Hobie never really tried graffiti before.

So he couldn't really complain about his lack of skill.
Right?

He would always walk alongside the streets of London, admiring and looking at bizarre, yet amazing and absolutely mind blowing artworks of other people.

Slim sidewalks, underground areas or bridges seemed to be the most popular places to let your creative core go completely wild.

And he had to admit to himself that he felt a creeping jealousy climbing up his back every time he saw those abstract graffiti paintings, done by human beings who were obviously way too talented for his own liking.

So much for the subject of "not complaining about his lack of skill"...

Hobie himself wasn't even untalented per se.
He was the complete opposite to be exact.
He played the guitar, wasn't bad at it, could kinda sing (alone, in the shower, when no one had to hear his outrageous, high-pitched and terrible voice), would sometimes get himself to make some new patches for his pants and battle vests and he was in a band... To encircle the whole guitar-playing-thing... without the singing-part of course.

And he was Spiderpunk.

Hobie had a few talents. His second identity being the better - bigger - part of all the things named above.

He was seemingly proud of what he was and what he was able to do for himself, for his friends, for other people and for his entire town - his environment.

But for whatever reason it wasn't enough.
Selfish characteristics were natural reactions of almost everyone out there. It's a human basic.
And somehow also a need.
There would always be something - anything - that would trigger your emotion to the point of bare madness, of having to be better than the rest around you.

It was the standard.
And as much as he despised that fact he couldn't do much about it.

He clenched his fists together, staring at a breathtaking paint job of an anonymous person.
He didn't wear his suit either.
Only his casual clothes (which wasn't any more different from his costume honestly) because he originally wanted to go for a quick walk as long as he still had the time to do so.

The calligraphy spelled the words "Punk isn't dead" in a brilliant font, with color splashes of black and white, accents of red and the coolest highlights he ever saw in his life.
It was cliché.
But still the final thread to make him furious with determination.

Because he wanted to be able to do that too!

Hobie wasn't a fan of labels.
He didn't want to hear people telling him how "amazing" and "great" and "absolutely astonishing" he was.
He was Hobie. Just Hobie.
Nothing more and nothing less.
He was himself, in his own kinda way.
And he would always be himself.

He doesn't need a specific sexuality.
He loves who he loves.
He doesn't need a reputation.
Making yourself a name sucks anyway.
He doesn't need the term "Punk" to refer to himself.
He only used it to please other people more than it did please himself. Most of the time.
He isn't even a hero.

Because calling yourself a hero makes you a self-mythologising, narcissistic autocrat!

And yet he felt the need to satisfy his hunger for suddenly becoming a "street artist".
To silently own the name of a "graffiti master".
It sounded dope.
And no one had to know anyway.

And if he'd be good at it one day and people would start talking about his skill, calling him a "genius", he wouldn't twitch an eye, could slightly grin and nod his head in confirmation of noticing other people's support.

Because he craved that support and the attention he received every time someone noticed his efforts.

But no one had to know.

Never lose your chill. Stay focused. Keep your cool man...

Hobie knew exactly one person who would definitely help him in that case.
And he was currently alone in an empty tunnel.
So he changed the number of his watch from "Earth-138B" to "Earth 1610", literally slammed the button down and watched the portal opening it's gates for him.

That "quick walk" really turned into a whole universal marathon.

Yellows and pinks and blues dancing around his ears.
It would always stay one of his favorite sights.
One of his favorite sights because he had something else he admired a lot more than a dimensional portal.

"Whatcha doin' love?"

"OH MY FU-! HOBIE!"

Miles flinched and fell from his chair, paint marker catapulting itself out of his palm with a simple "woosh" and hitting Hobie across the face.

The taller male quietly giggled and picked up the abandoned art supply before helping Miles getting back on his feet.

"How come I always scare the living shit outta you?"

"If only I knew myself..."

Miles rubbed his temples and took a quick glance at this sketchbook.

"So..."

His gaze fell back into place. He was now looking at Hobie with expectation written all across his facial features.

"...What is so important for you to yeet me out of my seat?"

He crossed his arms.

Hobie gulped and rubbed the back of his head.
He honestly hoped for a more welcoming gesture towards his sudden arrival through Miles' dorm ceiling.

He didn't fear Ganke. Poor boy already knew their secret thanks to some inconvenient scenarios in the past.
However; it seemed like he wasn't available at the moment anyway so he couldn't really do anything wrong with falling from the heavens, straight into Miles top bunk.

"Hello to you too... Uh... I kinda need your help."

Hobie wanted to make his point as clear and fast as possible.

"Help?"

"Yeah...?"

Miles stared at his friend with furrowed eyebrows.
He nervously rocked from one leg to the other.

"Alright I guess... What do you need help with?"
He shrugged his shoulders.

Miles expression was a lot better now, looking at Hobie and smiling softly.
He was quite quick with forgiving people though Hobie believed it was linked with whom he is confronted with.

"You're doing..."
Hobie caught a glimpse of Miles' current art work on his table.

Graffiti.

"Graffiti, don't ya'?"

Miles stopped dead in his tracks.

"Yes?"

Confusion.

"Can you maybe... teach me some stuff? Wanna learn how to also dra-"

Hobie couldn't even finish his sentence.

He never saw Miles so enthusiastic and fast in changing his clothing before.
Shirts and sweatpants were thrown around like breadcrumbs.
Hobie could have sworn that a pair of socks almost hit him in the face, just like that dumb pen did before.

He was able to duck in time.

His short fellow had the most gigantic, flashing smile imaginable in the history of mankind, plastered onto his visage.

"OF COURSE! I KNOW THE PERFECT PLACE!"

"Cool."

The Punk needed to work on his emotions.

It was already dark outside when Miles guided the both of them to his favorite spot in his entire town.

☆☆☆

"Try to write down what you want first. Like this..."

Miles sprayed his own name onto a blank space of gray concrete.

Hobie already struggled with holding the spray bottle correctly.
How the fuck was he supposed to write a simple word down when he was already failing at such bizarre things?

"Okay. I'll try."

He positioned the supply to where he wanted to start his disaster and pressed the spray cap down.
Purple color shot out and met the flat surface with an enormous stench.
He was thankful for the masks Miles got for them or he would have been sure the smell might have killed him at this point.

An ugly and deformed HOBIE could be seen in New York's underground area, after he successfully managed it to write his name down. In less than ten minutes even.

"Like this?"

Miles skeptically watched his masterpiece.

"Will be enough for the beginning."

Hobie gave him a "It's-just-a-fucking-name-in-capital-letters-dude" look.

Miles only chuckled.

"Now listen..."

The shorter boy started to ramble to Hobie with no punctual whatsoever and told him something about the origin of graffiti, about techniques, tricks and tips, tried to show him some examples while doing so and told Hobie to try it for himself sometimes.

Hobie failed miserably in his job but always reminded himself that no one is perfect at the beginning. Everybody needs a lot of practice until they eventually reach their goals.

Forcing yourself to motivation was honestly his biggest problem.

It was kinda like becoming Spiderman.

You're starting of with a tiny ass radioactive spider biting you before a ton of exercising comes crashing down on you.
You can basically do nothing more other than practice because what else are you supposed to do? Letting humanity rott in agony?

"This thing sucks ass, love-"

"Don't say that. You just need to repeat it for a few times. There will be lot of improvement once you really start to spray more often. I promise."

Miles never once made fun of Hobies ugly ass art skills.
He always tried to encourage his friend to keep going and helped him here and there to eventually build his name into something absolutely fascinating.

He wasn't the best in what he was doing but noticed how much fun he had in that stuff. Especially with the short companion next to him.
Miles really knew what was supposed to be a great "stress reliever" in rough times.

He even told Hobie the story about his dead uncle and how they used to always come down here to paint and laugh and joke together.

"He was a great guy. You would have loved him...", Miles said and grinned at the taller male. It was sad grin though.

Hobie rubbed his lower back in a soothing manner.

They came a long way, Hobie realized.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

Hobie felt proud of what the accomplished together with his best friend.

His name looked fabulous. It looked cool. It looked funky.

He loved it.

"Ya' know...", he began as they were sitting and glancing at their work from a safe distance.

"We have to repeat that more often from now on."

"We really have to..."

And then it was silent.

They abandoned the masks a while ago.

Hobie scanned Miles face with adoring eyes. He then took the black spray bottle from his hand and quietly stood up again.

He made his way to their painting and added one last symbol to really complete the whole thing.

An "A", messily put into a not so symmetrical circle.

"Now it's complete.", Hobie said out loud and turned around to face Miles with a teasing grin. His infamous Hobie-stare.

Named boy continued to sit on the increase and started to giggle at his friend's need to add the "anarchy" logo to literally every object he could get into his slim hands.

"Of course. Without it it would have been incomplete."

"Exactly."

The Punk threw the bootle into Miles' direction who easily caught it before he put it down, next to his paint-splattered Air Jordan.

"You're proud of me?"

"How could I not be proud of you? You're the coolest and most talented person I know after all."

Those words made Hobies heartbeat quicken.

"Awe darling..."

He slowly approached Miles, stopping in front of him.
His arms were spread for Brooklyn's Spiderman and only for him.

"C'mon... You're so adorable. I have to...", Hobie tried to encourage him.

Miles smiled tiredly.
It was almost like he never really lost his smile in the first place. Miles seemed to smile all of the time or Hobie was just absolutely delusional.

He didn't know but he also didn't want to know. He didn't really care as long as he could make the shorter male happy.

When Miles took his offer and looped his arms around Hobie's neck time seemed to suddenly stand still.

Nothing could be heard and nothing could be seen other than each other's quiet heartbeat and the uncontrollable adoration and love they felt for each other, silent and unspoken.

Miles sighed and Hobie believed he was finally able to breath again.
He achieved what he wanted to achieve for now, which was attention and a tiny bit more knowledge in street art. He couldn't ask for more at the moment.
Let alone because of Miles, who held onto him and didn't let him go even though Hobie was the one who started this whole cuddle session to begin with.

"Thank you beautiful... for everything today."

"You're welcome. You know I always help you when you need it."

They stayed like that for a while.

"Can I ask you something?"

Miles nodded while burying his face in the curve of Hobies nape.

"Will you be my art teacher?"

That seemed to break the entire tension they had going on until now.
Miles let loose and parted his body from Hobie's.
He laughed and Hobie jokingly put his hand onto his chest to show playful indignation.

"Pardon-?"

"That's sounds like a confession, you idiot. You wanna take me out for valentine's day or wha'?"

"Maybe~"

Hobie wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

"Ah hell nah-"

Miles wanted to start running away but Hobie was faster and pulled the shorter teen into a tight embrace again, leaving a long and wet kiss on his cheek.

"Hobie-! I'LL BE YOUR ART TEACHER! JUST LET ME... LET ME GO-HOO-!", Miles tried to free himself but failed in controlling his laughter and eventually made things worse when Hobie wouldn't stop to butterfly kiss his entire face.

"Tell me you love me first-"

"HOBES-!"

Miles continued to "suffer" through constant appreciation until they got caught by two police officers, asking them what they were doing alone at such times, in the middle of the night of New York's dangerous streets.

They didn't even seem to care for the tones of vibrant paint in front of their faces.

☆☆☆

"And remember. When they're tryin' to arrest us I am mute and you only understand Spanish-" Hobie whispered to his friend.

Miles nodded.
"Understood."