colors, and the raindrops created a perfect tunnel leading the eyes toward
the portal.

“Damn, Miles-”

“I know, it’s so bad right now. I just have no idea what’s missing,” Miles cuts him off; Hobie feels
the artist’s head hit his shoulder skillfully, avoiding the small studs scattered across the shoulder
area. A heavy sigh blows against his arm; Hobie chuckles a little as he brings his hand up to Miles’
chin lifting his head to face him. Miles doesn’t protest; he ends up pouting, muttering under his
breath, clearly upset with his work.

“You gotta let me finish, Miles,” Hobie pecks Miles’ pout; Miles almost speaks up, but Hobie cuts
him off, “I was going to say how amazin’ it looks, and I can’t even see what else needs to be done,”
Hobie feels Miles melt into his touch, and finally Hobie gets a smile on the artist’s face. Miles
doesn’t even try to argue with him; the smile grows as he returns to the project.

“So what’s wrong with it, love?” Hobie inquiries moving closer to the painting. Miles exhales
heavily; he reaches for a brush and flips it in his hand to use it as a pointer. The first section Miles
points to is a tiny spot in the top left-hand corner.

“This is the main one I’m having issues with,” Hobie raises an eyebrow, not sure what Miles is
seeing that he is not. He leans over Miles’ lap, trying to get a closer look at it; Miles just falls back
against the ground again, another heavy sigh leaving him. While Hobie stares at the corner, the
silence is long and loud. Hobie almost feels terrible that it’s taking this long to notice a detail that
apparently is ruining the painting, but to him, it looked like Miles hadn’t gotten to it yet, and it was
missing a raindrop.

“Sorry, I’m not seein’ it,” He feels Miles start to move under him, and the artist appears beside him
a moment later.
“Am I missing something?” Hobie asks again, “Please explain it to me like I’m stupid,” Miles
laughs before crawling over to the other side of the painting; he crosses his legs and points the end
of the brush at the corner again.

“Look at the other corners, then come back to this one,” Hobie’s gaze shifts to the other corners;
the top right has the side of a raindrop and the two bottom follow suit. He ends back at the top left,
and it hits him. Maybe. But all the other corners have half of a raindrop and are all a different
color. However, there are only three primary colors in this piece.

“So you don’t know what color to make it?” Hobie concludes; Miles points at him, mouthing
‘bingo .’ The artist drops the brush to the side and rests his elbow on his knee; his chin follows,
landing in his hand, and his whole body deflates. Hobie looks at the entire piece again, hoping to
gauge the symmetry. The three primary colors are shades of orange, red, and dark purple. Hobie
can understand why Miles is having difficulty with the last color; he doesn’t understand how much
Miles is overthinking it.

“Love, don’t take this the wrong way,” Miles immediately gives Hobie a suspicious look, he stays
silent, but his eyes scream, ‘Walk this line carefully.’

“I think you are overthinking it,” Miles stares blankly at him, unamused. Hobie moves back to sit
down; he leans back on his hands, waiting for Miles to respond. The artist’s eyes are moving back
and forth from Hobie to the corner; the photographer watches the gears in his head start moving
while he looks at the corner repeatedly.

“I can hear you thinking darlin’; talk to me what’s goin’ through your head right now,” Hobie
finally says; Miles doesn’t entirely look up from the painting; he gives Hobie a quick glance; his
mouth opens and shuts a few times before he found the words he was looking for.

“I’m just mad you’re right,” Hobie barks out a laugh before he jumps to his feet; he reaches down
and grabs Miles’ hand, pulling him away from the painting. Miles raises an eyebrow but doesn’t
protest as Hobie wraps his arms around Miles’ waist. The artist doesn’t take long to return the hug
and melt against the other.

“Why don’t you take a break,” Miles lifts his head, mouth already open with a response. But
Hobie’s finger being pressed against Miles’ lips halts the reaction. “I’ll rephrase; we are getting
you outta here for an hour at minimum,” Hobie waits for Miles to nod before he removes his
finger. Hobie helps Miles semi-pack up his art supplies and prop the painting against the wall. The
last thing Hobie picks up is the bowl of cereal, which is so mushy that the flakes are separating in
the milk.

“We are also gonna get you some food,” Hobie states, holding back his gag; Miles shouts
something in protest from the bathroom. Hobie walks over there and leans against the door frame.
Miles currently has a shirt half on, and brushing his teeth, he pauses his attempt at pulling the shirt
on to spit into the sink. Hobie chuckles at his struggle, knowing all too well that Miles will never
learn; believe him, he has tried, and it ends with Hobie feeling like his mom was lecturing him.

The difference is that Miles mainly argues, lectures, and rants in Spanish.

He straightens up when he hears Miles exhale and the sound of the toothbrush hitting the counter.
Miles walks past Hobie grabbing his hand when he passes, pulling him towards the door.

—----
Friday night

The two ended up meeting with Gwen and staying out for several hours. Miles seemed to relax
somewhat. Hobie knows this will help; sometimes, all it takes is walking away for a while and
returning with a fresh pair of eyes. Hobie took Miles back to his room, and both agreed that Hobie
would stay in his room tonight so Miles could finish the painting.

Hobie is scrolling through his phone around 11pm when he hears the shuffling of feet outside the
sliding door. He sits up a little putting his phone down; the door slides open, the wind blows the
curtains open, and the fabric whips up and down. He has an idea of who it is, but not completely.
More like 99.9999999% sure.

The intruder steps into the room, whacking the wild curtains out of their face. The door slides shut
behind them, and Miles escapes the sea of fabric. Hobie laughs at the artist as he tries to straighten
the curtains out again, he gets a glare, but the smile on Miles’ face causes it to lose all of its bites.
Hobie turns away for a second to drop his phone on the table beside his bed. He doesn’t have a
chance to look back before Miles falls face-first into the bed. Hobie snorts, turning to lay on his
side, reaching his hand out, and rubbing the back of Miles’ neck. The artist’s shoulders sink into
the bed, and Hobie hears a frustrated groan muffled by the blankets.

“How ya feelin’ love,” Hobie asks, finally breaking the silence. Miles shouts something
unintelligible in Spanish, completely muffled by the blanket.

“Gonna suffocate yourself like that,” Hobie hears another groan from Miles before moving his
head to the side. Miles takes a deep breath and then shoves his face back into the blanket. Hobie
rolls his eyes and grabs his shoulders; he picks Miles up so his body is halfway off the bed. He
flips the artist over, flopping him onto his back; Miles lets this happen without any protest. Hobie
lays on his side facing Miles. Hobie gives the artist a questioning look, but the artist continues
avoiding his gaze; Hobie notices the purple lights reflect against Miles’ eyes, the sparkle of tears
brimming his eyelids.

Hobie gently guides Miles back to face him; when Miles meets his gaze, a few of the brimming
tears glide down his cheek, collecting against Hobie’s hand. Hobie pulls the other closer; he kisses
Miles’ forehead before resting his head against Miles’. After this comforting gesture, he hears
Miles choke out a small cry. Hobie gently slides his hand to the back of Miles’s neck again; Hobie
just holds him, and neither says a word.

Hobie is the first to break the silence.

“Better?” His voice is soft; Miles nods before inhaling sharply.

“I finished it,” Miles mutters; Hobie almost misses it. He immediately pulled him into his arms
when he processed what Miles had said. Miles squeaks at the movement, but he lets Hobie roll him
over so Miles is lying over him; Hobie hugs him tightly against his chest. Miles pulls away, a
massive smile across his face.

“That’s amazing, love,” Hobies encouragement causes Miles’ smile to grow.

“Was there another reason you were crying?” Miles shakes his head; he leans back down,
stretching out on top of Hobie, his hands settling around the photographer’s neck.

“It was probably the relief I felt when I finished it, it was pretty overwhelming,” Miles laughs, and
Hobie agrees with him; he can tell just by looking at the artist just how much weight was taken off
his shoulders all in one night. Miles leans down to kiss Hobie, its slow and soft, the cold metal of
Hobie’s newer lip piercing being the only unfamiliar aspect of the kiss.

Hobie breaks away, not far, only an inch. “When is the gallery again?” He whispers into the space
between them.

Miles inhales, thinking for a moment. “Next friday, I believe,” Hobie nods before settling his hand
on Miles’ jaw; he pulls the artist in, kissing him again. This kiss is heavier and quicker with more
heat in it. Miles’ mouth opens, inviting Hobie in, deepening the kiss even more. Hobie leans up
more, placing a hand behind him to keep him stable.

The night ends in a tangle of limbs, and Miles actually sleeping.

—-----
Friday

Miles has been staying at Hobie’s for most days leading up to the art gallery. Three of the seven
days were pretty rough for Miles; the nights were long and frustrating. But Hobie stayed up with
him just like he promised several months ago.

Hobie jots awake; he looks side to side, searching for Miles. The artist in question is yawning in
Hobie’s ‘kitchen,’ and he is currently robbing the fridge. Miles shuts the door with his hip hands
occupied with milk and a bowl of cereal. Hobie turns a blind eye to the fact Miles is wearing his
shirt from yesterday; Hobie tries to remember where it ended up, somewhere on the floor, he
believes. The photographer groans while tossing the blanket off him, the cold air hitting his bare
chest. He rubbed his arm a little on his way over to the pile of clothes; it was all clean. He just
hasn’t bothered with putting them away. He grabs one of the shirts, not caring which, he slips it on.
Hobie walks into the kitchen, filling the only bowl he owns with cereal. He walks around the table,
snatching the milk from Miles; he sets the bowl down and then leans down to kiss the artist’s head.
Miles hums, looking up at him. A small smile grows on his face.

“Ready for the gallery today?” Hobie’s voice comes out scratchy; he clears his throat while
pouring the milk. Miles rolls his eyes while groaning, the sound muffled by the cereal he is
chewing. Hobie breathes out a small laugh before taking a bite of his cereal.

Miles finishes chewing before giving his verbal answer, “Dios mio no me lo records,” Hobie raises
an eyebrow; he has picked up some Spanish here and there; for example, he knew Dios mio was
my god just from how much Miles said it. However, he was anything but fluent. Miles translates
for him before complaining about how he can’t wait for this to end.

“It’s at like four pm, right?” Hobie cuts into Miles’ rant, steering the conversation in a different
direction.

“Yea, I think it’s at like four-thirty,” Miles looks down at his bowel, now void of cereal.

“I’m assumin’ you gotta be there at like four-ish?”

“A little before four, yes,”

Hobie nods; he picks up his bowl, downing the leftover milk.

“Don’t waste that love; I paid for it. Gotta get the most out of it,” He says, referring to the milk
sitting in Miles’ bowel. The artist quickly complies, downing the milk shortly after Hobie leaves
the table. They end up sitting out on the deck for a little while, their legs tangled together, just
small conversations every few minutes.

Soon the time comes for Miles to climb back up to his room and get the painting ready. Hobie
follows the artist; both boys loosely wrap the painting with a tarp and make their way to the
elevator.

—---
Friday night

Hobie stood next to the painting, glancing around for Miles, but the artist was still nowhere to be
found; Miles left to get ready, leaving Hobie with the wrapped painting in the backroom of the
gallery area. And several of the event leaders were starting to ask Hobie where the painting was
going. Hobie hangs up the phone after it goes to voicemail again. He exhaled heavily, looking
around the gallery, searching for an excellent spot to hang the painting, he was sure Miles had a
place in mind, but the start time was quickly approaching, and the artist was still missing. Hobie
struggles momentarily with the painting, trying to pick it up; once he gets a good grip on it, he
hands it over to a spot that he believes is decent. Hobie calls over an event lead to help unwrap and
gently hang the painting.

“This looks amazing; you did a great job,” the lead says; her voice is high, and she sounds
genuinely excited. Hobie chuckles and turns to her.

“It’s not mine; my partner is still getting ready,” the lead apologizes and excuses herself shortly
after. Hobie leaned against the wall checking his phone to see if Miles had responded.

Another ten minutes pass, and still no Miles.

Hobie chewed at his lip, nerves building in his stomach; he had called him another four times, each
time voicemail. He checks the time, it’s 4:25, and the event starts in five minutes.
“God, Miles, what’s goin’ on,” He whispers to himself, his nerves become too much, and he
pushes off the wall. He quickly gets to the bathroom and swings the door open, almost hitting
someone in the process. Hobie waves a quick apology, moving on immediately after. He glances
around to see if he can find the artist sitting on one of the benches. The bathroom seemed empty,
the blue benches void of any people.

Next, Hobie discreetly checks under all the stalls, searching for Miles’ red shoes. He almost gives
up before the last stall; thank god he didn’t. The stall was locked, and Miles’ shoes stood against
the white and black tile. Hobie finally exhales after what feels like hours; he gently knocks on the
door.

“Miles, you doin’ okay?” He heard Miles sigh heavily on the other side of the door.

“Sorry I didn’t answer Hobie,”

“Nah, it’s all good, love; you ready?” He hears the shuffle of feet and the flipping of the lock.
Miles emerges, his hand wiping the wetness from his eyes. Hobie follows closely behind; Miles
stops at the sink staring into the mirror; he reaches up to straighten out his shirt. Hobie touches his
hip, turning him around to face him; Hobie wets some paper towel, cleaning Miles’s nose.

“Take a breath; you got it,” Miles nods, taking a deep breath. The boys exit the bathroom hand in
hand. Hobie leads Miles over to the painting; Miles approves of the spot, the lights flash a few
times, and the event begins.

The gallery only had one lone wall in the middle, made of crystal clear glass, and a spinning stage
surrounded it. Miles and Hobie are near the front, giving them a perfect view of the stage.
Professor Peter walks up onto the stage, baby hanging off his hip.

“Welcome, everyone; before we begin, let’s give a big round of applause to the event leads, who
helped put this whole thing together,” The room fills with the sound of clapping, and after a
moment, the professor lifts his free hand to quiet them.

“And I would like to thank the world-renowned artist Steven Deaglo for coming from Italy to give
these amazing students a chance!” More applause was accompanied by a few cheers. Hobie feels
Miles tense next to him; he retakes Miles’ hand, gently squeezing it. The professor goes on with a
short speech ending with, ‘Have an amazing night, folks!’ Miles sighs heavily and drops his
forehead against Hobie’s shoulder.
“Relax, Miles, your piece is amazin’,’ ‘The artist only nods, not trusting his voice to speak. Hobie
picks up Miles’ chin and gives him a kiss.

“I’m gonna head out for a minute; I’ll try to be back,” Miles nods again before he leaves; Hobie
kisses him again, leaving Miles with a smile.

Hobie heads back to the dorm; he has an assignment that he waited too long to finish. As annoying
as it was, he could not do much about it. Miles would be fine; nerves happen to everyone. Miles
might react worse to them, but Hobie is sure he learned to deal with them on his own. He hops off
the train, not paying any attention; he passes by several students and returns to the dorms.

The assignment practically finished itself, but by the time Hobie was done, the gallery had been
done for half an hour now. So the photographer decides to see if Miles is back; he slides his door
open and swings himself onto Miles’s deck. Just in case, he shoots Miles a quick text letting him
know he is there waiting for him. Hobie puts his phone away and walks into the artist’s room.
Miles was taking longer than Hobie thought he would, so in the meantime, he returned to his room
to get ingredients for some waffles. He didn’t think it through, not considering that Miles nor
himself had a waffle maker. So pancakes would have to do.

He is flipping the last one when Miles barges into the room; he hears the happy sigh that leaves
Miles’ lips when smelling the pancakes. Hobie turns to see Miles wandering into the kitchen with a
massive smile.

“Forgot, we didn’t have a waffle maker; pancakes are good right?” Miles snorts, walking over to
him; he hugs Hobie’s middle leaning up to kiss him.

“They are just fine, thanks,” Hobie smiles down at him. The pancakes finish, and Miles takes two
before wandering over to his bed. Hobie joins him with a plain pancake in his hand.

“So tell me, how’d it go?” Hobie asks before taking a sizable bite of the pancake.

“Much better than I thought,” Miles exhales, visibly relaxing. “Got to talk to Steven, so that was
good; give me some good advice, too,” Miles cuts a piece of pancake, humming with joy after the
first bite.

“Hey, that’s fuckin’ amazing, Miles,” Hobie shakes Miles’s shoulder, a little, a huge smile on his
face. Miles’ smile grows when he sees Hobie’s. “You’re in the big leagues now; don’t forget about
little old me now,”

“Oh please, Hobie, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Miles finished inhaling his pancakes; he set
the plate down on the nightstand. Hobie leans back on his hands and watches Miles flop down
against the bed, bouncing slightly from the impact.

—--
Friday night
a week after the gallery.

Hobie finishes packing up his camera and glances around, ensuring he got the best angle for this
area. He nods, feeling satisfied with the pictures, his back on campus, passing by one of the
restaurants. He stops considering getting some food; his gaze is drawn to a sign outside the door.
‘TINY WAFFLES’ piques his interest immediately; he and Miles were planning a movie night
with Gwen in around two hours. So he gives in; he walks up to the door, swinging it open. The soft
chime of the bell is gentle on his ears.

He stands in line, reading the rest of the menu for fun, the bell rings again, and Hobie hears two
ladies enter, getting in line behind him. He doesn’t pay them any mind, just focusing on a text
Miles just sent. The conversation behind him is background noise till he hears a name that always
draws his attention.

“Yea, I think his name is Miles Morales. I’m not sure, though,” One of the ladies behind him says;
he zones in on their conversation now.

“Oh yea, I saw his piece; amazing; I can’t believe his leaving for Italy with Steven!”

“I know his so lucky; when are they leaving again?”

“Tomorrow night is what I heard,”

Hobie’s heart drops. His throat closes up, and he can’t hear the cashier calling him to order; he
feels his breath quicken and pushes the door open again, storming out of the building. He breaks
out into a sprint toward the train stop. The sky is darker due to storm clouds, and he hears the
distant rumble of thunder. It’s raining when he reaches the train stop; he tries avoiding the drops as
much as possible as he runs to board the train. The wetness from the rain helps hide the tears
escaping down his face; he tries to stay as quiet as he can and takes shallow breaths between
choked-back cries of frustration. Lucky for him, the train was empty at the moment, but the small
space felt like a tight box he couldn’t get out of. The walls seeming to close in on him, he leans his
head back against the seat, panting from the raging emotions going through his head.

Two primary questions are crossing his mind as the train speeds towards the dorms.

Why didn’t Miles tell him?

Was he even going to tell him, or was he just gonna disappear?

The train whistle snaps Hobie back to reality, and exits the train. He doesn’t run this time, too tired
to even try. He reaches the dorms and immediately heads for Miles’ dorm. Hobie finds himself
frozen in front of the door; through the door, he can hear the laughter of Gwen and Miles. This
made it harder to walk in; it might have been easier if Gwen wasn’t there. He backtracks. No, it
would be worse without her there. He swallows his nerves and puts on a blank face. He unlocks
the door with Miles’ spare key, the honor of having it feels sticky and gross now.

He hears Gwen and Miles greet him when he enters, but their voices sound far away and
unfamiliar. His vision refocuses when Miles walks up to him with slight concern. Before he can
stop himself, he grabs Miles’ outstretched hand, stopping the artist from touching him. His hearing
returns after this; the hurt in Miles’ voice feels disingenuous.

“Hobie?” Miles’ hand drops back to his side; Gwen has gotten up and is staring at the two of them.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Miles,” Gwen immediately steps in. She stands beside Miles, staring Hobie
down. The seriousness on her face gives Hobie a strange feeling.

“Hobie, what’s going on,” She demands, stepping in front of Miles a little.

“Ask him,” Hobie snaps, nodding his head towards Miles.

“Hobie, what the fuck,” Miles snaps back, stepping back in front of Gwen; Hobie can see the anger
simmering in his eyes.

“Okay, yea, let’s play dumb with me, Miles. When will you tell me that you are goin’ to fucking
Italy?”

“Wha-”

“Were you planning on letting me down easy the day of? Or maybe you weren’t going to tell me at
all,” Hobie is yelling now; his finger points at Miles, and without better judgment, he feels himself
walking towards the artist. “Just leave me behind and move on,” Hobie spits, venom lacing his
words.

Miles’ switch flips, and he is beyond angry now.

“I was going to tell you, but until you calm down, it’s none of your business,” Hobie flumes at this,
missing the flash of sudden regret in Miles’ eyes.
“None of my business?” He snaps, “I thought we were a team? But I guess everything in the past
meant nothing to you,”

“I guess so; the fact that you don’t trust me is enough for me to not believe one moment of it,”
Hobie shuts down; Miles didn’t mean that, right? Like, he is in the right here; Miles didn’t tell him
anything. They have argued before it’s always the same. Neither can be wrong, and they are on the
defensive the second one starts something.
But this, this is different. Hobie has never seen Miles like this, teeth bared and ready for whatever
Hobie says. Hobie hears himself say something; he can’t even register what he said. All he can
focus on is Miles’ whole body recoil, his face drop, and a few tears brimming in his soft brown
eyes. He feels Gwen push him back against the wall, she’s yelling about something, but he can
only watch Miles slam the door shut behind him. He continues looking at the door, frozen by what
happened. He is pulled back to reality with a harsh slap to the face. His vision refocuses, and his
hand snaps to hold his face; he looks before him; Gwen is breathing heavily, and frustrated tears
cloud her eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Hobie,” She straightens out, demanding an answer; her glare is
harsh and cuts deep.

“Did you know too?” Stop, Hobie, you don’t need to die on this hill.

“Know what?” She snarls.

“That Miles is going to fucking Italy tomorrow night?” You are obviously wrong, Hobie; stop. He
tried to stop himself, but his emotions had taken over a while ago.

“Yea, and that’s because his not fucking going,”

“What?” His voice is small; he knows he messed up.

“Go ask him,” She pushes him towards the door.

“Hurry up before you fuck this up even more than you already have,” Hobie stands there for a
moment staring at the door handle; he feels Gwen grab his arm and shove him out the door.

The drizzle has turned to a downpour when Hobie gets out there; he looks around, searching for
any sign of Miles. Luckily the artist hadn’t gotten far; Hobie could still him walking towards the
road you have to cross to enter the forest. Hobie sprints, trying to catch up as quickly as he can.
Thankfully Miles is barely going at a walking pace, so it didn’t take long for Hobie to catch up and
grab his wrist.

“Miles, wait-” Miles snaps his head around, ripping his wrist from Hobie’s hand. Hobie stops
putting his hands up before dropping them to his sides.

“Miles, I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have freaked out on you,” Hobie says, reaching up to wipe some rain
from his eyes. Miles screams in frustration.

“Do you know why I didn’t tell you?” Hobie doesn’t respond.

“I was fucking scared to even think about it!” Miles’ breaths are coming out fast and shallow. “I
was worried about your reaction; I was sacred because Steven offered to pay for everything so I
could work alongside him in Italy,” Hobie audibly gasps a little; he always believed Miles was
excellent, but the fact that a world-class artist is that interested in Miles, makes him feel a weird
mix of pride and worry.
“And honestly, Hobie,” Miles walks back towards the road a little more, “I wasn’t even going to
consider it,” Hobie’s brain stutters; Miles exhales heavily, waiting for Hobie to say something.
And Hobie wishes he had a brain; he wants to go back and punch himself in the face to prevent
this.

“God, would you say something, joder no puedo creer esto,” Miles mutters the Spanish part
ignoring Hobie’s sudden confusion. Hobie takes a step towards Miles; he feels like his brain is
finally working correctly enough to trust himself with speaking.

“Miles, I should’ve talked to you first; I see that now,” Hobie says quietly, carefully choosing his
words. Miles keeps pacing in place, his hands messing with each other. Hobie tires getting closer,
only to have Miles send a glare his way.

“Miles, please, I’m sorry,”

“No, sorry, isn’t what I want to hear right now,” Miles keeps moving backward.

“Okay, what do you want me to say,” Hobie asks, trying to wave Miles away from the road.

“I don’t know! I don’t understand why you jumped to conclusions like that?” Miles shouts; his
mindless movement leads him closer to the road. “Like, do you have such little faith in me? If I
told you myself would the reaction be the same?”

“No, Miles, I fucked it all up; please, let’s go inside and talk this out,” Hobie almost tries to grab
Miles, but the artist keeps Hobie at arm’s length.

“Hobie, I genuinely am hurt by this; the fact that you have so little trust in me hurts even more,”
Miles keeps repeating his past statements; he trips over his feet a few times, his mindless pacing
leading into some tall grass by the side of the road. Hobie panics for a second; he quickly follows
Miles into the grass; he ignores Miles’s protests as he tries to grab him.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Miles snarls.

“Okay, I won’t, but you are getting close to the road, so please let’s talk inside,” Hobie pleads with
the artist, pointing back to the dorm. “I am hearing everything you are saying, but I think you
aren’t thinking straight right now,” Miles scowls at him.

“I’m not thinking straight? Come on, you are the one who storm in accusing me of fucking
disappearing on you,”

“Okay, poor choice of words, but my point about the road still stands,” Hobie responds, but he
backs off physically. He watches Mile turn around, glancing at the road, it is empty, but Hobie
knows teens speeding by on the weekends is typical.

“Miles, please listen to me,”

“Listen? Like you did inside?”

“Goddamnit! Miles, please,” The thundering rain covered the noise of everything around them;
Miles didn’t see it. But Hobie did, the headlights of a car speeding down the road; Miles is saying
something, his body is entirely on the road now, and he isn’t paying attention to his surroundings.
Miles doesn’t notice it till it’s almost in front of him.

It happened in a second, the horn cutting through the sound of rain. The car doesn’t even slow
down when it passes. The two boys are on the opposite side of the road, Hobie is cringing at a pain
in his side, and Miles coughs trying to get air in his lungs. Hobie is lying almost entirely on top of
 him. After all, he tackled Miles into the grass.

After a moment, the life-or-death experience seemed to bring them out of their own heads. Hobie
takes a deep breath, drops his head against Miles’ shoulder, and tries to hold back his emotions
momentarily.

“I’m sorry, I should have trusted you- I do trust you,” Hobie’s exhale is shaky, “I just got scared,
and I didn’t think,” Miles starts to speak, so he cuts him off.

“Stop, it’s my fault,” Hobie finally moves off of Miles; he gives the artist a once over to check for
any severe damage. He gets ready to stand when Miles grabs his arm, pulling him back down.

“No, I had a worse reaction to it,” Miles says quietly; Hobie couldn’t find any negative emotion in
his eyes. “While it still hurts, I should’ve been calmer; I only made it worse,”

Miles drops his head into his hands, “And then I go and almost get hit by a car,” He laughs
bitterly. Hobie covers his mouth to hide the laugh bubbling up into his throat. Miles playfully
glares at him with a weak smile on his face.

“Don’t laugh at me; I haven’t had the best luck with sleep lately,” Hobie only laughs a little harder;
he shakes his head, trying to stop himself. Miles whacks the other’s shoulder, joining in with his
own laughter.

“It’s my fault, Miles; maybe you could have reacted better, sure,” Hobie shrugs his shoulders, “But
I was the dumbass who can wait for someone to explain,”

“You got that right,” Hobie fakes a shocked reaction; Miles just laughs and stares at the water
dripping from Hobie’s hair.

“Fuck will your hair be okay,” Miles cringes at the thought of the work he will probably have to
do. Hobie sighs and reaches up to touch his hair.

“It will suck, but it’s worth it, I promise” He smiles at Miles, stands up, and offers his hand to the
artist. He takes it; Hobie pulls him closer, allowing himself to kiss Miles momentarily. Miles
returns the kiss, and Hobie can feel the smile cross the artist’s face when their lips meet.

They go back to the dorms, the movie night gets postponed, and Gwen gives Hobie one last slap
for good measure before she leaves.

Miles doesn’t sleep that night, and like he promised, Hobie spends his night with the artist under
the cloudy sky, the stars that usually watch them turn a blind eye for tonight.

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed, and sorry if it feels cheesy I can't help myself
my stuff is either really fucking sad or cheesy so be glad I was feeling cheesy for this
one. :D

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