the punk spider-man.
It had been 5 months since Harry Osborn set his sights on the multiverse. He had started small, sending low-level bad guys through to other universes, disguising them as unintentional anomalies. Maybe, if they’d been a united front, they could have held onto the Spider-Society base. Maybe if they’d trained more they would have stood a chance. Maybe if they hadn't wasted their time chasing down a gang of five teenagers the multiverse wouldn’t have been conquered by a megalomaniacal goblin. But no Spider-Man can focus on “maybe” for too long before they are lost in it. So the five of them, Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, Hobie, and Margot, looked to the future. After all, they were its only hope.
The air in different universes has a different smell, Miles had realized. He’d made a note of it in his journal early on in their travels, and had begun cataloging the specific scents of every universe they went to. With extensive visual aids, of course. If he didn’t draw, he felt like he was going to go insane with the weight of what was happening. Harry Osborne had formed a multiversal alliance of supervillains, and they had divided up the multiverse like gangs dividing up turf. So now the five of them traveled through the cracks, any world that hadn’t been taken yet, looking for any way to fix things. Mostly, they just wanted to go home.
Usually they stayed in motels like they were at now. They felt varying degrees of bad about using Margot’s hard-light hologram technology to generate fake money. Miles and Gwen, ever the children of police officers, felt the worst about it. Hobie was quick to point out that it was exactly as fake as any other money. Pavitr was mostly preoccupied trying to assuage the concerns that naturally occur when five teenagers show up in your motel asking for a room for the night, and pay entirely in cash. But there they were, alive for another day, getting fitful sleep on low quality beds that had doubtlessly seen more abuse over the years than Curt Connors’ arm. Pavitr made that joke when they arrived. They’d all laughed, and then cried.
Hobie couldn’t sleep. For one, the motel was simply too short for him. And for another, he was freaking out. He felt giddy and petrified and excited all at once. When the five of them, hanging out at “The Coffee Bean” in Miles’ universe, had gotten that transmission from Jessica explaining that the multiverse was about to fall under Harry Osborn’s control, he had felt, more than anything, vindicated. He had pushed Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, and Margot to question the Spider-Society, and because of that they were in the unique position to save the entire multiverse. He had prompted a revolution on a multiversal scale, but now the fallout was his to deal with.
He was snapped out of his turmoil by a knock at the door. It was Pavitr.
“Can I come in?” Pav asked, despite the fact that he was already pushing the door open.
“Sure thing,” Hobie replied. He couldn’t help but consider their history as Pavitr stepped into the room. The two of them had joined the Spider-Society only a few days apart. But while Hobie had been at work as Spider-Man in his universe for years before joining the society, Pavitr was only a few months into the gig. Hobie couldn’t decide if he envied Pavitr or pitied him for having his Spider-Man formative years filled up with multiverse trauma rather than the, apparently much more common interpersonal Spider-Man trauma.
“Can’t sleep?” Pavitr asked him, sitting down on the edge of Hobie’s bed. Hobie sat up as well, keeping Pavitr from having to look down at him.
“I don’t believe in sleep.” Hobie replied in a clipped tone. He hadn’t even meant to slip into Spider-Man comedian-speak, but it felt easier in the moment than having a real conversation.
“Right. I guess circadian rhythm is just another construct of the man” replied with a half-hearted chuckle and smile. It was clear that a real conversation was exactly what he’d come here for, and he could tell Hobie was blowing him off. He kept forgetting this about Pavitr, he knew how to read into things.
A silence.
“I’m sorry. I just…I don’t feel totally comfortable talking about everything right now” Hobie said finally, trying to find a compromise.
“I get that. We all miss our homes,” Pavitr replies “I’d do anything to see Maya Auntie right now, although I’d need one hell of a cover story to explain where I’ve been,”
“Hold up! You didn’t come up with a cover story. That’s ridiculous. You’re Spider-Man, you need cover stories!” Hobie shouted, grabbing Pavitr by the arm and shaking him playfully.
“I know, I know, I just…I’ve never done anything like…THIS” Pavitr said, gesturing to the motel room, but more broadly the universe itself “before. I mean, I’ve barely done any regular Spider-Man stuff at all. Me and Margot, even Gwen and Miles. None of us have your experience,” he says finally.
“That’s kind of the problem, innit.” Hobie replies. He flops back onto the bed the short way across, nearly half the length of his body hanging off the edge.
“What does that mean?” Pavitr asks. He turns around and lays on the bed, resting his head by necessity on Hobie’s chest. He can hear him breathing. With someone else it might feel awkward, but the Spiders all felt strangely comfortable. Maybe that just happens when you’ve been, in essence, living each other’s lives for so long.
“It means that, like, we’re responsible for saving the universe. But I’m responsible for all of you. So basically I’m responsible for everything and everyone…everywhere,” Hobie is on a roll now. Maybe it’s because if he doesn't crane his neck, he can’t see Pavitr’s face from their current configuration. It's like being in a mask, but supercharged.
“Oh right, an overload of responsibility, that thing that, famously, no Spider-Man except for you apparently has ever felt in the whole entire Multiverse,” Pavitr replies mockingly. He moves his arm awkwardly for a moment before he finds Hobie’s hands and interlaces fingers. “It’s us Hobie. We’re not just a team. We’re not even just family. We’re the same story. You can tell it or not, that’s your choice, but you don’t get to pretend that we wouldn’t understand it,” Pavitr stands up then, letting go of Hobie’s hand, and looks him in the eye. “You were bitten by a radioactive spider, Hobie, you’re not that special,” he says. He’s grinning, but there are tears in his eyes.
“Well” Hobie begins, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes as well “when you put it like that…”