Fic summary: Hobie has lost his voice, both literally and figuratively. He's a few weeks into the whole "mute Spider-Punk" gig, and he's still trying to figure out what that means — silence to someone so loud, that is. As he wrestles with his identity, you offer a new set of eyes on things he thought he knew so well. Together, the two of you relearn many things: voice, meaning, and the duet between two hearts.
Ch. 1 synopsis: You meet London's spider, his taste, and his improv sign language.
Notes: gender neutral Reader, slow burn vibes, if coffee shop AUs started in 1970s music shops instead, transcripts included for Hobie's writing, POV change
London’s spider had a habit of losing himself in the moment. Concerts, battles, Molotov cocktails — you name it, he’s done it. Silence was a stranger, though. He never liked flirting with it too long. When he did, well… he wandered.
Hobie was a few hours deep into his trek along the city’s urban web. Long gone was the center, in which blaring advertisements and one too many armrests on benches watched over the streets’ people. Now, he was walking the threads that were old brick and mortar paths along the perimeter. Old-fashioned lamps of shops now closed stared at him, dull and clouded, as he passed. Bridges loomed over the block, reeking of an Industrial Revolution rust that had him wrinkling his nose from the first breath in. Silence was punctuated by the slap of his boots. Every now and again, he had to shake off copies of yesterday’s rain-soaked newspaper. The ink of pigs’ names often stuck under his soles. Usually, that’d amuse him a tad, but right now, he was…
Why was he out here again?
His hands sat heavy in the pockets of his leather vest. In his right, he started to fidget with his favorite guitar pick. He was thinking, thinking — till his thumb caught a chip in the plastic. With a slight frown, he stopped.
That’s right.
He was looking for a new guitar. Huffing under his breath, he turned on his heel to retrace his steps (or lose track of them too). Right as his boot met brick, though, a series of twangs danced with his silence. He paused, ears chasing after the tune. (If off-tune tuning could be called a tune, that is.)
Plucks at an ascending G(?) string led him further down the block. Past the lamps and bridges, he spotted a shop window alight with humble gold. In the center of the off-color window frame, just behind a cash register that looked too big for the counter it sat on, there was a figure. Both their back and the guitar’s faced Hobie, a blend of simple black and acoustic brown. He might’ve thought the sight a photograph — till you turned a tuning peg the wrong way. His chest puffed with a breath of laughter. And with that, he went inside.
The shop’s muddy-looking hanging bell gave a funny tink! when the door swung. You peeked over your shoulder, cocking an eyebrow when the man’s wicks grazed the bell.
Damn. Talk about tall.
“Afternoon.” Setting the guitar against the counter, you faced your first and only visitor so far this week. (On Saturday, no less.) “You here to browse, or you got something in mind?”
The man cocked a brow at you in return. You couldn’t tell if it was to mock your expression or to judge your lack of the “customer service” tone.
Either way, his gaze shifted to the wall of secondhand guitars that were hung up with neither rhyme nor reason. Some had sticker residue staining the body or neck, while others ached a dullness from worn off polish. Opposite of that wall, there was a visual cacophony of other instruments: yellowed drums, scratched-up saxophones, a minus-10-or-so-keys piano, and God knew what else. To tie it all together, there were a few lonely racks at the shop’s center full of cassette tapes and vinyl records.
It was the racks that drew the man a little further into the shop. He picked up a record, noting the vibrant spray paint and smudged fingerprints that replaced the original cover. You saw his shoulders twitch with what was maybe a chuckle. With a twirl of his fingers, he turned the vandalized cover towards you and tapped at it with his finger.
“Oh, that?” You chuckled, loud enough for both of you. “Yeah, a couple of kids came in and sold it to us last week. Said their grandpa didn’t want it anymore since they redid the cover and all.”
His lips twitched with a smirk. Holding a hand out, he gestured to arbitrary heights, ranging from his knees to his chest.
“How old?” you inquired. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ten, twelve. Why? You looking to support some local artists?”
That got another slight jolt out of his shoulders. With a low rumble in his throat, he slid the record across the counter.
“Good choice.” With a face just short of a smile, you started to ring up the record for him.
While you were punching the grimy, dust-ridden buttons of the cash register (and putting up a damn good fight, mind you), the man eyed the guitar that you had left half-tuned. All of a sudden, you heard a thwip and the acoustic bang of wood on wood. Your eyes shot up, locking on the instrument that he now now cradled in his hands.
“Was that…” you paused, squinting at the guitar for damage (or any new damage, rather), “you?”
He replied with a crooked bow of his head. You might’ve thought it an apology, if not for the way his lips curved up at the corner. Smugness had a new subtlety, apparently.
“Alright… Well, you looking to buy that too? I was just working on the strings. Might need to replace them, though. They sound kind of shit, as far as I can tell.”
While you rambled, a lazy thumb plucked at each string, letting dissonance ring out in layers. At the top of the neck, callused fingers toyed with the pegs with a confidence that you only managed to fake for the sake of your job. Eventually, G sounded like G. It was warm, mellow, like the golden light that first drew him in. With a flick of his wrist, the shop resonated with a deep, soulful chord.
“Huh.” A tinge of heat rushed up to your cheeks. “Good job.”
With another nod of his head and a smirk to boot, he handed the instrument right back to you. While wood blocked your vision, you heard another thwip and the click of a pen. By the time you had set the guitar behind you, the man had finished his message. He flicked the pad of sticky notes, letting it spin and slide your way.
StrINgs ARe fIne, yOU jUst SUck aT yoUr joB
[ Strings are fine, you just suck at your job ]
Wow. Real nitpicker, wasn’t he?
Face blank, you sent the man a look. Hands in his pockets, he shrugged with that same old crook of his lips.
“Am I wrong?” he seemed to say.
To that, you just rolled your eyes. With a light smack of your fist, the cash register jumped with a chime.
“Two pounds for the record,” you retorted.
Reaching up, the man tapped at one of several pins on his vest. It was the British flag, handmade with layers of wrinkled duct tape and permanent marker that stood out against the vest's black leather. Once he secured your attention, he gestured to you with a raise of his brow.
“What?”
Another tap on the pin, followed by a gesture to his throat this time. Running down his Adam’s apple was a scar. It looked a few weeks old, a ravine stitched shut some time ago. Within a few seconds, your eyes flicked up to meet his.
“Are you… talking about my lack of an accent?” It was your turn to tilt your head around, lips puckered with a hint of reluctance. “Yeah, I guess I’m not from around here. I moved to London a little less than a month ago.”
You caught a faint hum of intrigue. Seemingly satisfied with that answer, the man finally gave you the two pounds and then some.
“What about you? You lived here your whole life, or..?”
You handed him his change. Casually, he dropped that change in the tip jar. (First tip since you started this job.) Once the record was back in his hands, he nodded.
“How is it? I haven’t really gotten much time to live the… ‘London experience,’ as some people advertised it to me.”
At your air quotes, which might’ve bordered on sarcasm, the man shook with a breath of laughter. With a low, thoughtful hum, he did a so-so gesture with his hand. Bouncing a fist off his palm, he jabbed a thumb off to the side.
“Is that… a way of saying ‘it’s better to skip town?’” you tried to translate.
His brow twitched with surprise. A second later, he gave a huff of affirmation, along with yet another one of those funny nods of his. (You swore the slight weight in them meant something.) Taking back the sticky notes, he scratched out a new message for you.
tHe PEopLE AIn’t BaD, jUsT ThE WaY tHInGS RuN
[ The people ain’t bad, just the way things run ]
“Hm. That’s a shame,” you sighed, averting your eyes. “Can’t say I haven’t heard that before.” Either that, or vice versa in some places. Between the memories, you heard the scritch-scratching of another note.
STicK To tHE OUtSkIRts. mIGht NOt lOOK liKE iT, bUt THeRe’S PLeNtY Of goOD ARoUnD hERe
[ Stick to the outskirts. Might not look like it, but there’s plenty of good around here ]
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
The man hummed — neither affirmed nor denied. Setting the pen down, he made his way towards the door.
“Is that a no on the guitar, then?” you called after him. Acoustic didn’t look quite right on him, but he sure as hell had a good handle on it.
The hanging bell sang its dinky, little tune. Wicks brushing against it for an encore, the man surveyed the wall of loved and abandoned guitars. The electrics were far and few in between, but… Nonetheless, the man raised a hand. Pinching the air, he mimed the action of turning a tuning peg. Then, he pointed at his ear. You squinted and cocked your head, almost like you were looking for another clue somewhere in the air.
“Are you… talking about my tuning?”
All you got was a grin in return. “Fix your tuning. Then, we’ll talk,” your mind translated.
With a playful salute, the man strolled out of the shop. As he left your sight, a petty pout settled over your face.
Nit-picky bastard…
He was many of your firsts in that moment. First customer of the week. First tip in this city. First word from someone honest. First critic of your “music expert” facade.
Picking up the pounds he had left, you went to stash them in the cash register. Right as you smacked the drawer open, you paused at the sight of your fingers. Pink, splotchy and bright, had stained them at some point. The pounds were pink too, sticky from the smear of spray paint. A hum stirred in your throat, soft and curious.
Wonder where that came from…
With a shrug, you tossed the coins in the drawer and bumped it shut. Either way, the nitpicker was probably stained pink too.
Thank you for reading! Likes, Comments & Reblogs are much appreciated <3
(P.S. If interested in a taglist, please let me know :) Not exactly a regular updates kind of person, but I'm hopeful for multiple chapters)
