imagine if somebody kidnapped hobie to get to miles…
he’s been beaten black and blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, face cut up from when someone had hit him with rings on and he still isn’t telling them SHIT. there’s sweet blood running down his chin and his lips are red with it but he’s still talking smack, still laughing in their faces— they put something in his system and he’s woozy with it, but he grins as they yell at him to tell them where miles is because there is no way in hell he’s giving anything up.
he sucks the blood off his teeth and hisses as someone sinks a fist into his stomach; they took his web-shooters and he’s bound to a chair, but he’s not really that scared. he’s had worse.
they’ll get miles over his cold, dead body.
and besides, something is itching at the back of his mind, the hairs of his arms standing up at the imperceptible buzz in the air.
he realises just as the roof cracks open with a blinding bolt of lightning and miles lands neatly on top of one of the guys, knocking him unconscious.
the last thing hobie remembers before passing out is thinking a vehement thank fuck.
*
he wakes briefly, cradled against a warm body, making a soft noise before miles shushes him. a kiss is pressed to his forehead, and he drifts off again.
*
the next time he comes to, it’s slow; he’s on a couch, he realises, the fabric rough against his fingers. his cuts sting, he smells antiseptic, and the bridge of his nose is incredibly tender. he moves his tongue around his mouth, counting his teeth. huh. all there.
he shifts up with a groan and miles is on him instantly, a gentle hand on his shoulder pressing him back into the cushions. “don’t move,” miles whispers, sitting next to hobie’s hip. “they broke your ribs, my mama had to patch you up.”
hobie touches his torso and feels bandages. that explains the ache in his chest, at least.
a choked noise catches his attention, and when he looks over miles’s eyes are wet. “oh, baby, no. no.”
“i’m sorry,” he gasps, lashes clumping as hobie pulls him close, hands trembling as he winds them into hobie’s soft shirt.
it smells clean, good; like detergent and newspaper ink and miles, and it holds hobie together more than the bandages ever could.
“shh,” he murmurs, pressing the word into miles’s temple, ignoring the pain flaring to life all over his body in favour of tugging miles even closer. his boy needs it right now. “s’not your fault, love.”
miles just makes a sound of distress, big eyes glossy with salt. “they were looking for me—”
hobie clicks his tongue. “hush, now. i coulda gotten out, you know that.”
“then why?” miles asks, plaintive. his voice is terribly small and terribly fierce. “why didn’t you?”
“what, did ya think i’d sell ya out?” hobie huffs a laugh. “come out of it.” he holds miles to his chest and tips them back, laying against the armrest.
“i’m sorry,” miles repeats, voice thick as he presses his face into hobie’s shoulder.
“i’m not.” and he isn’t; he’d take a thousand hits, let himself get pushed to the brink of too much if it meant the people he loved would be safe.
for miles?
hobie lets his eyes flit across his face, over rich skin and a kind mouth and thick lashes that he smears dry with his thumb.
for miles, he thinks, he’d be able to take much, much more.
fin.
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So earlier in art class today, someone drew a characters hands in their pockets and mentioned that hands are really like the ultimate end boss of art, and most of us wholeheartedly agreed. So then, our teacher went ahead and free handed like a handful of hands on the board, earning a woah from a couple of students. So the one from earlier mentioned how it barely took the teacher ten seconds to do what I can’t do in three hours. And you know what he responded?
“It didn’t take me ten seconds, it took me forty years.”
And you know, that stuck with me somehow. Because yeah. Drawing a hand didn’t take him fourth years. But learning and practicing to draw a hand in ten seconds did. And I think there’s something to learn there but it’s so warm and my brain is fried so I can’t formulate the actual morale of the lesson.
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