We were here once - The mall
Hobie Brown x GN!Reader
4/6
Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4
1.9k words
Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.
“Take care. I cared.
More than I think you know.”
White bulbs bled into the skylight above the center of the mall. The gentle hum of escalators, mothers tugging snotty children through waves of giggles and shrieks, friends and lovers shopping idly. It hadn’t changed much, not in a way that mattered. Heels clacked against reflective white tiles. Neon signs screamed for your wallet’s attention, every storefront a trapdoor to somewhere more expensive than the last. Anything to get you to spend more money.
It felt bigger in your memory. Or maybe you were just smaller then. Either way, it felt like too much now. A churn of noise and clashing music, all bleeding from the open doors of competing shops. The endless swirl of bodies, running like they all had somewhere better to be. There were the teen girls again. Always in packs, arms linked, moving like an entity of melting limbs, synchronized and self-assured. You used to think they were laughing at you, whispering behind manicured hands about your hair, your clothes, the unraveling straps of your bag. But now? They looked harmless. Just kids, same as you were. Maybe they had always been harmless. Maybe they’d have invited you to sit with them if you’d been braver, if you hadn’t pre-decided they were enemies for wearing glitter gloss.
Then again, some people were cruel. You’d learned that the hard way. Over and over until flinching first and trusting second became muscle memory. Now, standing there with years between you and them, it was impossible to say how much of that cruelty was real and how much was all in your head, trying to protect yourself from potential hurt.
The mall still pulsed with life, but it was different now, less magical. Still, the part that hurt the most was the gaping, empty space where the internet café used to be.
Gone, like the skatepark.
Some soulless fast food chain stood in its place, fluorescent-lit and reeking of fryer oil. It felt like someone had gone over your memories with a fat neon highlighter, crossing them out like mistakes. No constructive criticism, just erasure. It felt like that one evil teacher nobody liked, the one that threw assignments in the bin.
It seemed like the corner next to the fast-food had never been cleaned properly, the kind of spot everyone walks past without seeing. Dust clung thick over layers of torn flyers and sun-faded stickers, behind a pipe and an indent in the walls. But you knew that one, small, peeling at the edges, a crumpled band logo Hobie used to scrawl across every surface he could reach. You hesitated to peel it away to keep for yourself.
You remembered watching him slap it up there, years ago, both of you high off nothing but cheap soda and the thrill of getting away with existing. It was so stupidly, stubbornly him. And unlike your tags under the ramps, his marks seemed to stay.
Maybe that was your punishment for leaving: the city swallowing every trace of you. Your footsteps in the mud, your writing, even the tears you shed on concrete. Camden had turned its face away from you, but somehow, it remembered him.
You leaned against the same column as when you were waiting for Hobie. In many ways, you still were. You hoped he’d come and greet you, ask you about your day before you could find some flash games to play.
You remembered the internet café clear as day: the purr of outdated PCs, the click of greasy keyboards, the pale glow of monitors reflecting in Hobie’s eyes, a thin veil of blue over his dark iris, made them really look like the window of the soul. You’d sit there for hours, pretending the air conditioning was the only reason you stayed, but really, it was the games, the custom Myspace pages you coded side by side, the secret thrill of having a place that belonged to both of you.
Hobie was terrible at coding. Not because he couldn’t learn, as he could probably teach a toaster to play bass, but because he liked watching you explain it. You’d lean over, fingers flying over the keys, talking fast about divs and balises and inline styles, and Hobie would pretend to follow along, nodding like a student trying to impress his teacher.
“It’s easy, mate. I literally sent you the cheat sheet with all the tags!” you’d groan, dragging the mouse out of his hand like a parent confiscating a toy.
“Yeah, yeah, ‘easy,’ you say that ‘bout everything,” Hobie would huff, leaning back so far in his chair it creaked dangerously. “Easy for you, Einstein. I’m not out here romancin’ the bloody HTTP.”
“Oh my god, you don’t romance HTML, you just—” your hands would fly up, exasperated, “—you just tell it what to do! It’s rules. It’s logic. Even you could follow that.”
“Could, yeah. Don’t want to.” He’d grin, wide and lazy, like he was proud of being impossible. “Why would I do it myself when you’re so good at it, huh? Like watchin’ a magician pull a rabbit out their hat.”
“That’s not— I’m not—" you’d splutter, and Hobie would tilt his head, all mock-serious.
“What? Not a magician? Could’ve fooled me, mate. Look at all this.” He’d gesture wildly at the screen, which was usually some half-finished page covered in clashing fonts and colors because Hobie insisted that lime green text on a red background was “punk as fuck.” Which, according to your burning retinas, was a lie.
“Okay, fine,” you’d sigh, already scooting closer, already typing over his mess. “But only if you stop making everything look like a migraine.”
“Oi! I’ve got taste, thank you very much.”
“Doubt it.”
“You’re the tasteless one.” He’d flash that grin again, sharp and full of trouble, and somehow you always forgave him. Sat there for hours, breathing the same recycled air, your knees knocking under the desk, and neither of you ever mentioned that you could’ve been anywhere else, but you stayed there, together.
Looking back, it was obvious. He didn’t want to learn. He just wanted to hear your voice, watch your hands move, let you be the expert at something. You didn’t get it back then. It felt like a weird blind spot in his otherwise sharp brain, like, how could someone who could rewire a speaker with a lighter and a paperclip, could break through zone restriction to play cheap games on your console, not understand basic HTML?
But you got it now.
Some other afternoons, when the heat was too much and neither of you had the energy to go anywhere cooler, you’d wander into the other shops, just to mess around, trying on clothes you could never afford. Ridiculous stuff. Feather and sequined hats. Oversized trench coats and evening dresses. You thought you looked ridiculous in them. But Hobie didn’t look ridiculous. He wore them the same way he wore everything, like a dare. A middle finger to anyone who gave him side-eye or called him names under their breath. You envied that. The way he could make anything look cool, from secondhand blazers missing buttons to ripped tights as sleeves. He could’ve walked into any room wearing a wedding dress and somehow made it look punk.
“How do I look?” he asked, twirling dramatically in a sequined minidress that probably belonged to a girl band’s backup dancer.
You squinted. “Like you’re about to drop the worst pop album of the decade.”
“Nah, mate. It’s post-ironic,” he said, striking a pose. “It’s anti-fashion.”
“It’s anti-my-eyesight, yeah.”
You swore he could’ve been a model if he wanted, the way he carried himself, that loose, effortless confidence. Afterall, he made school uniforms look cool, which you thought was physically impossible.
Once, in some cheap accessory shop full of knockoff sunglasses and plastic chokers, Hobie pocketed a studded bracelet, the tiniest, stupidest thing. He turned to you right there in the middle of the aisle, flashing it like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.
“For you,” he said, sliding it onto your wrist with a kind of exaggerated care, and you thought it might’ve as well been a ring. His fingers lingered, adjusting the strap beyond necessary, his touch warm against your skin.
“You’re actually so bad at stealing,” you whispered, shoving your hand into your sleeve like that would somehow make the evidence disappear.
“Rude.”
“You literally made eye contact with the cashier while doing it.”
“Yeah, and she blinked first.”
You barely swallowed your laugh. At this point, you were pretty sure the cashier was flirting with him. And you hated it. Not out of jealousy, though. Definitely not jealousy. Just… it was annoying, that’s all. So unprofessional.
You twisted the bracelet around your wrist, testing the weight of it. “What if they call security?”
Hobie scoffed. “What, for a bracelet? Be serious.”
“You could at least pretend to be subtle—”
“I am subtle.”
“You’re wearing neons.”
“Yeah, and?” He wiggled his fingers. “Distraction tactics, mate.”
You sighed but you were already looking down, already pressing your fingers over the bracelet like it was something precious.
Hobie just grinned. “To match,” he said, flashing his own wrist where his own battered bracelet hung loose.
You still wore yours. Even now. Your fingers found it out of habit, twisting it around your wrist like a worry stone. It was now just as battered as his own back then. You wondered if he still had his.
Standing there, in the middle of the overstimulating buzzing lights, looking over the many floors linked by escalators, surrounded by the latest fashion and hip fast food place… You thought it wasn’t the places you missed, as much as the version of yourselves that lived in them.
The kids you were when you could spend time fighting over fonts (the one he wanted wasn’t even legible!) and hexadecimals (you wondered why he was obsessed with the title between that ugly orange until you realized it spelled EA7A55…). The kids that still haunted this place, before you knew better, before you realized it was temporary. Or maybe you did know back then, but you didn’t know how much it mattered.
Most of all, you missed the you who thought staying was maybe an option still.
And that stupid, cheap bracelet, you remembered the way his fingers lingered when he slid it onto your wrist. Like a promise neither of you could put words to back then. Something about staying. Something about belonging.
Most of the time, you felt something that was close to sadness. Sometimes, though, your thoughts went dark. Intrusive.
You’d stand at the top of the escalator, looking down at the shining floors, the rows of shops, the glossy posters advertising perfume and phones and shoes no one actually needed, and you’d imagine the whole place catching fire. Just orange flames eating at the walls, glass cracking, mannequins melting into plastic sludge.
You imagined Hobie standing in the middle of it all, smoke dancing around his boots, face streaked with soot, grinning like the world was finally ending the way it always should have. He wouldn’t run. You knew that. He’d be the last one standing over the ashes, and you’d find him there, the metal studs on his jacket reflecting the flames.
You thought about that more often than you’d admit.
Just another story you told yourself when you couldn’t fall asleep.
You hoped you wouldn’t actually need to burn down London to find him. You hoped that if you turned a corner fast enough, you’d see him grinning, waiting. Maybe he always knew you’d come back. Maybe he would’ve stopped looking and you could surprise him.
You’d see his back, come up to him, and say something stupid, like “Hey, long time no see.”
heyyyyyyyyyyy long time no see,, haha so funny, ghosting you halfway through a story about ghosting... ahem... anywayyy... hope whoever still reading this enjoyed it after like seven months,,... thankfully my draft were thicc enough for me to remember what the hell i was planning,,..
Tags (sorry if you're tagged and not interested/forgot about this, thought i'd still just... ping you... or something...) : @myassisasolarsystem @planetaryfire @wittysidecharacter @ellisspiderman (hello you)
