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“I’m only helping you because I like you.” Mike says, looping his apron over his head, “Otherwise I’d be in my bed. All warm and—”
“You’ve told me there isn’t any warmth in the shadows, Mikey.” Malik says, swinging his legs to bang against the cabinets under the kitchen island where he sits. Each strike makes Mike feel like his brain is wobbling in its skull. He doesn’t complain, it’s better than silence.
“When the sun hurts, you start to mix up your senses. Sue me.”
“I wonder if I actually could use that against you in court, nya?”
“Good luck finding an address to send the subpoena to.”
“That’s fair, I suppaws.” Mike rolls his eyes and Malik grins. “Why are you wearing the apron anyways? I’m the one who’s cooking. Aren’t you only—”
“Half corporeal. Yeah. But it makes me feel better about not being able to bake anymore. Clothes won’t slip through me like other things do. I guess whoever made the rules didn’t want us walking around naked.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad…”
“Mal!”
“Just kidding! Ain’t a catperson allowed to joke? Damn.”
Mike sighs. He looks around the kitchen of Dad’s grill. Blackout curtains stapled over the windows, a low yellow light making up the slack, if just barely. He misses early mornings here. When he’d come in and throw the panes open and breathe in the smell of the garage, wash himself up to the shoulders and stick his whole arm in the dough left to proof overnight like an unusual hug. Punching it all down before he divided them into buns. It felt good to do something with his hands that he could do, not like pitching. This was supposed to be his turf. He could make the dough in the same way in the same place like an asshole. The routine was good. He likes routine. He misses being anything but adrift.
“Wash your paws with soap and be good about it. Hot water and everything, you know?”
“Yeah Mikey, I’ve cooked before.”
Mike’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Not well but,” Malik shrugs, “that’s why I have you.”
“What’s this bakesale for anyway?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Malik says smugly.
“That’s awfully suspicious. Why don’t you just spill, huh? We’re buds.”
Malik just smiles, mostly teeth and hardly joy.
“Yikes, fine. I won’t push you.”
“Apurrciate it—” Another eye roll from Mike, “Now tell me where I get started. I’m just itching to get my hands on something. What’s this? Can I eat it?”
“That’s baking soda and sure you can . You sure that itching isn’t ticks? Sounds like ticks to me.”
“Someone’s feeling rude today.”
“And someone’s feeling secretive. We’re even.”
“Fine.”
“Now grab the flour.”
“Which one is the—-”
“You’ll know because it’s labeled ‘flour’.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, bud.”
“Shut up, Townsend.”
Mike guffaws.
“So right now I’m picking up the flour. This bag’s real heavy, you know? And I think the powder in it’s settled cause it isn’t wobbling around too much.”
“The Ump are you doing?”
“I’m narrating. You know, cat people do that.”
“I thought you said the third person thing was an offensive stereotype?”
“It’s nice that you remember.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“So what’s next, Nya?”
Mike's worried his eyes will pop out of his head at the rate he's rolling them, “Sugar. Butter in the fridge, the blue one. You can see blue right?”
“Yup! That’s the uhhh,” They rummage, tail flicking about in the air, “See, I have yeast and the jar’s real cold in my hand. Hard too, but that’s just how glass is, and the bottom is rough and the top's made of this thin metal that’s real fun to press on, hear it?” Malik presses the freshness seal a few times to hear it pop.
“We’re on a time limit here, Mal. I’m glad you’re having fun but…”
“It’s tomorrow! Loosen up.”
Mike shrugs, pushing himself onto the island where Mal was before. “It’s your friday night.”
“Yours too.”
“It’s not like I’d be doing anything anyways. Sleeping, maybe.”
“You could if you really tried to.”
“What am I gonna do? Clubbing is fun and all, but normal light makes my head wanna explode. Neon light would send me directly to hell.”
“You're going to purgatory at worst," Malik comments, "Who says you have to go clubbing? You didn’t like the noise even before…” they trail off.
“Just say it, man."
“Before you were sent to the shadows,” Mal finishes, solemnly. They push their lips up, “But there has to be something Mike. I care about you and I can’t stand to see you like this. You’re depressed, Mike! You need to get out. Meet people!”
“I know people.”
“I know you do, and they’re all great, and no I’m not being sarcastic about Tillman. But more people. I think you’re forgetting the immaterial plane is populated, you know? That there are more people than just us and the league and the fans. That there’s hope out there.”
“Shut up right now?"
“Okie." They throw their hands up in surrender, "Take your time.”
That’s the great thing about friends who know you, about Malik and the rest, also the reason Mike prefers not to 'get out more'. With his friends Mike can just say ‘shut up’ whenever he wants and nobody cares. Nobody acts offended (besides Till when he’s playing.) They know it means ‘I need to think’ and not ‘I don’t want to hear you’. It’s easy .
“Whatever,” Mike says, which means yeah, I’ll get back to you on that. “Found the butter yet?”
“It says unsalteded. The paper is kinda greasy, this is wax paper, right? Feels a bit like wax. Cold too—”
“That tends to happen when you put things in the fridge.”
Malik ignores him, “And it isn’t soft but if I squeeze it budges. Kinda a nice texture. Do you like how the butter feels, Mike?”
“More like did I.”
“You can still feel things sometimes! Come on, try it. Concentrate now, nya.” Malik holds out the stick of butter.
It shouldn’t feel like some kind of big moment. He should just reach out and take it like a normal person, but Mike finds himself worrying his lip. And he shakes the tremors out of his hand before he takes the butter.
For a single moment, for a single, sweet moment, he could feel it. Smooth. He’d forgotten how smooth butter could be. But then it slips through his palm and onto the floor, tumbling until it rolls right out of its packaging and collects the dust and old crumbs.
It’s quiet.
“Think...think we can still use it?” Malik whispers.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Mike!”
“I said it doesn’t matter! There’s more butter in the fridge anyway, who gives a fuck what it feels like? Not me, that’s for sure.”
Malik frowns, their whole face drawing into wrinkles, but they don’t argue. Instead they take a deep breath and say, “Okay. what next?”
"Vanilla, that baking soda you almost stuffed in your face, eggs—yes you can eat an egg when we're done don't give me that look."
"You know me so well."
"Milk too."
"Ooh, milk first."
"At least waterfall it—duuude! Now we can't use that gallon anymore."
"Does that mean I can take it home?"
"Not cool, Malik."
They tip their head back and laugh. Mike can't help but smile when he sees them. It's stupid, Malik would pull this same trick everytime they came to the kitchen, and then tip like a king to make up for the guilt. They even ended up putting the extra milk in their monthly budget. It's just been so long that Malik surprised him.
Alarm spikes in Mike's mind when his body sizes up, and he forgets to breathe. He panics, this hasn't happened before, this isn't a symptom, there isn't too much light and it isn't too loud and he isn't moving too much and he should be fine .
So he surprises himself when he barks a "HA!"
That only makes Malik laugh louder, which makes Mike laugh louder, and laughing feels so foreign yet so familiar, it brings happy tears to his eyes.
"Fuck, oh fuck!" Mike wheezes, "My stomach hurts, it hurts, is it supposed to hurt?"
"If you're doing it right, yeah!" Malik giggles. "Feels good, huh?"
"Yeah! I don't want it to—huh—stop." And then, thinking of the laughter being over and never getting it back, he's regretting ahead of time. The laugh ends in a bitten off sob. He's familiar with tears, though. It doesn't take so long to recover.
Malik pries Mike's hands from his face, holding his wrists. "You okay, Mikey?"
Mike takes his time to answer, "Yeah...yeah I think so. Let's keep going. Deadlines and all."
"Sure, Mike." Malik let's go.
With their back turned, Mike takes a deep breath and dusts himself off. His whole form feels like it's vibrating at a low frequency. Normally being out of the shadows feels like he's in one of two modes. Bearable or unbearable. But now feels different . Lucid, like putting on a new eyeglasses perception but with every sense. Mike blinks and tries to tame the expression of wonder on his face.
"And the milk here is heavy and also cold, but like, extra cold. I know you might not be able to carry it but try the temperature, see?"
Wordlessly, Mike sticks his hand through the gallon. He shivers. It feels great.
Malik swishes it around, "and see how it sounds?"
"Like the ocean."
"That's not what the ocean sounds like, but you're close. Ooh! Ooh, and the vanilla!" Malik nearly drops the gallon as they reach for the bottle of extract, uncapping it with a satisfying pop! "Smell?"
The intensity almost burns his nose, but Mikes feels like he was punched in the gut and stumbled back in time to those sweet-tooth special weekends they held to make money when games were off, pastries and custards in the oven. The whole place reeking delightfully of vanilla.
Mike wants to cry. He leaves his eyes closed. He breathes. He feesl the artificial wind of the AC run down the hair on his skin.
"Mike." Malik says quietly.
"Hmmmm."
"Hey Mike you might wanna open your eyes now."
"Sure, sure, just...just a sec." He feels almost whole again, and though he knows they have a cake to get to, this is nice. But he takes a breath and steels himself, he knows what he has to do, after all.
Mike opens his eyes.
"Holy shit, holy shit! "
"Heya Mikey."
"I can see you, I can—" Mike reaches for Malik's face, and his eyes blow wide when he hits cheekbone, "Holy fuck! You're so soft, dude!"
Malik laughs, and shakes him off, "I know that."
Mike looks down at his arms, and it’s like he was turned up to 100% transparency. He’s solid, and the island under his ass feels solid too. Mike jumps down before he’s thought twice and Malik’s hands under his armpits are the only thing between Mike and two shattered kneecaps.
“Woah, Mike! Take it slow, nyah?”
Mike lets himself slink out of Malik’s arms and onto the dirty floor. He can feel every last spec on his skin and it’s fucking glorious. Disgusting and fucking glorious.
“The hell did you do to me?” Mike wheezes, still unsure about how exactly he should be breathing.
“Nothing that complicated. Just a grounding technique taken to the extreme, we figured it would help you, but—”
“We?”
“I’m flattered you think I’m smart enough to come up with this one my own, nya. Want a hand up?”
“Can’t I just stay here?”
“Sure you could but I just thought you’d want to make me a cake even more.”
“I could kiss you.”
“Gross.”
“Help me up, I’m gonna show you how to cream butter and sugar like nobody’s business.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Might be,” Mike says, taking Malik’s hand and allowing himself to be hoisted onto his feet, “Why? Are you worried?”
“You wish! Just give me one sec.”
“What are you doing?”
Malik reaches deep into their pocket, biting their tongue. They hiss in pain and pull their hand back, diving in deeper before they hold a tiny object above their head, victorious. A staple remover.
“Let’s see if you can handle sunlight!” Malik says eagerly, turning to the covered windows.
Mike scrambles to get in front of them, “No! No, this is good. I don’t want to push my luck. This is great .”
“But It could be so much better ! Don’t you miss it? The sun?”
“Of course I fucking miss it.” Mike says, “But I also miss having a body that feels real. There’s so much I missed that I have right now.”
“It could be extraordinary.” Malik says, their tail flicking in irritation, “We had it all planned out.”
“And I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful, you know? But when you don’t have a lot you learn to settle for ordinary. Maybe I’ll try sunlight later on. Right now I just want to make this cake, okay? Please, Mal?”
“Nnn, sure.” Malik says, tossing the staple remover onto the table, “Ya, fine. But you can make this cake on your own. I’m feeling tired.”
“Go drink your milk, Malik. Leave it to me.”
Mike takes extra time to savor every step, feeling the metal embossing on the kitchen-aide mixer, and how firm the butter actually is (he remembers to soften it, this time around) and how the sugar grains scrape his skin if he presses. He even let’s himself taste the batter knowing he could get sick, because at this point, fuck it.
He’s almost tempted to burn himself on the oven racks just to see what that’d be like, but he doesn’t, just slides the pans into the oven, sweeps the rag over the counter to pick up stray flour, and finds so, so much joy in every moment.
When he stands to look at his handiwork, Malik pipes in, “Want to hear what the ocean actually sounds like?”
“I will literally die if I don’t.”
Malik hits play on their phones and almost tosses it when they see how fast Mike is coming in. Mike presses the glass to his skin and listens to the crashing waves. Back when he was in Seattle, actually living the city and not just being there, he'd visit the ocean on weekends. It was too loud for him to try in the shadows, like a migrane that made his brain switch decibels to dolorimeters.
Malik kicks the cabinets, and every thump makes Mike feel more and more like he's living again.
"And about meeting people…"
Mike groans, "Really? Now? I'm having a moment."
"Yes, now! Just cause things can get better doesn't mean you don't need a way to cope when they're worse. Look here i have pamphlets. There's a jazz listening club, and a book club, and one to trade recipes, other things too."
"Those sound...nice."
"We checked that the light isn't too harsh there and they'll even let you call in if you're having a bad day."
Mike closes his eyes again, listening to the ocean on an 8hr loop, feeling loved. "I'll look at them. And I mean that."
It only takes a minutr before Malik gets squirmy again, “So uh...How’s Tillman been?”
Mike tenses, “What did you say?”
“Oh, nya? I asked about Tillman.”
“Tilly…”
Mike puts the phone down slowly, turns, and bolts for the door.
“Mikey don’t! The sun!”
“Fuck the sun!” Mike says, and he throws the door open and every inch of skin sings under the kiss of sunlight, he hardly cares. He looks out at the field, it's massive , he feels so small, and he runs down the stands in leaps, rolls his ankle, is hurts like he'll but who care. He climbs onto the picnic green then drops down onto the field and lands on hid face and picks himself back up and runs.
"TILLMAN!" Mike calls towards in-field.
“Fucking— Mike?” Tillman asks, “Hell are you doing out here?”
“Hell are you doing here?” Mike asks, stopping just short of the pitchers mound where Tillman stands in practice clothes, breathing hard.
“I was waiting for you.”
Mike takes a step closer, “For me?”
“Yeah, gay-ass, for you. Who else? Did the thingy work? I mean—clearly it worked but—”
“God, I don't—Please just shut up and kiss me while I still have time.”
— — — —
Malik looks up from yet another clickbait bird video some...Well, judging by the video’s length, thirty minutes later.
“Hey Mikey?” they call.
No response.
“Hey MIKEY! How long’s this cake supposed to be in, bud?”
The only answer is the smoke that starts to pour from the oven.
“Huh...well that can’t be good.”
Malik takes of swig of milk, and laughs.