There’s weakness deep inside every person Miles has ever known, but still, he doesn’t expect the one that belongs to this harder version of himself.
He’s been dragged along into the city, his hands bound and a pair of dark eyes peering into him every five minutes. His mouth aches from where he’s hit it on the asphalt, his fit tumbling out from under him like a child. His other self had looked at him, eyes unseeing and mouth quivering at his pain.
The glitching has let up some but still his bones ache as if the world is constantly trying to rearrange him and is failing, its anger becoming larger and more vicious every time. The grunts of pain he lets out fall on deaf ears, his eyes closing momentarily to re-center himself before pushing forward.
The city smells like violence, the horizon a blend of gunmetal blue and rich purple. The end is near here or has already come. Fires burn near webs of landlines, Miles’ eyes catching on Converse pairs flung over them in a desperate bid for hope.
As they keep walking, the city changes. The call of death and prophecy of destruction still rings throughout but it looks different. The jagged graffiti is in aristocratic languages, fuck you! in Latin and French. Lovers trying to cling together have scribbled their names together on diamond-studded locks, some of the jewels carved out but thieves and smugglers.
All that love, stolen.
Miles tears his eyes away and focuses on the animal movement of Morales’ shoulders, his hands in his pockets and his body looking so easy you’d miss the tension in his neck. Morales’ braids swing side to side, a gold chain peeking out from the collar of his suit.
The silence between them is violence in itself, a refusal to acknowledge each other and their shared grief for different people.
Finally, they come to a stop, Morales’ head tilting before his suit dissolves in a slick move, revealing a simple oversized red tee and baggy jeans. How that all even fits inside of his Prowler getup, Miles doesn’t know. In a motion so smooth that he knows its practice, he watches Morales tug a finger around the body of his chain and yank until it’s settled over the neck of his tee.
“Don’t say shit,” is all he gets and then they begin to walk again. “And do that invisibility shit you were talking about earlier.”
He doesn’t even know why he’s here but Uncle Aaron had told them that Miles needed to be watched at all times and so Morales had walked out with a huff and a silent expectation for Miles to follow.
The distance is shorter, but the silence is the same. They stop again in front of a house so white it makes Miles think of Georgia in the summertime, the blinding white of the homes paired with the sharp crystal blue of the shutters. The smiles the white people wore were unbearable, twisted, and fake but the black kids living there too evened out the pit in his stomach.
He gets caught up in the golden memories: the way he ran every morning, the way his mother soothed his muscles with ice water, the way his father’s laughter was easier then and more genuine, the way Uncle Aaron had taught him to cook.
His chest hurts and he turns off the photo reel in his head, eyes blinking steadily to keep his grief at bay.
Morales is still standing in front of him, head cocked in that feline way again. Then his body fully relaxes and he makes a rough noise that Miles realizes is a laugh.
“What are you doing out here by yourself, rey? City’s not safe enough to do that.”
Who the hell is he talking to, Miles thinks and in the next minute, his question is answered.
“Mili,” comes the languid response, the voice deep and like silk and so familiar Miles almost loses it.
“Hey, E,” Morales responds and his voice is lighter, a forced calm covering up his other life.
It’s as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred like Morales isn’t pursuing a life of crime by night and the other version of himself isn’t standing slack-jawed behind him.
Morales moves to the side and like snow blanketing dead earth, the world goes quiet. There’s static playing in Miles’ head, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he takes this in. Before him stands Hobie or Morales’ version of Hobie.
He’s less punk and more posh, but undeniably British. His accent is soft around the edges as if it’s been smeared from years away from home, falling loose from the skin of Hobie’s speech. This version of Hobie is softer, body curvy, and cushioned with more weight. His hips are full and his thighs thick, feet bare in the front yard of his home.
His piercings seem to have made it into every universe, but here they're diamond and sapphire. They gleam around his ears and mouth, the one in his nose a softer blue than the one in his left eyebrow. Miles wonders if he has a version of the back dimple dermal that his Hobie has.
42-Hobie wears an oversized t-shirt with a cut-off collar, the neck open and gaping past the rigid line of his shoulders. Harley Davidson is spelled across the black fabric in turquoise script embellished with flaking glitter. He crosses his arms over the plush of his stomach and Miles looks away, body buzzing.
This Hobie is more rock than punk, his pursed mouth overly red as if he’s been nipping at them in thought. The rest of his jewelry is silver and dripping over him, his lashes long and thick against his cheeks. His hair is two long straight backs, mirroring Morales except for the silver charms strung all the way through.
Morales steps forward and Hobie's warm eyes snap back to him.
"Didn't answer my question, rey. Why're you out here?" He sweeps his gaze down Hobie's figure, eyes catching on his thighs before coming back up, his throat working. "And like that?"
"Shooting stars tonight. So, I made a wish," Hobie answers easily, turning to walk back inside his home.
"About what?
"Can't tell you or it won't come true. Sorry, Mili."
Morales' mouth twitches and he nods as if to say fair enough. He follows Hobie in, the only sign that Miles should follow being a pointed gaze that reams through the part of him that isn't already aching.
☆
“Happy birthday, E.”
Hobie looks up from where he’s sitting at the in-house bar. (How rich is his family in this universe? God, his Hobie would hate this.)
As his head tilts, Morales’ eyes catch on the valley of his throat. His skin is gleaming, showered in body glitter that only appears when he plans to go raving. He’s already beautiful, but knowing there’s nothing but skin underneath his black tee makes his shoulders tense.
Hobie’s pleasure radiates from him, his body angled away from the two of them and his mouth curling in compressed joy. His eyes are unrelenting with their tenderness and affection, outlined harshly by the smoky makeup he’s donned for the night. 42-Hobie was an open flame, his body so electric that it lit him up from miles away.
Miles wonders if Morales has the same fear of missing out when it comes to him; as if one day he’d decide he didn't need him anymore and would move on.
“Thank you, Miles,” are the first words out of his best friend’s mouth, and Morales’ eyes shut automatically, shoving down the searing fondness in his stomach.
He was getting so caught up in the job, so dedicated to his and Aaron’s goal, that the way he used to be was fading away. But with Hobie it was different. It was warmer here, familiar and steady.
Hobie watches him with a devastatingly open expression, his deep rose-pink tongue sliding over his teeth in a quick motion that Morales follows.
“Miles,” Hobie begins, his voice raspy as if he’d just smoked, and both of them look at him. “Are you okay?”
The house is dark and contemporary inside, the walls made of exposed brick and distressed, paneled wood. Morales focuses on them, his body already softening in the presence of his best friend. He rolls his shoulders and looks back at him, teeth flashing as he smiles.
“Yeah. I’m good, rey.”
“Mmm,” is all Hobie says before sliding closer to Morales, ringed hands looping over his jaw before pulling away. “Okay.”
Morales reaches into his pocket, fingers dancing over a navy ring box before committing to the decision and pulling it out. He ignores Hobie’s protests and curls his dark fingers around it, his hand lingering before he separates them again.
“Open it later,” is all he says, and Hobie huffs indignantly, murmuring something about how he can do what he wants.
Miles smiles at that and Morales stiffens as if he knows, a bit of his masked person coming back into his gaze. There’s a warning in how he moves in front of Hobie, fingers clenching once and twice before he forces himself to relax.
“So, ready to go?” Hobie asks, ducking out from behind his bodyguard and coming to stand in front of the door.
His hands look warm around Morales’ wrist and maybe it’s the kindness that sets off his glitch. When he comes back, Hobie’s voice is far away and he’s swaying in place. The world is ringing and Miles gasps in shock and pain.
Morales’ face is unreadable and after a moment, Miles realizes he’s debating leaving him behind. Hobie steps forward and loops a long finger around his chain, tugging till they are face to face, Morales’ braids swinging as he moves.
“Come on. I know you hate my mates but they have good alcohol this time.”
Morales rolls his eyes and Hobie laughs.
“There we go,” he says with a cheeky smile.
“Shut the fuck up, E,” Morales responds but his body is loose and his eyes say he doesn’t really mean it.
There’s a surge of desire so strong that it moves Miles forward, his body swollen with agony and a lust for his Hobie.
This close, 42-Hobie is disarming and smells of almond blossoms and something muskier. His beauty is so much more personal, the apples of his cheeks prominent as he smiles. His face is round and his eyes almond, his teeth so neat in his mouth. His piercings wink in the light and Miles watches the way his throat vibrates gently with the alto of his voice.
“You okay?” he asks again and Morales grimaces.
“Why are you up my ass tonight, rey? Dios, eres como mi mamá. I just want to have a good time tonight,” Morales says and Hobie turns away slightly, eyes losing that teasing light.
“You’re being mean.”
The words settle somewhere deep in Morales’ chest, his face flushing as he watches Hobie turn back to face the city. With Hobie’s back to him, he allows his face to sink into vulnerability. He’s beguiled, mouth parting slightly in hunger.
There’s a severity to the love he’s glancing at Hobie with, a depth to the way he closes his eyes and lifts his hands as if to pray. They freeze halfway up and he lowers them, fingers tugging on the chain again before settling at his sides.
Miles observes all of this before taking a closer look at the chain. A thin ‘h’ dangles from the end, intertwined with a diamond-plated cross. The necklace disappears, flush against Morales’ skin.
“‘M sorry,” Morales pushes out. “I didn’t mean it.”
Miles knows what it feels like. When you have a crush you feel like you’ve invented the notion. You think no one else knows love like you know love.
You get tired of being casual; you want to die for someone.
Miles almost closes his eyes in relief.
There’s the fault. This is where the fragility lies.
☆
Music is spilling out of the propped-up door of the alley they find themselves in.
Morales has been trying to suss out if Hobie is mad at him and Miles is reminded that they are the same person, desperate to be seen as a man but always little boys when someone they love is upset with them.
“Leave it alone, Morales,” Hobie says eventually and they come to a stop.
“Nah,” Morales says with a stale laugh. “Nah, we ain’t doing all that tonight.”
Hobie rubs a hand over his face, eye makeup just a little more smudged. Those brown-black eyes look Morales right in the eyes, lashes fanning them with a religious reverence. The night seems to expand around him and his naked thighs, his body both soft and hard.
“For the last bloody time, I do what the fuck I want,” Hobie says and unknowingly, Miles steps forward with Morales.
“It’s your day, so I’mma be patient,” Morales begins, walking so that Hobie is forced against the damp wall of the alley. “But don’t do that shit, E. Don’t be petty and then say you’re not mad.”
Hobie’s eyes glint with something that disappears too quickly for Miles to read and a ringed hand pats Morales’ chest. Morales tilts his head, chain swinging in Hobie’s face.
Miles feels like he’s intruded, his throat dry and filled with conflicting desperation. He wants this but with his man; he wants to go.
He easily could. Morales seems to have forgotten he’s there, the rest of his senses seemingly blind as long as he can’t see them. But there’s something in the way Morales is looking at 42-Hobie, something in the way a hand has stopped the juncture of his shoulder and neck.
This is The Prowler, here and now. This is him demanding respect and making his body bigger like an animal, teeth slickly white in the overflowing light from inside.
This is danger holding danger underneath him, Hobie’s face unchanging and cold in its own way.
“Fine,” Hobie sighs and pushes Morales off him, albeit gently.
Those dark eyes flicker in Miles’ direction, mouth slipping up with speed and settling back down. Something begins to gather in Miles’ chest.
He can see him.
He never stopped to think if 42-Hobie was something other than human. He’d just assumed.
“Open your gift,” Morales demands.
Hobie breathes harshly through his nose and fishes the ring box out, fingers making quick work of the miniature lock. His eyes widen slightly at the diamond band, the jewels cut in the baguette shape.
“Miles. This is insanely expensive. How did you get this?”
Morales shrugs and nudges Hobie with a predatory smile.
“What do you think? I don’t have 24k lying around,” he says with a dark laugh.
Hobie shoves him but he’s smiling.
This makes Miles’ eyes widen slightly. Morales is lying. Based on the bit of the operation he’d seen while captive, Uncle Aaron and 42-Miles had money. A good chunk of it, too.
Morales is lying. Hobie doesn’t know shit. He might suspect something (he’s clever, that much Miles knows) but he knows nothing about Morales’ identity.
And Morales wants it like that.
Hobie palms the gift and then gives it to his best friend, eyes sweet and teeth caught in his lip ring.
“Put it on for me?”
Morales acquiesces and takes the ring, sliding it slowly on Hobie’s ring finger. His eyes never leave 42-Hobie’s, face impassive but the meaning clear.
This is a claim.
Hobie is visibly flustered, his blinking increasing and his hips shifting where he stands. Morales examines the ring in the light, the diamonds flashing like signs. He tugs a braid, touches a thigh, pulls back.
“Glad you like it, rey.”
They move then, Hobie walking in front. As they enter there’s a scream of a thousand birthday wishes and Hobie laughs, face creasing with palatable joy and love.
Here, he’s loved beyond measure. He’s Princess Diana, before and after death.
Morales lags and it’s enough time for Miles to play his card.
“I’ll tell him,” he says.
It’s three words but it’s enough. Morales slows to a complete stop and spins around, face tightening in barely concealed rage.
“You ain’t saying shit,” Morales spits and Miles laughs in his face, invisibility flickering off.
“And what’s stopping me?”
Morales eyes narrow and he smiles, gums so dark in the shadows they look like walls of blood.
“Because when it comes to him,” he murmurs, “I’ll fucking kill.”
“Nah,” Miles says with a shrug. “You’re not that stupid.”
Morales shakes his head, hands sliding into his pockets. He leans back, the party behind them shadowing his face in pink and gold.
His mouth twists in displeasure as he turns away, calling over his shoulder.
“Love is war, araña.”