Work Text:
Mike Townsend wakes up.
Abruptly he realises this ceiling is not that of his own apartment—his is white, slightly textured with paint stripes all along its surface, but this one is a greyish non-colour, grime collecting in the creases of the stucco and the boxy corners of the room. His eyes still half-shut, he gives himself a moment to register his surroundings. He’s been asleep on a sofa, the texture rough on his arms and a seam having left a red indentation on the outside of his forearm, with a thin, tasselled blanket draped loosely over him.
He furrows his brow—and then it comes rushing back to him like being hit by a train, as last night's memories so often do in the first few minutes of waking. He’s at Tillman Henderson’s place.
He’s at Tillman Henderson’s place?
He sits up—more out of confusion than anything else—and tries to force his brain to think back a little further, find out what progression of events could've possibly led to waking up on Tillman Henderson's sofa. Unfortunately, his brain can't remember all too much either. It does seem somewhat fixated on a memory of Mike being bodily very close to Tillman late the previous night, but—
He shakes his head to dispel it. Mike refuses to consider those feelings. Point-blank refuses. He does not need that in his life.
Instead, he frowns as he shifts in place and the sleeve of his t-shirt pinches hard around his shoulder. He looks down and pulls the shirt out as best he can to look at it—it's a couple of sizes too small at least and it's not a design he recognises. Was he really that drunk that he lost his shirt?
Aha! He was drunk. That explains the terrible taste in men. Or rather, it explains the decision to follow through on his terrible taste in men. Also, his amnesia.
He sighs as he lets the fabric snap back to his chest. He's apparently playing detective with his own life at the moment. Okay.
Next question, why was he drunk? He leans back and squints in thought, eyes idly tracing the patterns on the pitted ceiling. He vaguely remembers… being sequestered off in the corner of a bar, surrounded by people yelling—not from anger, just from excitement… Jaylen slamming her pint down on the table to punctuate a point, sloshing double IPA over the sides.
Jaylen! Right, they were celebrating her death day anniversary.
...Okay, okay, so it seems in bad taste, but Jaylen’s sense of humour always did tend towards the darker side, and she says herself that celebrating it is like a big old fuck-you to the gods and to the ump who killed her in the first place. By now she’s been a part of enough teams in the league that most everyone ends up crammed into some grimy old back-alley Seattle bar that used to be her favourite this time every year. It’s a weird tradition, but one Mike enjoys nonetheless.
That explains Tillman, too—well, somewhat. It explains why he was there. Jaylen was a Shoe Thief, so all the Shoe Thieves were invited, and now Tillman is a Shoe Thief. Besides, the two of them have some sort of weird connection, what with being the only two people to return from the dead, even though Mike knows she can’t stand the guy. It’s a layered relationship.
Of course, none of that quite connects with why he woke up on Tillman Henderson’s sofa.
He’s still sitting up, staring at the ceiling and trying to force his memories when suddenly, down a hallway somewhere, there’s the click of a door opening. Mike jumps. Heavy, sleepy footsteps approach, and then Tillman himself enters the room. His hair is frizzy, not yet pulled back into his signature ponytail, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s way too big for him.
Tillman blinks, looks Mike up and down. “You look like shit,” he says by way of a greeting.
Mike sighs. “good morning to you too, tillman.”
He grunts in response, and makes his way into the next room, which Mike vaguely remembers is a kitchen.
He starts to feel that sort of creeping awkwardness of being vulnerable in someone else’s space, so he sheds the blanket, folds it neatly, and sits up properly, feet on the floor. By the time he’s placing the blanket on the arm of the sofa, Tillman is coming back into the room, this time with a bowl far too full of sugary cereal. As he walks, milk splashes over the sides, spilling onto the carpet. He makes no move to clean it up. Mike makes a face.
He sits down next to him with a flounce, barely managing to keep his breakfast intact as he does so. There’s about a foot of space between them.
Suddenly, Mike realises he recognises Tillman’s shirt. It’s too big, navy blue with what Mike thinks might be a Garages logo up on the top left.
“hey, did we…?” Mike glances down at his own shirt, then back at Tillman. “am i wearing your shirt?”
Tillman looks at him, spoon sticking out of his mouth. “Yeah,” he mumbles through his mouthful of food after a moment. “That’s pretty gay, dude.”
“but you’re also wearing my shirt,” he protests. “we swapped shirts.”
“Can’t be true, ‘cause that’d be gay, which I’m not,” Tillman asserts, and continues to eat.
Well, that’s that, Mike supposes.
There’s a long silence, which he isn’t used to around Tillman. He supposes even he’s less chatty when he just woke up. He thinks about saying something once or twice, but anxiety chokes it down before he can form the words.
“what did we do last night?” he ends up blurting out. “like, i mean, why did i sleep on your sofa?”
“Because I'm benevolent and I offered you a place to stay when you were in need, clearly.” Tillman says with a smirk.
“but we were in seattle. my team is in seattle. i literally live in seattle.”
That shuts him up for a second. He lets his spoon clatter back into the bowl and furrows his brow in thought. “Wait, your nerd ass might be onto something.”
“was that necessary?”
“Shut up. No, because, think about it. Like, if one of us was gonna crash at the other’s place or whatever, it’d be like, in the place where we were, right? Like, where the other people we were out with were, right?”
“right…?” says Mike, uncertainly, because he doesn’t really know where Tillman is going with this.
“Unless we wanted to be away from the other people we were out with. Because… something… happened.” Tillman looks right at him, all wide eyes.
Mike returns the gaze blankly for a second, still not quite getting what he’s getting at, when suddenly it clicks.
“oh, shit.” Mike says. “oh, shit. ”
They look at each other for a long, long moment, each running mental calculations as to why this cannot be happening right now.
Tillman breaks eye contact suddenly, flinging his arms out in a faux devil-may-care type gesture. “That didn’t happen, right? That can’t have happened. We didn’t, right?”
“right,” Mike agrees. “right. but, um, what did happen then?”
“I don’t know,” Tillman announces, in a tone that is far too confident for his words, “but we’re gonna find out. Okay? We’re gonna disprove these fuckin’... claims, okay, and we’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”
“right on,” Mike says, despite the fact that privately his brain is screaming IT HAPPENED, IT HAPPENED, YOU KNOW IT HAPPENED, HE KNOWS IT HAPPENED, EVERYONE KNOWS IT HAPPENED, but, y’know, six of one.
“Come on, then, loser,” Tillman says, leaping from the couch and tossing his mostly empty bowl to the floor with a crash as he does so. Mike follows suit and— wow, this shirt is really too small for him, he thinks as he realises that there’s a good inch of uncovered skin between where the shirt ends and his pants start, no matter how much he tries to pull it down.
“before we start, um, investigating, can we swap back shirts?” he asks. “you’re way—well, you’re kind of shorter than me.”
“I’m not short,” Tillman shrills indignantly, from almost a foot beneath Mike’s eye line.
“okay, okay, sorry. but this shirt is still too small. can we swap?”
“No,” Tillman scoffs. “‘Cause we didn’t even swap in the first place, remember, ‘cause that’d be gay.”
Mike pauses for a second. He settles on just saying “right,”, because he’s pretty sure he’s not going to make much headway in this dispute. Privately, he thinks Tillman got the better end of the deal here, but he won’t complain.
“Okay, anyway. First step. Uhh,” Tillman says helpfully, turning around to pace the room. “Oh! Check your phone.”
Mike nods in agreement. He just hopes he still has his phone, after last night it could be anywhere—that said, it’s fortunately still in his pocket. There’s one more crack in the screen than he remembers, but at least he has it, right?
What he sees on the screen is not encouraging. Eleven unread texts and three missed calls from Jaylen since his departure from the party.
“um,” says Mike.
“‘Um’? What’s ‘um’?” Tillman asks frantically, scrambling to try and read the texts over his shoulder. Fortunately all Mike has to do to stop him is hold his phone a little higher.
“Not cool,” He grumbles, but gives up, finally letting Mike read the texts.
< jay >
jay: Hey where did you go | Sent 2:21 AM
jay: Dude seriously where are you | Sent 2:27 AM
jay: Mike we’re leaving im gonna abandon you | Sent 2:30 AM
jay: wait Carpenter just said you left with the shoe thieves??.? Mike what | Sent 2:35 AM
jay: Why did you leave with them where are you rn | Sent 2:35 AM
jay: Mike I swear to gods look at your damn phone | Sent 2:36 AM
jay: wait | Sent 2:38 AM
[2 missed calls from jay]
jay: MOKE PICK UP RIGJT NOW | Sent 2:40 AM
jay: I JUST KNOW YOU DIDMT LEAVE WTH FUCKING TILLAN HENDERSON SO PICK THE FUCK UP AND ECPLAIN YOURSE;F | Sent 2:40 AM
[1 missed call from jay]
jay: MICHAEL FUCKING TOWNSEND PIVK UP IM GONNA THROTTLE YUO | Sent 2:41 AM
jay: MIKE TOWNSEND(S TASTE IN MEN IS A DISAPOINTMENT) | Sent 2:42 AM
“so,” Mike says carefully. “jaylen might know.”
“ What?! ” shrieks Tillman, and before Mike can stop him, leaps up and snatches the phone from his hands.
“hey,” he protests faintly, but makes no move to get it back.
“Shit. This is bad.” Tillman tosses his phone back to him with no warning; he fumbles, and it clatters against the floor. As he goes to pick it up and make sure it’s not even more cracked now, Tillman lets out a small snicker. “Bends down to pick it up again, like nobody just saw him drop it.”
Mike grimaces. “whatever. don’t we have things to worry about?”
“Okay, okay, I’m busy remembering. Hey, why did you get a cab with me? Hadn’t the Garages already left by then?”
He nods slowly. “yeah… why did i get a cab with you?”
“Maybe ‘cause you’re in love with me,” Tillman says. And he says it with a grin, and his tone is clearly mocking, but it hits Mike a little too close, and he finds himself just staring wordlessly at Tillman, until he looks away.
“Okay, jeez, not the time,” He mumbles, looking away.
“no, sorry,” Mike hurries, stumbling over his words. “i didn’t mean to make you feel weird, i just… ”
He trails off. There is no non-incriminating way to finish that sentence, so he just lets it hang. There’s a very long, very quiet moment.
Then suddenly Tillman pipes up. “Oh! I remember!”
“you do?” Mike says, if only for the sake of saying something.
“We were talking about… something… I can’t remember, and you didn’t wanna leave mid-convo. Jaylen was there too, ugh.” He points a finger at his open mouth in a blech gesture.
“hey, be nice,” Mike says with a soft smile.
“No.” Tillman scowls. “No, anyway, the Garages all left ‘cause they’re fuckin’ losers and they all got sick. Your guy, uh, big guy with the long hair.”
“teddy?” Mike supplies.
“Right. He was y’all’s designated driver or whatever, so he took ‘em all home. Except for you.”
“i’m no lightweight,” he says with a small grin.
Tillman rolls his eyes. “Right, definitely not, since you can barely fucking remember anything that happened last night.”
“neither can you,” Mike points out, which earns him a punch to the arm.
“Shut up!” Tillman shouts, half-faux anger and half-cackling. Mike grins back and shoves him.
“No, no, right, listen! Listen. Your guy took them all home, and they were like, most of the people near us, so it was just me, you, and fuckin’ Gaylen.”
Mike raises an eyebrow, choosing not to dignify that with any of the laughter bubbling up his throat. “right.”
“And then… uh…” Tillman deflates. “I forgot.”
“no, no, it’s okay, i remember,” Mike pipes up. “we were talking, and you two got into an argument—”
“She was wrong, I was right,” he butts in, and Mike snorts.
“but you can’t even remember what you were arguing about.”
“Doesn’t matter. She—”
“okay, okay, okay, let me finish remembering, please.” Mike asks with a smile, because he cannot let Tillman get onto another rant about Jaylen. “so you two were fighting about something or other, and then it sort of turned into a conversation, and then, uh, your teammate… curly hair, horns?” He draws two spirals in the air on either side of his head, as if to show Tillman what he means.
Tillman shrugs. Mike makes a face at him. “how are you so unfamiliar with your team?”
“They’re all cringe, man, I don’t look at them.”
god, you suck, Mike thinks. Then he considers what that means about him, considering… everything, and promptly pushes away those thoughts because it didn’t happen, okay?
“anyway, she came and grabbed you and said you guys were leaving, and i…” Mike swallows.
“And you what?” Tillman prompts impatiently.
“i… i guess i came with you? ‘cause i was… actually enjoying talking to you, or whatever,” Mike mumbles off into nothing, picking idly at the hem of his shirt (still sitting squarely above his navel).
Tillman smirks. “That’s kinda gay,” he titters, poking Mike gently in the side.
“hey,” he complains, flinching away and swatting at Tillman’s hands. “shut up.”
“Nah,” he grunts, giving Mike one last shove.
“ anyway, ” Mike makes a point of saying, “i guess i followed you out—”
“Creep,” Tillman interjects.
“—and we got a cab.”
“I think you fell asleep on the way,” Tillman says. “You know, like a nerd.”
Mike frowns. “it was, like, three in the morning—”
“Like a neeerd, ” Tillman bulldozes over Mike’s sentence, and starts to cackle.
Despite himself, Mike can’t help but laugh too—Tillman’s laugh is harsh and crowing, but infectious, a stark contrast to Mike’s own low, gruff guffaw. “whatever, man, whatever,” he chuckles. “i don’t really remember anything at all after that, but presumably i made it from the taxi to the sofa. maybe you carried me?” He smiles slightly, trying his hand at Tillman’s own brand of humour.
It’s well-received—Tillman breaks out into a toothy grin and shoots back, “What, your lanky ass? Your legs would still be dragging on the floor. And, you know, that’s something, ‘cause I’m not even short.”
“surely it’d be no challenge for you, strongman,” Mike counters.
In response, Tillman flexes both arms, showing off— a surprising amount of muscularity —which Mike ignores by instead laughing at the gesture. “oh, my hero,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Bet your ass I am, nerd,” Tillman cackles, throwing a friendly punch at Mike’s arm.
They’re laughing together and jabbing gently at each other for a long moment when Tillman suddenly sobers up. “Wait,” he says, slapping Mike’s prodding hand away. “Wait, wait, if you left with me at the same time as the other Shoe Thieves—”
“oh, fuck ,” says Mike. “not another.”
“Fuck,” agrees Tillman. “Wait, I gotta—”
With no further explanation, he lunges into the next room—his bedroom, Mike guesses. There’s some loud clattering from down the hallway, and then Tillman reappears, this time wielding his phone.
“good idea,” says Mike as he crashes back into the main room. He cranes over Tillman’s shoulder, only to be greeted by him snatching the phone out of view.
“Hey, if I don’t get to read yours, you don’t get to read mine, loser,” he growls.
Mike frowns, his eyebrows drooping. “aw. c’mon.”
Tillman glares for a couple more seconds, before his face softens (his face softens? really? tillman? ) and he says “ Fine . Fuckin’ nerd, with your stupid sad face.”
Mike brightens, and leans in to read the screen.
< whose kicks? our kicks! >
esme: yo so tell me im not the only one who saw tillman leaving with mike fucking townsend last night | Sent 10:07 AM
stu: excuse me | Sent 10:10 AM
stu: EXCUSE ME | Sent 10:10 AM
stu: WHAT | Sent 10:10 AM
blood: who | Sent 10:11 AM
snyder: whoa shit | Sent 10:13 AM
snyder: wild | Sent 10:13 AM
snyder: thats some ☕👧 | Sent 10:14 AM
stu: ??? | Sent 10:14 AM
snyder: thats some tea sis….. | Sent 10:15 AM
esme: i hate you. i bring u the good drama and the thanks i get is ☕👧? perish | Sent 10:15 AM
The conversation after that mostly derails into emoji-related arguments, so Mike leans back and exhales hard through his teeth. “shit.”
“Yeah.” Tillman shuts off his phone and turns unusually sincere eyes to Mike. “So.”
“so,” Mike nods. “maybe we should… talk about this.”
“Yep.” Tillman pops the P and chews his lip for a second before dropping back down onto the sofa. Mike follows suit.
“so,” Mike says again. “it… happened.”
Tillman nods, shuffles in place, averts his eyes. He’s clearly uncomfortable with such candor regarding this matter, but Mike doesn’t think there’s any other way to get past it.
It happened.
There’s a long silence. Evidently Tillman isn’t going to be saying much, so Mike figures he’ll have to lead this discussion, which he hates beyond words, but needs must. He steels himself.
“so, um,” he says. “what does it… mean?”
Tillman makes a questioning noise.
Mike cringes. “I mean, like, are we…” He glances away. “ boyfriends, or something, now? ”
“Ew, that’s gay,” says Tillman immediately, so immediately that it almost seems more like a reflex than anything else. Mike would mention the fact that all of this is definitely very gay anyway, but he understands this is just Tillman’s thing.
“okay. okay, so, what, was this just like a one-time thing?” he asks, and it comes out sounding more hurt than he intended. Shit. Tillman gives him a look and he quickly amends, “i mean, not that it’s like, an issue if it was. that’s, um, cool with me.”
It’s not, but he doesn’t say that.
“No,” Tillman interjects, too quickly. “I mean, no, that’s, um… I don’t. Want it to be that.” He chokes out as though physically forcing the words through his throat. Despite himself, Mike feels a smile growing on his face.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, loser,” Tillman grumbles, looking at his feet.
“okay. cool. i mean, that’s pretty…” He fumbles for slang Tillman will relate to, and lands on “...radical?” what am i saying?
Tillman’s eyes crease a little bit in one of the first genuine smiles Mike has ever seen from him. “Radical?”
“shut up, i’m—” Mike cuts himself off with a sigh. “okay. cool. so… what is this? just because, like, i know— i heard you and, um, declan suzanne have, like, a thing, right?”
Tillman freezes up at that, but Mike can’t stop talking. “like, that’s cool, that’s fine, i’m— i vibe with that, i just, y’know, i don’t wanna step on any toes.” mike, please shut up.
There’s a long moment, and then Tillman makes a choking noise and speaks. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be—um—mutually exclusive, or whatever, right?”
“right!” Mike affirms, too loud. “right. right, no, that’s fine. for sure. i’m down. to clown.” jesus christ.
Tillman lets out a tiny snort. “And, um, we don’t have to put labels on it, right?” He glances at Mike after that—for approval?—so he gives what he hopes is an encouraging nod. “Like, me and Dec never did. You and me can be a thing, and him and me can be a thing, and it doesn’t have to be like, a thing. ”
Mike finds himself nodding rapidly. “cool. yeah. cool. that’s, uh. that’s cool. i— yeah. that works.”
Tillman nods too. “Cool.” His Tillman-ness takes over once more, and a tiny, genuine smile morphs into his more usual toothy smirk. “Hey, maybe one day you and him can get close , huh?”
Mike glances away swiftly and laughs nervously. “ah, uh, maybe, i mean, i barely know the guy.”
“Best time to get to know him,” Tillman snickers, shuffling closer so their bodies are pressed together, and leans his head on Mike’s shoulder. “Maybe we could get to know him together, if you—”
“ okay, ” Mike shouts, covering his face in embarrassment and leaning away from Tillman’s suggestive, smirking face. “i get the picture.”
Tillman cackles, loud and sunny, and snakes his arm down Mike’s to grab his hand and squeeze it hard. “This cool?”
“yeah, that’s cool.” Mike says quietly, squeezing back.
“Cool.