The sky is spinning, an endless cycle of slurred blue and violet.
Miles feels sick, just slightly, and turns gingerly to the side. He blinks brightly after the sharp pop of the flash goes off. He can’t tell who he’s been photographed by, but he smiles awkwardly just in case.
The party is raging and the bass of whatever song is playing is shaking the shimmering martini glasses from the stem up. He rescues one currently in the process of falling to its death and neatly sidesteps the body of someone throwing up quite violently over the counter.
He shivers from both the chill of the outside and the thin layer of disgust that has been coating him since he arrived. He’s a physics student, por el amor de Dios, he has no business being at some opening party of a punk band in the deepest pit of London.
He doesn’t even know whose house this is, just that the massive floor-to-ceiling windows have been thrown open carelessly which has caused the heat to shut off and the curtains around them to billow so wildly that Miles half expects a set of aerialists to come tumbling from the ceiling while using them as props.
He takes a sip of whatever is in the glass and twists his mouth as an explosion of bitterness takes its place on his tongue. It’s absolutely disgusting and he turns to place it somewhere where it won’t fall. That was the plan at least, but things had a way of not going well for him.
And true to his nature he slams into the broad chest of someone he hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting. The body beneath him is strong and smells of vanilla musk and vetiver.
Someone’s speaking and their voice is smoky and Miles feels a little high as he curves his eyes over sharp cheekbones and curly hair let loose into a flowering, airy afro. Hobie Brown, frontman of Blood Animal and the world’s unknown Spider-Punk, smiles coolly at him and plucks the martini glass from his hands, tilting his head back so that Miles has a clear view of the way his throat swallows down the liquor.
There’s a shake of Hobie’s head reminiscent of a dog and then a glance down through those dark lashes, dark brown meeting sugar brown syrup, earth on earth. He grins crookedly and Miles has the peculiar feeling that he’s lost some sort of game. There’s been no moment of conversation and yet the air is charged like they’ve fought and come to a stalemate. The air ripples around them as the damp summer air blows through the wide avenues of the house, the low rumble of guitar opening up the next song of the night.
Miles blinks once, twice. Hobie smiles slowly and there’s another bright pop of flash and it startles him enough that he stumbles a bit, hands flying out to steady himself on anything else but the man before him. Hobie catches him lightly, the pink of his tongue peeking out like a child between the walls of his teeth.
Miles is praying to God that this picture doesn’t end up on Instagram tomorrow morning or he’ll never hear the end of it from Ganke.
There’s a soft twist of fabric as Hobie rights him, his nimble fingers tucking in the extra fabric into Miles’ waistband. He pulls away and reaches behind him, fingers grasping the leather of his jacket, and comes forward again, close enough to kiss. Miles really can’t do this right now.
Hobie looks at him from underneath his lashes again and then looks down, picking up the other’s hand and leading it through the tunnel of wool that’s his jacket sleeve. When he’s all bundled up, Hobie steps away and grabs the martini glass again, the flared rim dangling precariously from the tips of his fingers. Miles doesn’t doubt that while it looks frail, the grip on the glass is very strong.
“You were cold.”
Miles looks up at Hobie, caught foolishly by the divine British lilt along the lines of his voice.
“Must be Miles,” he continues, and Miles’ brow furrows. Hobie laughs, low and cheeky. “Seen you ‘round HQ and Gwen’s talked my ear right off about you. Always has loads to say. It’s nice to finally see you off the clock.”
Miles’ throat is working and his mind recalls the last conversation he had with Gwen, his stomach souring.
You spent the night with Hobie? He’d said, his heart sinking. Mmhmm. We hang out sometimes.
And right now, looking at him and the simple way he commands the room, Miles knows he’s losing Gwen to this icon in the making if he hasn’t lost her already.
“Enjoy yourself, mate.”
He goes to say thank you but Hobie turns and walks away, calling out to the cameraman loudly, arms spread like he’s trapped between a hug and a fall.
⋆
He’s snapped out of his misery the next morning by the spectacle of Gwen throwing open his flat door as if they’re on the set of a movie. She’s breathing hard and he stifles a laugh because she refuses to take the elevator due to an unfortunate incident involving a blackout and some ice.
“You got a fucking ticket. You got a fucking ticket to Blood Animal’s private album release show. What the fuck did you even do to get this?” she puffs out, cheeks bright red with exertion.
Miles sits up too quickly and sees stars, hands reaching out for the cool wood of the coffee table in front of him. He turns to fully face her, eyes wide in disbelief. Gwen sees her chance and begins talking a mile a minute, walking around him to collapse into the shabby little turquoise loveseat his Airbnb host had claimed to find at a farmer’s market.
(His mom had the same one from Homegoods.)
“Well, everyone saw your photo on Instagram because it was reposted by Cobrah Snake and—” Miles groans loudly and she pushes past like it’s just the morning breeze. “—and then I woke up to a haywire text from Ganke—”
“Why do you two even have each other’s numbers?” Miles asks, his eyes now even wider with concern.
“— and then Hobes messaged me with a QR code and some bullshit about ‘just bring him’ and when I asked him why he wanted you there he told me to ‘stop deeping it’.”
Hobes. Miles’s shoulders tighten briefly before he forces himself to act normal.
“What the fuck, Gwen,” he says. “I thought he didn’t even like me.”
Gwen looks at him weirdly, her head tilting and sending a spill of gold tinged with pink over the apex of her shoulder.
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Last night was just weird. We met briefly and he just kept looking at me like—” Miles breaks off and closes his eyes. “It was like he knew that I didn’t belong there as much as I did. He was laughing at me without making a sound and this ticket is probably the echo.”
“You’re deeping it, as Hobie would say. He probably just wants to get to know you. I talk about you a lot because you’re like, one of my three friends.”
He probably wants to source out the competition, Gwen. Miles leans forward and pleads with her to understand.
“I mean what the fuck is that, Gwen? We didn’t even speak fifty whole words to each other last night. In fact, he just said some line about seeing me at HQ, said you talked a lot, gave me his jacket, and swirled away without me being able to say thank you.”
“And apparently your little curly Bambi look was enough to have him trying to make a new friend. You’re compelling, Miles, as much as you pretend you’re not. The reason people like you, the reason we give you the time to get to know us better is that you’re the type to listen to someone say loads of shit and then make it into something shiny.”
Miles raises an eyebrow at the use of ‘loads’ and Gwen rolls her eyes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Maybe Hobie wants to make a fool of you, yeah? He can be a bit of an asshole,” she smiles fondly and Miles’ heart feels a bit heavier than before, “but I think he just wants to run his mouth over his mic instead. I think he knows you’re important to me and I think he’s probably never had the time to talk to you and I also think you’re an asshole too if you’re going to sit here and ignore my friends when you came to hang with me.”
Miles sits back and looks up at the pale pink ceiling for answers. There’s really only one.
“Alright, Gwen.”
Gwen cheers and reaches forward to link pinkies.
“Thank you, Miles. Love you. It’s gonna be a good night. You’ll have fun. With me.”
The words send something warm through his stomach, though it’s not as heady as it usually is, and Miles nods wordlessly to keep it together. When the door clicks shut, he settles back and scratches a line into the imaginary scoreboard behind his eyelids.
“Hobes”: 0, Miles: 1.
⋆
The band’s shared flat is peak indie sleaze, Miles thinks. It would be a more than adequate American Apparel backdrop with all the white walls and large spaces filled with abstract paintings that were probably filled with more meaning than he could give them.
Whatever isn’t white is matte black with a few splashes of color probably put in by the designer so that it didn’t look so destitute. Oddly enough he thinks that Hobie probably had the least say in decorating. His aura is not matching the setup.
He opens his mouth to call out but refrains, instead stepping quietly through the living room and settling on a deep red couch. He looks at the coffee table in front of him and spies crumpled paper with a curling black script on it. Miles tries to look away because it feels so invasive and is saved when a dark hand kissed with rings comes forward to clean it up.
“Glad you could make it, Brooklyn baby.”
Miles looks up and heaves out a breath before standing up and putting forth his hand, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. Hobie blinks at him briefly before allowing a small smile to tick up the corners of his mouth.
“Heard you were a bit surprised by the ticket,” he continues, sitting down and sinking low into a well-worn armchair.
Miles feels a brief flash of annoyance at how self-assured he is at the moment and sits back down, ignoring the beatific smile being thrown his way and shrugging off his A Bathing Ape varsity jacket. He’s just worn a burnt orange sweater with artful rips and his favorite pair of Levis he’d dug out the mouth of his suitcase, but he still feels off-kilter when he looks at Hobie.
He’s dressed deceptively simply but Miles knows that if he really did the research he’d be looking at prices he wouldn’t know what to do with.
The stretched curls of Hobie’s hair shine underneath the natural lighting of the living room and it’s pulled back today to give his face a severely sculpted look. He’s quietly stunning, practically untouchable, and gives off the air that he’s waiting for you to find a way to touch him anyway.
“You don’t know much about punk, Gwen’s told me. It’s been quite the talk. Think this show will change your mind?”
Hobie smiles fully and the sides of his eyes crinkle and then he leans forward, the weight of his body resting somewhat sustainably on his hands. Every time Miles looks at Hobie he feels violently overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to pull away and so he keeps getting caught on the other’s teeth and lips and the silver piercings decorating the landscape of his face.
“Um, maybe” Miles answers after a minute. “I don’t really know. I don’t hate it or anything. Just never listened to much.”
Hobie hums and leans back, his legs falling open and drawing Miles’s attention. There’s a second of tension where the room swells with warmth and they look at each other, mouths going dry. What the fuck is going on?
“How’d you and Gwen become friends?”
Hobie tilts his head, eyes flickering to the side as he tugs on his lip ring. He looks back at Miles with something unreadable on his face.
“We like the same person and we work the same job.”
“Oh,” Miles can’t help the disappointment in his voice.
They like each other and they fight together and he’s not even on the fucking roster.
“Love brings people together,” Hobie answers. “It also tears them apart.”
Miles knows his face has dropped and he makes a show of digging his phone out from his bag to quickly blink away the tears. There are six texts from his mom, a call from his dad, and a brief text about the location of the concert from Gwen.
When he looks back up, Hobie is studying him with those dark eyes. The minimal sun creeping in from the window dresses his face in celestial light. He’s beautiful, empyrean.
“You okay, mate?” Hobie asks and Miles nods, unsure of it all.
There’s a shift and suddenly a long finger is under his chin, pulling him up so that Hobie can scan his face. The tip of his finger is rough and a point of connection, a fever spreading through Miles’ throat. Hobie looks hungry for lack of a better word and tears threaten to flood Miles’ eyes again because he knows this feeling, he recognizes the rush.
Hobie lets his hand drop and his brain begins to buzz. It’s like a car crash he can’t escape and his airbags are shit, so he’s going to feel everything.
He’s crushing. Fuck.
⋆
He immediately calls his mom.
“¡Bendito sea Dios! My son remembers me!” Rio coos through the phone and Miles laughs wetly.
And because it’s his mom and because Rio knows her son and the sound of his suffering, she instantly stops what she’s doing and strengthens her voice.
“Baby? What’s going on?”
“Mami,” Miles chokes out. “I think I’m in trouble.”
“Miles, what’s going on? Do we need to come out there?”
He hears the distant shuffle of his dad making his way toward his mother and he wipes his face, breathing harshly.
“Mami, I think I’m losing love.”
There’s a moment of silence and noise that suspiciously sounds like Rio hitting her husband ‘round the head. Then:
“You can’t lose it, papito. Someone will always love you.”
⋆
Even after telling his mom everything and listening to her tell him not to go to that show, he’s at the front of the line of the afterparty with his QR code loaded up on the screen.
He feels out of place with his oversized sweater, the fabric just plain black with a faded red silhouette of Kid Cudi on the front, a hand pulling back his cheek to display his diamond grills and bright gums. It makes him look smaller than he is, especially paired with his wide-legged dark denim jeans.
His cross necklace is looped twice around his wrist, the hard body of God in the palm of his hand. Around his neck are rows and rows of pearls, the jewels matching his faux nose piercing.
He enters the venue with no issue, flashing hesitant smiles at people he doesn’t really know. His hand wraps around a cool bottle of vodka mixed with something softer, his finger tracing the rim anxiously as he searches the room for the two people he knows are looking for him.
When he goes to take a sip, the bottle is swiftly removed from his hand. Hobie’s eyes flash with something so affecting that Miles swallows quickly.
“Are you fucking mad? Shit could be laced.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I figured since it was your event—”
Hobie cuts him off and wraps a hand around Miles’s wrist with a roll of his eyes. He’s pissed off, body tight with his anger. Miles winces and allows himself to be dragged off, his teeth working at the tissue of his cheek. They end up in a private room, the walls faux leather and dressed up and down with black and white photos of former performers.
“You didn’t come to the show. Did you lose the fucking ticket?”
Miles feels his eyes getting wet again and he fiddles with his nose ring, running a finger over the cool surface of the baby pearl.
“I just couldn’t,” he says eventually and bites his lip before continuing. “I mean you got time alone with Gwen, right?”
Hobie’s face contorts and now Miles’ stomach is aching with anxiety.
“What are you talking about?”
“C’mon man,” Miles says, throat tight. “I’m bowing out. Logically, Gwen and you make a lot more sense. You got the same thing going on and you’re together more often. It makes sense. It was nice of you to invite me, to try to make nice.”
“It was good on me to invite you? Me and Gwen? What?”
“Listen,” Miles turns away and eyes the party raging down below through the window. “I think Gwen invited me out here to let me down easy, to introduce you into the equation. I’ve seen you at HQ too and I thought maybe I’d have a chance but look at this.”
He swings back Hobie’s way and shrugs, eyes blurring.
“This right here? That’s for the two of you. I gotta do my own thing, now. It’s raw and it hurts but,” Miles clears his throat and blinks rapidly. “I can’t do this love triangle shit.”
Hobie is quiet and then:
“You think the love triangle revolves around Gwen?”
“Who else could it be, man?” Miles is exasperated now and his cross has sunk into his skin with the grip he has on it.
Hobie stares at him and saunters closer. The silence is thick and Miles is so close to snapping and the room seems to swell with something unspoken. He licks his lips with a small motion of his tongue and it’s only because of how religiously he’s looking at Hobie for an answer that he catches the way the other boy’s eyes flick down to his mouth.
We like the same person and we work the same job.
Miles’ shoulders relax from the shock and Hobie leans back.
Thank you, Miles. Love you. It’s gonna be a good night. You’ll have fun. With me.
You were cold.
“Oh.”
Hobie presses a thumb to Miles’s throat and feels him swallow. His pupils expand and his Spider-Sense alerts him to Gwen just outside on the stairs.
Yeah, Hobie thinks, here we go.