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Tillman doesn’t even find out Mike’s been sent to the shadows until two days after the election.
Phones don’t work in the shadows - no text, no “Hey, it’s Mike. Townsend. I’m going to hell for a while, see you later” , just the first of many cold reminders that no one gives a shit about his boyfriend besides him. The Garages are celebrating Jaylen’s return - it’s practically a leaguewide party with a live concert to boot, contrasting the shell-shocked expression of a woman turned revenant trying to grasp what the hell just happened in the last 72 hours with the glitz and bright white lights of the stage. The only thing louder than the cheers of the crowd are the roars of the fans, a droning noise of victory that might as well be airwave static to Tillman. Nobody cares about the guy they sent to the hall without a second thought to bring back somebody better. Nobody even mentions his name until the week rolls around and everybody collectively seems to realize it’s not the best look, and maybe we should turn him into a martyr instead of a joke.
Nobody bothers to let Tillman know (he doesn’t expect texts or people pulling him aside normally anyways, but he kind of assumed if it involved his fucking boyfriend they’d make an exception); he finds out as a footnote from the ticker two days after the fact. A single line rolling across tv screens in stadiums. An asterisk in somebody else’s story.
So the bottom of his world falls out underneath him in the dim flickering lights of his Baltimore apartment the evening of postseason 6 day 3, and he has to deal with it alone. He faintly recalls Mike joking once that he’s already planned his own funeral, because nobody else will do it when the umps finally get him - he was the only one who bothered to plan Derrick’s. It eats at Tillman to realize that wasn’t a joke.
It eats at him more not knowing if the fans and the team put him up to this forcibly, or if he chose to sign something akin to a death warrant for fun.
([the t-man (#069)]: i know you cant get these. but
[the t-man (#069)]: man. did you know?
[the t-man (#069)]: if you did: why didnt you tell me.
[ERROR: TEXTS COULD NOT BE SENT. RESENDING…])
He sends texts every day to a number that can’t respond back, and ignores the growing hostility towards his increasingly reckless play on the field, his increasingly more cruel jabs off the field. It’s the only way he’s ever learned how to cope with his problems - don’t, just pretend you’re untouchable, take it out on others so they can’t hurt you first - and it’s only spiraling downwards the more he realizes that no one cares. Nobody even realizes why Henderson’s so upset, so constantly furious and reckless; it’s just classic unlikeable Tillman Henderson, playing into his heel persona again.
([the t-man (#069)]: its boring without you
[the t-man (#069)]: sorry if you get out to all of these lol
[the t-man (#069)]: when. when
[the t-man (#069)]: when not if LOL
[ERROR: TEXTS COULD NOT BE SENT. RESENDING…])
Mike’s shadowing is so insignificant to everybody that it never even occurs to anyone that someone could miss him, and Tillman is so hated by his own team that nobody even considers he has a boyfriend. It’s the first part of that statement that makes him so fucking livid.
So he keeps texting. Play by plays, cool moments he made, funny fights that break out in Baltimore bars, horrible things Declan has done this week, selfies of him trying on different clothes, hesitant updates on the league’s warpath of incineration and ashes. His favorite text he sends is a selfie of him cracking his biggest shit-eating grin in front of the Crabs’ championship banner at the end of season 8. His least favorite text is trying to explain the shelled players.
The worst part is when he sees season 9’s election options, it gives him stupid, naive hope. He shouldn’t have any, but he can’t help but start trying to devise a way to rig the votes, sway the fans into caring about a guy that apparently only he could see something in. (They’re so alike, and he almost hates that. Mike deserves to shine like a star.)
He doesn’t live to see the results of the elections.
Mike’s return from the Shadows goes something like this: he’s abruptly yanked from his dark, shitty apartment he’s been sharing with Sebastian for at least a season, still in pjs he hasn’t changed despite Seb’s best efforts to get him to function, and is shoved out into the Big Garage wide-eyed and sleep deprived with bedhead and vertigo. The team looks at him with varying degrees of surprise, and Jaylen isn’t there, and he’s vaguely aware of how the world has been progressing since he went on something akin to a suicide mission but he didn’t realize how much had changed.
“Hey,” he chokes out, fumbling in his pants pocket for his lighter, and that’s the only break he has in speech before his phone begins going off at an incredible rate. It takes him a second to check the 300+ incoming texts and he feels himself almost drop his phone in a dizzying mix of terror and a sweet, dazed emotion he couldn’t identify if he wanted to that all of them are from Tillman. God, they’re all from Tillman, all the little updates on League drama and Crabs events and--
He feels so bad; he never even had a chance to say goodbye, or at least text him something.
(He knows he’s too much of a coward to try and explain why he doesn’t care if he’s trading his life for someone better’s, though. Tillman thinks he’s so much more special than he is. It’d break his heart, and maybe that’s where the guilt lies.)
“Who’s blowing up your phone like that, Mike?” Malik’s the first person to speak, his expression passing as the most casual about the election results of anyone in the room, playing up a tiny smirk with an ear flick as he talks. “Damn, your single got you popular, Mikeyboy! Fans already lining up!”
“Shut up,” Mike retorts with no bite, managing a weak eye roll. “It’s Till…” The s almost rolls off his tongue, second nature to him; he stutters before he recovers. Nobody right now had earned the way he talks to Tillman in private. “It’s Tillman, you know? I think- I think he was keeping me updated. If only I could’ve gotten service in the Hall, geez. More entertaining than glimpses of results through radio static, right?”
He cracks a bit of a smile to punctuate what he hopes sounds reasonably like a joke, but it drops as soon as he realizes that everybody in the room is staring at him like they’ve seen a ghost. “... What? It was a joke. Kind of.”
“Do you-” Malik starts, then glances over at duende with an unreadable expression on his face. the rest of the team begins pointedly not looking at Mike in a way that makes his blood go cold. “Uh, you talk to Henderson?”
“We’ve been dating.” He tries to not make it sound bitter. He knows he’s failing, but it should’ve really been obvious if anyone paid attention to where he went after games for so many seasons. He knows that’s unreasonable of an ask, though, so he forces himself to try and make it more lighthearted than it has any right to be. “Stop looking at me like that, okay? If you want to make fun of my taste in guys, Jaylen’s got the first thro--”
“You didn’t hear the news,” Duende cuts him off bluntly, staring at him with a blank expression, and Mike falters. He doesn’t get a chance to recover. “Henderson was incinerated at some point this season. He’s been in the Hall for days.”
Mike stares blankly at his team’s captain, waits for this to be some fucked up practical joke to welcome him back, and numbly nods before walking off when nobody cracks a laugh in what felt like a matter of hours.
It figures. His life for someone better’s. Always.
([mike (#013)]: hey
[mike (#013)]: whyd you have to do this
[mike (#013)]: i know i went to the shadows without a word. but dying and not even hunting down my a
[mike (#013)]: no. sorry. its not your fault. i miss you
[mike (#013)]: thanks for keeping me posted. i didnt expect anyone to text
[ERROR: TEXTS COULD NOT BE SENT. RESENDING…])
([mike (#013)]: so they made me a martyr, huh
[mike (#013)]: thats funny. lol
[mike (#013)]: did you hear that song they wrote for me
[mike (#013)]: it probably made you so mad
[mike (#013)]: madder than (is a disappointment) maybe? lol
[mike (#013)]: doubt it
[mike (#013)]: you punched someone out over that
[mike (#013)]: still dont know why
[mike (#013)]: well. thats it for the week
[mike (#013)]: i miss you
[ERROR: TEXTS COULD NOT BE SENT. RESENDING…])
The season is a mess of shadows, white noise, and band practice to Mike. He can’t pick out which days don’t blur into each other, and he can’t help but feel like none of it matters very much. He barely plays through season 10; he goes through his games on autopilot, texts Tillman at night when he’s feeling particularly self loathing, and in the middle of what feels like a haze of 99 days manages to form something akin to actual friendship with his team. It’s uneasy, and it doesn’t make him feel any better, but at least they’re all trying to learn from who they were for the past 6 seasons he was around.
He manages to catch up with Jaylen after a game, where he echos a conversation he’s had with Seb before -- it’s getting harder for him to distinguish where the living starts. He feels more like a dead person than anyone who belongs among the living. The only thing that really sticks in his memory is the expression that flits across her face briefly, full of pity and horror and anguish.
(He ignores her new single on the radio a week later, one that calls him out by name. He’s used to it; she was venting. Just another carved tally mark on a garage wall.)
His texts go through after the Crabs win the championship, at the same time the Big Garage erupts into a cacophony of noise and horror. (Tillman is alive. Jaylen is dead. And so the cycle repeats, making a mockery of the little happiness he finds in his life.) Mike’s eyes flicker between the screen they watch the Shelled One descend upon and his phone’s soft buzz, lost amidst a growing rally to go help kill a god.
([tills (#069)]: oh
[tills (#069)]: lol i didnt expect you to try and keep me updated too
[mike (#013)]: oh my god
[tills (#069)]: oh
[tills (#069)]: hey
[tills (#069)]: long time no see
[mike (#013)]: hey
[tills (#069)]: after we kill this failure fucking peanut. can we talk
[mike (#013)]: yeah.
[tills (#069)]: nice
[tills (#069)]: i missed you too or whatever
[mike (#013)]: oh)
They win their war, and Mike watches Jaylen play their side just as easily as it was a guitar, plays the role of a saboteur like she’s singing leads - not quite dead enough for it to win against the Stars. The corners of his mouth turn upwards when the sky finally breaks into sun, and Jaylen’s soulsong echos across the league. ‘Yeah, it was worth it,’ he thinks, heaving a soft sigh with the thought. It would’ve been worth it even without this, though. He’s not worth very much.
He tries to find Tillman among the jumble of players across the field as everybody celebrates, but it’s hopeless.
The next day the election bell tolls, and Mike wakes up in his apartment with Sebastian again.
([the t-man (#069)]: god
[the t-man (#069)]: damn it.
[ERROR: TEXTS COULD NOT BE SENT. RESENDING…])
They’re cycled out meaninglessly in almost the perfect rhythm to never be able to see each other. (Always so alike. Is there a difference between being hated and infamous and being hated and forgotten? The results are the same.)
They finally get to have that conversation when season 13 drags Tillman back into the hall kicking and screaming, swearing violently at forces that cared very little about what the players thought or felt about their lack of agency in the matter. He takes about a day to collect himself into something resembling his normal demeanor, loitering in the hotel lobby-like atmosphere of the Hall, and then hunts down the Monitor for information.
“Hey, Binky. Gimmie Mikey’s Hall number.” It’s a blatant demand he’s ready to back up, squaring up to get into a full on fight as he gives the Monitor his cockiest grin.
They stare at him for a while before pointing him further down the hallway of apartment doors, gesturing to the right side. “[hall stars suite],” and their voice feels like ringing in Tillman’s ears, much to his chagrin - Binky’s tone of voice was too otherworldly in the Hall. “[right side, apartment number 1053],”
“...Uh,” he really didn’t expect it to be that easy - nothing ever is this easy for him. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he just doesn’t. “Okay. Cool! Bye, or whatever.”
Tillman invites himself into Mike’s apartment with barely a knock and almost runs face first into Sebastian, who gawks at him for about a minute before seemingly regaining his composure and shaking his head. “Oh, no, no, no. Well, I mean-- well-- hi, I guess, you’re here for Mike?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m gonna talk to him, so.” Always phrased as a demand, a given. He almost adds ‘Also, I miss him’ by reflex. Sebastian’s eyes flicker towards one of the bedroom doors, and he looks like he might say something else but simply shakes his head slightly and mutters something that Tillman suspiciously thinks sounds like ‘good luck’ before moving away, back into the living room. Again, it’s too easy - people make Tillman’s life worse, not better. (Mike is the exception to the rule.)
He’ll still take the easy outs when he gets them, though.
So he yanks at the bedroom doorknob, almost knocking himself flat on his ass when it doesn’t give way - firmly locked against his breaking & entering. When he tries to kick it open, he amends mentally it might be both locked and barricaded. He doesn’t like what that could mean, knowing Mike.
“Mikey.”
There’s a shuffle he can hear on the other side of the door after a second. “...What? Wait, wh.. Seb, if this is a joke, it’s not fucking funny. ”
Tillman is almost taken aback at the level of vitrole he drops into - he’s never heard him that mad in his life, not even in the face of being called names he really should’ve gotten mad about. “What? Dude, it’s me. Mikey, open the fucking door, jesus.”
There’s a fumbling sound at the door, the sound of something being swept aside and crashing into furniture - he hears an under the breath ‘fuck!’ that tells him whatever was keeping everybody else out just broke something in there, and tampers down a smile. Some things don’t change.
Mike cracks the door open and barely peeks out, wide eyed with dark circles so bad Tillman visibly winces involuntarily, and gawks for a second before opening the door enough to let him inside. “Oh, my god. They sent you back.”
“Got called back, Mikey, but thanks! They love me here. Can’t get enough of the starred Tillman Henderson, baby!”
There’s a pause of silence as Mike closes the door behind him, before he erupts in barely smothered, half-hysterical giggles as Tillman grimly surveys the room around him. Clothes are dumped unceremoniously everywhere, a chair broke part of the dresser to his right and he’s almost certain that’s the sound he heard moments before, the bed is unmade and looks as if Mike had maybe been sleeping (in the middle of the day?) when he arrived. Records are laying everywhere, an old Garages tape playing on a skipping radio/walkman as some kind of faint background noise, and Mike himself looks like he’s as dead as Tillman is despite being only a guest to the world of the incinerated.
He tries not to feel concerned, but he’s always failed at that when it comes to Mike. All of the bravado and smugly declaring emotions ‘cringe’ in the world couldn’t save him from his own cringey emotions like ‘relief he can see Mike again’ and ‘what the hell happened to his mental state in so many seasons in this hellhole’ and ‘is it stupid I kind of want to kiss him? i’m mad’ .
“Oh my god,” Mike manages between increasingly hysteric laughter that starts to sound like it’s devolving into sobbing. “I missed you so much, Tills. Dipshit.”
It always makes him stumble, the genuine honesty. “Of course you did. Hahaha! You missed me.”
“Shut up,” There’s no bite to it, and he glances away to wipe his eyes while Tillman pretends he doesn’t notice. “I… hey.”
“... Yeah.” The mood shift is obvious, even as he takes Mike’s arm as gently as he’s capable of. “Hey.”
“... I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Tillman swallows, trying to sort out exactly how to feel - texts are one thing, making up for so many conversations they’d tried to have, but actually being able to talk to him again is another. “It’s. Did you know? That they were gonna ship you off to bring Jaylen back?”
“Vaguely.” Mike doesn’t meet his eyes. Tillman’s stomach drops.
“What the fuck, Mike?”
“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice starts to crack, but he clears his throat and shakes his head slightly, moving to take Tillman’s hand with a slow sigh. “..I’m sorry. You can yell.”
“I’m not gonna yell, fuck, dude. You know I can’t be like that to you, even if it’s justified this time. Why didn’t you say anything? ”
The silence speaks more than Mike could, really. and it’s hard to be mad - there’s genuine guilt and depression written across his face, and it’s so hard to actually be mad when the answer was vaguely. Vaguely, he knew they wanted to trade his life for Jaylen’s. His life.
God, it makes him sick.
“Would it have changed anything?” He finally manages, glancing downwards with a sigh. “I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t think… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“You thought nobody would miss you.”
“Did anybody but you?”
The retort hurts, because Tillman’s so angry it’s true. He opens his mouth and closes it again in frustration. “Do I not fucking count?”
“...You count. That’s not what I meant,” Mike’s voice cracks this time, shaking his head. “I just- I didn’t want to make it your problem. You already… I don’t know.”
“Dude. You went on a suicide mission, what part of that isn’t already my fucking problem? I had to find out from the fucking ticker that you were in the Hall! ”
“Nobody told you?” The cut in is abrupt, his eyes going wide, and it occurs to Tillman that maybe he thought someone would at least mention it. Tillman has no response. Mike stares at him with an unreadable expression, before almost collapsing against him with wordlessly. “Nobody told you,” and it comes out as something of a hoarse laugh, something of a whimper. “Jesus.”
“Don’t.” He grips Mike’s wrist tighter, sitting down on his bed and letting Mike fall with him. “Stop this bullshit, okay? No more fucking getting yourself killed, no more reckless self loathing, no more deciding you can trade your life for someone better because jesus christ, I can’t do this. You’re something better to me!” He’s trying not to yell, but he can’t help it as his voice steadily rises, seasons of emotions barely expressed through text and expertly repressed boiling over.
“You wanna know what I did for two seasons wallowing in the fact you might as well have been fucking dead? I was so fucking angry, Mike! I was so fucking mad that nobody gave a shit! That everybody wrote you off as a disappointment or a fucking martyr as if that made it better! Nobody else fucking saw a single bit of the glamour I see in you and it just made me want to rip everything apart at the seams! ”
There’s a deafening silence after that, only really punctuated by the skipping guitar riffs of ‘Pathetic/Spineless’ playing in the corner as Mike balls his fists into Tillman’s shirt, letting go and balling them back up again repeatedly.
“I’m trying.” The eventual response is so soft that he barely hears it, but he knows it’s genuine. “I promise, okay? I’m… I won’t do this again.”
“Okay,” and there’s a swallow, barely concealed relief. “Okay. I believe you.”
“Jaylen wants me to get a therapist.”
“You should.”
“Okay.”
There’s more silence after this, uneasy yet comfortable as they just sit there vaguely holding each other, Mike’s barely concealed sobbing and sniffles hidden under the static. it’s understanding, it always has been - he’s trying. Tillman believes that, and it comforts him.
“They didn’t tell me, either.” Mike’s voice is so quiet and deadpan, such a tonal shift that it catches him offguard.
“What? Tell you what?”
“That you got incinerated. That you died. Duende told me in 15 words, didn’t even know how long.” His voice cracks well and truly into barely restrained from crying at that, and Tillman’s stomach dips again. He never thought about the other side of the coin if he died.
“That’s, uh,” he swallows, at a loss for words. “Well, I guess I expected that. They probably celebrated, haha!” It stings more than he expected.
“It fucking sucked, dude.” The blunt honesty of his statement, the raw pain that undercut it - that stung more than Tillman expected, too. “I get whisked out to enjoy pretending I’m alive for a season, and you’re dead. My life for someone better’s.”
“Shut up. Don’t say that.”
“Sorry.”
Tillman inhales a few times, exhales slowly. laces his fingers with Mike’s. “Not your fault, Mikey. Mine.”
“Not your fault,” Mike echoes back, a sad smile slowly playing across his face. “Glad we finally... same place, same time.”
“Yeah.”
They stay like that for a while, haphazardly interlaced in soft comfortable silence, basking in each other’s company with a mutual understanding. Tillman’s unsettled by Mike’s offhand comment about pretending to be alive; Mike’s unsettled by Tillman’s ability to pretend he doesn’t care that the team he does genuinely love under everything hates his fucking guts. But they’re together again, and they had time to untangle those things together.
The Boss knows nobody else would do it for them or even care that the cracks in their personas existed in the first place