I'll Call Out Your Name (But You Won't Call Back)
Miles collapses on his bed. After the mission, the portal he opened to take him back home spat him out in a cold alleyway. In the cold rain. He's lucky his dorm was close.
Curling up in the blankets, not caring that he was soaked from the rain, he buries his face in the pillow. He's cold, shivering, but at the same time- burning up. Sweat dribbles down his face. Sure, he was showing symptoms of a fever...but he's Spider-Man. And Spider-Man never gets sick.
...Right?
Ganke was currently visiting relatives somewhere, so Miles was alone.
He drags his gaze over to the window, which he left open. The cold breeze hit his face, rain speckling some paper on the desk.
Miles sighs. He messed up the mission, Hobie and even Pavitr looked pissed -or were they worried? He couldn't tell. Sure, he was tired, his speech was slurred, he almost fainted...him being sick wasn't that obvious. Even if it was, his friends wouldn't come to check on him.
They don't care about you.
Miles perks up as the window slides further up, a face smiling at him.
“Oi, y’alright?” Hobie asks, climbing into the room. He closes the window, glancing at Miles. “Me an’ Pav were a bit worried, y’know.”
The teen lifts his head off the pillow. “...Really?” He cringes at how he practically croaked the word out.
Hobie nods, sitting on the bed and ruffling Miles’ hair. “Mate, you sick?” A hand is placed on his forehead and the back of his neck. Hobie frowns.
“N-nah, I’m good. Great, actually.” Miles smiles, wincing as his dry lips crack.
“You ain’t. You gotta fever, Sunflower.” Hobie sighs, brushing Miles’ cheek with his thumb. He chuckles softly. “An’ your skin is crusty as hell. I bet you don’t gotta skincare routine.”
Miles groans, moving his head away. “Tried to have a routine. Couldn’t stick to it.”
Hobie boops Miles’ nose. “Mmh, sure. Anyways, you look real pale.” He glances around the room. “You gotta first-aid kit ‘round here? Betta take your temperature.”
“But ‘m fine.” Miles grumbles, half his face covered by the pillow. Hobie gets up and shrugs, smirking at Miles.
“No, you ain’t. Now excuse me, ‘cus I have a thermometer to find.”
Miles watches as the punk wanders away the small room, his vision a bit blurry. Colors danced around his eyesight, the dorm starting to spin.
Grasping for the sheet, he forced himself to sit up and ignore how the sudden motion made him feel sick to his stomach.
Miles brought the back of his hand to his forehead to wipe off sweat. But when he brought his hand back down…it wasn’t sweat. It was blood.
“...Hobie?” Miles whispers, loud enough for Hobie to hear.
His friend turns around, a thermometer in hand. “What’s up bruv?”
Miles bites his lip. “Think ‘m bleeding…”
“Where?” Hobie asks, his voice laced with the slightest amount of concern.
Miles points to his forehead, and Hobie just raises an eyebrow.
“You ain’t bleeding. I don’t see any blood.”
Miles pouts. “N-no, there’s…” He looks at his hand. The blood’s gone. “...blood.”
Hobie sighs, sitting back down with Miles. He’s holding the tympanic thermometer in his hand, tossing it from one to the other. “Okay, we gotta take your temperature now, got it?”
Miles curls up in the blanket, nodding. He winces as the uncomfortably big and flat tip is gently shoved into his ear, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears an unusually loud beep. As the thermometer is taken away, he looks at Hobie, who chuckles.
“Right bruv, it’s official. You gotta fever, no questions asked.”
Miles blinks. Wait…he knows Hobie changes color, but eyes never turn red.
His breathing picks up as Hobie reaches a hand towards him. No, that’s not Hobie. It’s Miguel.
He’s gonna kill me. Oh god, he’s gonna fucking kill me.
The room feels so small, like the walls are closing in.
Get me out get me out-
Miguel’s claws brush against Miles’ arm, causing him to shudder. Trying to make himself as small as possible, he curls into himself. His breathing is too quick for comfort, he’s tugging at his hair, scratching his face-
“Miles! Oi, don’t hurt yourself like that.” Hobie’s voice grounds him.
It’s not Miguel, it’s just Hobie. Wait, was I hallucinating? Oh god, oh fuck…I'm going insane-
“Did you get one of ‘em delusions? Y’know, hallucinations?” Hobie asks, raising an eyebrow before shrugging it off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, they’re common with bad fevers.”
A pause.
“Y’know, you can talk ‘bout it if you want. I’m all ears.”
Miles bites his lip. “Um…I thought you were gonna hurt me…but, it wasn’t you- it was Miguel, and- you weren’t there when he attacked me, right? B-but I got scared that you- he? Anyways, I was scared that he might kill me just now, an-and-”
“Okay, time to stop you there.” Hobie holds Miles’ hand. “I get the jist, and while hearin’ you ramble is cute an’ all, you can’t use up energy like that.”
Miles nods, resting his head on Hobie’s lap. “Sleepy.”
“Yeah, same here mate. How ‘bout you close your eyes for a little bit, yeah?”
Miles nods, closing his eyes. Nothing but his mind to keep him company now.
It’s funny how you think they care. It’s not that, just pity. They pity you.
Shut up.
To them, you’re just an anomaly. But you wear the face of a traumatized teen, using it to fish for sympathy.
Shut up. They care. Hobie cares, he’s here right now.
And? He likes breaking rules. Hanging out with you is like a middle finger to the system. He’s not doing it because he likes you.
…Oh.
Glad you see our point.
Who-what even are you? The voice in my head?
You could say that. But for now, sleep. You need the rest.
Miles allows himself to go from getting a little shut eye to full-on sleeping. He’ll just go with that voice being from the fever. He’s not insane, just sick.
…That’s all.