Everyone has the worst day of their life. And the best. Yesterday, if you asked Hobie the worst day of his life, he'd tell you it was also the best.
London was a tough, dirty city. Full of grim and poverty, yet hope. People starving but still fucking and loving and hoping in the streets of this famished city.
And Hobie? He wasn't spider-punk. Not yet. Now, he was a just a normal homeless teen, squatting in some filthy apartment, with his then boyfriend. Miles. This beautiful, dorky, Brooklyn boy who ended up in the slums of England. No one cared about the flipside of London, saw the glamour and grand architecture, but refused to see the homeless sat in the shop doorways, turned a blind eye eye to the abandoned flats, filled with squatters, just like Hobie. Just like Miles.
They never spoke about how Miles landed in London. They never talked about a lot of things. Mutants and powers weren't uncommon in Hobies world, Osborne pumping soldiers with V.E.M.O.N and filling the streets with toxic waste. Miles had powers, just two. He never used them.
Hobie knew they had something to do with electricity. Saw the scars on his body, those of someone who's been struck down by lightening an nth amount of times. Knew that he'd been subject to human experiments from Oscorp. That's about as far as his knowledge went. He would never know how deep it ran.
He knew how weak it made him. His immune system. Hobie was weak, too. That's how they ended up, squatting in that flat, sick as dogs.
They had no light, no electricity or water. A barebones flat with the windows boarded up, and a spare, dirty mattress thrown in one of the few rooms. The wallpaper was peeling and the ceilings covered with mould and water damage stains. The floorboards were rotted and Hobie feared they'd fall right through them. The apartment stunk of death and something stale in the air. But, it was theirs. The first night there, Miles had painted a big sunflower on the wall. Mostly to try and brighten the place.
Hobies hand ran up the wall, with the little strength he could muster. His fingers graze a painted stalk, green with leaves shooting off of it. He was lay back on a saggy pillow with no cover, bare like the mattress. One moth-eaten blanket to cover both skinny boys. Miles was thrown over him, like the blanket. The shared heat and sweat between them was unbearable, but at the same time, it felt like ice was running through his veins. He couldn't bare to move an inch away from Miles, even as they lay in their own sickness and filth.
They'd gotten sick, 3 days ago. 3 days of laying in this bed together, full of restless sleep and trying to hold each other. Maybe for the last time.
Miles was the first to fall ill, whatever bug this was had been festering in him for longer. Miles was worse off than Hobie. Much worse off. One foot in the grave, he couldn't even lift his head off Hobies chest. As Hobies hand ran up the wall, he jostles Miles slightly. The noise he makes is so weak, so riddled with sickness, it makes Hobies heart hammer with worry.
His brow is covered in sweat, his cheeks are sunken because they hadn't been out to get food, his skin had lost some of its colour. His lips were drained of any pigment, cracked and dry.
He's quick to shush Miles, arm moving sluggishly to cradle the back of his head. He knew they both stunk, but Hobie presses Miles face into his shoulder anyway. The air around them felt damp.
He leans his head back, using whatever strength he had left to hitch Miles further ontop of him, wrapping their bodies closer together. His eyes strain as he tries to make the sunflower on the wall. The yellow looks faded, or maybe its just his vision blurring.
His eyes shut, and all he could do was hold Miles close. He thought, at the very least, if Miles died first, he'd get to do it in Hobies arms. Warm, and still alive. Hobie would only have Miles corspe to cling onto as the mystery disease slowly took Hobie back to Miles. Then, they'd be together, forever.
Hobie was never one to believe in the afterlife, or religion. But, when Miles asked him what he thought heaven looked like? He described it. For that day, there was a God, who's hands were big enough to catch an airplane. Or two sick boys.
But then the next day came. And Miles grew too tired, too ill to even speak. This would prove to be the worst, and best, day of Hobies life. The worst comes first. Doesn't it always?
Miles is still wrapped around him, unmoving for the most part, bar the gentle rise and fall of his chest. To say Hobie was worried would be such a massive understatement, he'd beat the obvious out of you if you'd say it. His anger was a weak flame, partly due to the sickness, mostly because Miles might not make it to tomorrow. But, fuck, he was so angry. At the world, at everyone who made the decisions that lead to this, at homelessness and poverty and greed, at God. God was real yesterday, and he'd be real today. Because Hobie needed someone to hold accountable.
He could do that later, but Miles was his first priority. Always would be. He presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, he knew Miles was awake. He gets a weak squeeze from where Miles hand lay. "Miles?" Hobie murmurs, voice low like he'd shatter the other boy if he spoke to loud.
The weak hum breaks his heart. "How you feeling?" He asks, pointlessly. He knew the answer. "Any better?" He only gets a shake of a head in response, his curls brushing against Hobies chin. "I know, baby, I know." He hums, trying to soothe Miles at least a little. He needed to do something, he needed a plan, but-
Miles was always the one with the plan, wasn't he? Miles was level-headed, thought things out. Hobie was impulsive and lacked self control, but for once in his damn life, he needed a plan. He could pull himself together enough to try.
Medicine. They needed medicine. Where from? There'll be a pharmacy somewhere, but Hobie had to look and he felt so fucking weak. And hungry. And thirsty. He thinks about how Miles probably feels worse, and can feel some of his strength starting to muster up.
A day in town, paired with Hobies shoplifting skills, he could definitely get what they needed. But, the more Hobie thought, the more questions came up. What medicine did they need? Hobie didn't know what they were sick with, let alone what could cure them. Anti-biotics? Is that over the counter? Paracetamol and calpol wouldn't be enough to cure this.
He knows Miles wouldn't let him leave, so his first task was getting Miles to actually sleep. Miles slept like a rock, you could throw actual rocks at his head and he'd stay asleep. He sighs through his nose, this whole fucking situation was looking dire. He presses another kiss to Miles temple, rubbing a hand up and down his back. Miles usually ran hot, but he was boiling. It felt like touching a hot stove, and he knew Miles whole body felt tender and feverish.
But, 30 minutes later, Miles was asleep, however restless it must've felt. Slowly, he manages to roll Miles off him, only to immediately miss the contact. For good measure, he props a pillow near Miles, a shoddy substitute for his body.
He slips on whatever he can find on the floor, chucking on Miles shirt and his pants as quietly as he can. He slips outside the bedroom, the door creaking as he slowly shuts the door. He trusts Miles to sleep like a rock, but lingering doubt swirls in his mind. What if he wakes up? He knew Miles would freak if he woke up without Hobie, would he try to leave? In his state, Miles wouldn't last outside. He'd be ushered off the streets by police or get lost or be too weak to walk back or-
Hobie doesn't want to lock him in the room. He doesn't, it's unfair to cage him like in like an animal, but.. it's for his own safety? It's justified, isn't it? He trusts Miles, but he seemed a bit delirious.
With a heavy heart, he scraps one of the few chairs they have across the floor and props it in front of the door. The windows were boarded so he didn't have to worry about Miles trying to escape via window - so that's fun.
Hobie doesn't have keys to the apartment, so he just leaves the door unlocked. Hobie has never experienced anxiety in his life but towards Miles? He was a nervous wreck, about anything he did. He trusted Miles, he did, but he still worried. He just wanted to wrap the other boy in a blanket and keep him safe from the world and all the vermin rotting in it.
All he can for now is try to keep him alive and warm. The walk to the highstreet is longer than usual, and every step of the way Hobie is plagued with this bad feeling in his stomach. He was still ill himself, he didn't know how much longer he could stay upright for.
The cold breeze was a pleasant contrast to the fever he had, but every staircase he passed he'd have to sit down. He was so hungry, it fucking hurt.
Sainsburys. Easy scran.
He stumbles his way into the shop, his mouth practically waters as he tries to find something easy to shove up his shirt. He manages to snag a water on his way to the ready food bit. Just sandwiches and pre-made food for people to buy, every shop caught on after Tesco meal deals started. God, he wanted a Southern fried chicken wrap.
He settles for a barbecue chicken wrap, managing to get his down his pants and out the door with him. He's out on the street for about 2 seconds before he's wolfing it down, stares be damned from those people who consider themselves more civilised than him. Not everyone likes Hobies eating style, which is ramming it into his face like its about to be taken off him.
New London, the ole smoke, is beautiful. Not the fancy shit, no, you gotta look deeper. Cause if you do, there's a small army of people. Hungry, fighting, people. And not everyone may understand the message, sprayed onto walls and trains, or any surface this army could latch onto. As misunderstood as they were, they were there.
And one day, everyone would see them.
But for now? Hobie can only admire the artwork, most of it made by Miles, that litter the city. Most cities, graffiti stays until the sun bleaches it to entropy. But not London.
In Hobies sweet city, they'll rapidly censor it with brown paint. Red bricks become this chocolate digestive colour. And that? It infuriated Hobie. Even if it wasn't pretty, he and so many others found solace in the stars, arrows, putrid colours. Anything to fight against the grey sky, grey buildings, grey fucking city. Small holes poked into the dullness.
Miles adapted, he always did. Ran down tube tunnels with spray paint in one hand and Hobie in the other. He still painted the walls, of course. Hobie had asked why once - It'd be gone the next day. Miles gave him a look, like he'd expected Hobie to understand, before telling him, under all that paint, the art was still there.
Miles chromed - they browned - Miles chromes - they brown. Today, its chrome, but tomorrow it will be brown. But today is today, and today Hobie gets to admire, these fleeting artworks that speak a million words that brown never could. The bricks and walls held hidden history.
The trains, too.
Having food made Hobie feel a bit better, if not a little dicky from how fast he ate it. He definitely had more strength though, walking quicker under the overbridge and out the other side. This city was Hobies, and he knew it like back the of his hand.
If only he belonged to the city.
It doesn't matter though, he belonged to someone else. It just meant that he knew exactly where the nearest pharmacy was.
Just past the train station. Miles had a habit of tagging everything in site, before handing Hobie the can to add a + Hobie 4ever under Miles name. The trains got took out of service to be cleaned.
A few weeks ago, before the sickness, Miles had an idea. They remove our paint, we'd remove theirs. There's this industrial brand paint stripper - Nitromors? It does to a train what salt goes to a slug. Makes the paint crumple and fall always, you just had to survive the toxic-fresh smell that skewered your nose long enough to pour it.
They weren't heroes yet - Just kids privy to the small rebellions they could think of. Including mad shoplifting, Hobie always had a nack for it, soon converting Miles to his ways. Ethically, of course.
The pharmacy was cold, they always were, for some reason. White tiles and florescent lights, they made Hobie feel sicker, the sweat beading up on his forehead. He browses around, managing to hide away any small medicines he deems useful. But the shit that they needed? The stuff that would help? All behind the counter.
Hobie needed a distraction. Miles was always good at those, but he wasn't much use borded up at home, was he?
Hobie scans around. It was only half busy, a few people mulling around here and there. He spots a woman, mulling about with her basket, staring at the lip balms. Right, he could do this. Distraction.
He heads down adjacent isle, just opposite to where the woman is. She didn't really need to be there, but she'd help keep the pharmacist busy in her panic. So, Hobie slowly leans on the shelf, rocking it back with his body. They were only the small ones, so it made easy work as it toppled toward her.
Hobie wasnt trying to pin her under it - Of course not! She'd move away. Unless she was daft, then it was her own fault.
As expected, she shifts, screaming blue murder. Hobie slips past the pharmastic as she - progressive - runs over to sort out the cacophony. Hobie was always good at being invisible.
He doesn't know what he's looking for, not really. A bag that says anti-biotics? Someone else's prescription? It can't be that easy, though, it never is-
Checking the label on a bag, Hobie realises that sometimes things are easy.
It's just time to get home.
Despite the shortness of breath, Hobie makes it back in record time. With food under his arms and medicine to hopefully help. He barges through the door, his entire trip had anxiety and worst possible scenarios tripping through his head. Hopefully, Miles had just stayed asleep, wouldn't know about anything.
Hopefully. Hobie makes his way through the dust filled apartment with its creaky floors. He pratices his stealth as he quietly moves the chair away. The door hinges were rusted as anything, though, he can't avoid the squeak as he swings it open.
For Hobie, hopefully doesn't exist. Nothing ever ended up being the best case scenario. Seeing Miles sat up, for fucks sake, immediately has Hobie fretting. He's quick to cross the room, dumping his goods on the mattress in favour to push Miles onto his back.
He looks so weak. A small shin of sweat covers his forehead as he grabs for Hobie, sharp words on his lips. How soft his voice is, how quiet it is, sucks out any sting. "Where've you been?" He snaps, "I thought you left or-" Hobie is trying to coax him down, a hand on his chest. "Hobie," His hand wraps around Hobies wrist, but even that grip is so weak. He's pushed down easily.
Hobie doesn't mind the anger - He knew Miles was scared. Who wouldn't? Being locked in a room, thinking the only person you have had left you in there to rot?
" 'M sorry, love," Hobie murmurs, voice low. "Sorry," He repeats, his lip pressing against Miles temple. He can feel how clammy his skin is.
"Where did you?-" Hobies never seen someone look so distressed, "I thought-" Miles voice wavers, and he just shakes his head, quieting down as Hobie shushes him.
"Went to town, yeah?" Hobie explains, hand trailing down Miles cheek to try and soften the hard glass he gives Hobie. "Got this," He elects to ignore the daggers being thrown his way, instead showing Miles the food he'd brought back.
Miles shakes his head, saying he felt sick. Hobie places it down, he could try get Miles to eat later - He has more important things to do. He grabs the pharmacy bag, ripping it open. He doesn't notice the spider that crawls up the bag, into his sleeve.
A bottle and a needle. Hobie didn't think it'd be intravenous, but he could work with that. He'd given and done enough piercings to be okay with needles. Same thing, right?
"Miles," Hobie speaks, trying to get his attention. "Gonna give you some of this, yeah?" He strokes his thumb over Miles cheekbone. He didn't have any anti septic wipes, so he can't really clean the area. Nor does he know exactly where to inject it.
Okay. He can do this. Tearing the needle free, he pushes it into the cap. God, does that dull it? He eyeballs the amount, making sure to tap out any airbubbles.
Looks.. Okay?
Ow- Fuck. Hobie swats his palm, feeling a nip from the spider that drops to the floor as he smacks it.
"You okay?" Comes the soft murmur from Miles.
"Yeah. Yeah, fine." Hobie pauses, before adding. "Bug bite." He grabs Miles forearm, searching for a vein.
"Want me to look at it?" Miles offers, as Hobie lightly smacks his skin, trying to get a vein to raise up.
He doesn't wanna haphazardly inject it into the muscle - It wouldn't do any good and it's a great way to get a big, oozing absinth and an amputated limb. "Nah, it's fine."
"Small pinch, yeah, love?" Hobie murmurs, hoping to keep Miles steady. His veins were defined, but they kept rolling away from the needle like waves - He couldn't pin them.
A small pinch turns into multiple little stab wounds as Hobie tries ineptly to get into a vein. Miles just winces - doesn't protest.
Finally - fucking finally - Hobie gets it in properly to push the anti-biotics into Miles system.
Miles insists Hobie take some himself, needle sharing be damned.
Hobie insists he was fine.
And, the next day, he felt completely recovered. No more sickness, and he felt a little bit taller, too.
Miles?
He didn't undergo as a miraculous recovery as Hobie.