Work Text:
i.
“So, what the hell was all that about in you guys’ newest single, Mike?” He’s stretching his shoulders outside some shitty Baltimore bar that for some reason Townsend always comes with him to, whenever the Garages are up for a game and Tillman extends the invite as casually as he can manage. He tries not to think about how Mike looks framed against the setting sun in the city, almost like he just naturally blends in with the downtown life. It makes his chest do things, things that he hates, things that are so definitely cringey and make him feel. “You just went off with some fuckin’ monologue about Hotdogfingers! It was pretty good, like, what? Those are some badass fuckin boasts, Mike! Like, you really said R.I.V to her, but I--”
Tillman’s laughing when he glances over at Mike’s face anticipating the response, and it dies in his throat at Mike’s expression. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, like Tillman just shot him in the foot or all the blood had drained out of his face at once, and suddenly Henderson feels like he’s done something particularly awful this time.
“They kept that?” Mike’s voice is strained, clearly trying to keep up a casual tone to the question. It’s betrayed both by his facial expression and the slight crack to ‘kept’, a barely restrained drip of terror to it. Tillman has no idea how to reply. “H.. haha. How, uh, how much?”
“It’s like… a minute long, dude. Two minutes?” Tillman barely wants to continue this conversation, suddenly. He just assumed Townsend was cocky enough to have such a mild-mannered boast -- but now that he thinks about it, that’s just stupid of him. He does know Mike well enough at this point to know it’s not his style, not even for his stage persona. “Uh, you did tell them to keep that, right, dude? Like, seriously, it’s your music and shit - you recorded it?”
“I,” Mike swallows and tries to keep his voice from trembling. He knows his hands are shaking more violently than they have since the incineration. “Don’t really remember recording the vocals for Park It. They told me to do a- to improv something, it… was close to, um. Jaylen.”
“...So you did record it? And listened to it back?”
“I told them to scrap the monologue, let me redo it. Because-- when I listened to it back, I just,” he swallows again, gestures with a shaky, forced grin. “You know when-- when you’re just saying shit to make yourself feel better? Like, you’re vocally puzzling out a 200 count puzzle, and none of the pieces fit right, so you just keep trying to break the edges off until it fits because otherwise, fuck. What are you gonna do? Just- have shit scattered all over your floor?”
“Uh, kinda?” Tillman’s trying to process the implication that the Garages kept something so clearly personal and disgustingly raw when he specifically requested they just throw it away and let him re-record it, but Mike keeps going, words tumbling out faster in a manner that he’s come to recognize uncomfortably as a sign of panic in the guy.
“That, the monologue, that was my puzzle pieces not fitting right, and I was-- I was so upset and Jaylen had just fucking gotten incinerated and my brain felt like-- like when you shake a soda can? And it fizzes everywhere? And I couldn’t think straight, and I was in band persona mode, and I don’t. I introduced myself, because that was the only stage directions I got given, and it all just… tumbled out. Like, oh my god, she-- if she’d been just, just over to the right a little, like… jesus christ, my best friend would still be alive. And everyone’s fucking, like, they hate me, the fans hate me and I don’t know what to do. About it? And I just, she would know what to do about it, and I have to fill her shoes, and I was just--” He cuts himself off with a horrified, near-hysteric laugh, shaking his head in wild disbelief. His hands tremble too violently as he fishes his lighter and pack out of his pockets to keep a steady enough flame to light anything. “Sorry, jesus christ. Um, let me answer - that was my messy breakdown I had live in the booth I thought Tot was going to delete for me?”
“Uh,” and Henderson has no idea how to respond to any of this. He feels uncomfortably like he’s on thin ice, which is stupid because it means he cares about how Mike’s going to react to what he says. He’s Tillman Henderson, he doesn’t care if what he says is going to upset someone, and if he does -- well. that’s his problem.
So it’s definitely his problem that he doesn’t know how to tell Mike that not only does it sound less like a breakdown ( but he knows, he does understand - Mike and him have that in common. the way they grieve and experience things don’t match up with how the world wants them to express it.) and more like a dismissal, but so convincingly that even knowing Mike well Tillman thought that he’d just eclipsed him in a heel persona act.
So he does what he knows best; he dodges the emotional aspect of it. “Wow. You know, I’d fuckin raise hell if my shit got published without me saying so, you know? Like, that’d be secret Tillman Henderson content! L-O-L.”
This doesn’t even scratch the other thing he’s trying to process, which is that the Garages apparently care so very little about Mike that they included an unedited rant that was, with even a little context, obviously made in a bad state of mind. Didn’t that go against the entire team culture they marketed? Tillman’s head is spinning; the thought that Mike is as hated as him by the fans and a team that he’s generally shown he cares a lot about makes him feel something he doesn’t quite know how to process.
“Hahaha, yeah,” Mike’s voice is so strained and it makes Tillman’s chest hurt in a way he hates; it makes him… angry to hear him sound so at a loss for words and trying to hide the obvious hurt this information caused. “Let’s keep the radio off, go back to barhopping. Maybe you’ll get us kicked out of a second one for trying to steal a keg, Tillman.”
“I’ll break glasses if they do that, L-O-L.” He doesn’t touch the obvious topic drop. He doesn’t know how, and the thought of trying to comfort him over it makes him cringe. It’s just not what he’s good at. (Why does that make him feel so guilty?)
“God, don’t. My bar tab in Baltimore’s already fucked from you being a dipshit. I love getting kicked out as much as the next bored asshole, but I’d like to not owe money you won’t pay me back.” Mike retorts back with a forced violent grin, finally managing to light a cigarette through trembling hands.
Tillman hates admitting that he finds Mike kind of hot when he gets more insufferable, more of an asshole. But this isn’t bait or banter this time, something intended to rile him up so that he bites back; this is the forced retorts of someone who feels like a cornered animal and is trying to do anything to get a different conversation going. He lets him have the last word this time for reasons he couldn’t explain, feeling strangely mad at himself for bringing up the topic and sticking his tongue out in response as they start walking away.
All Henderson knows for sure is that Mike hides a lot more under the appearance of being casual and laid back than he thought, and he doesn’t know how he feels about having so much in common with him. Doesn’t feel right that anyone else should feel remotely like he does.
ii.
“Question, Till.”
“Answer, Mikey.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Mike deadpans, putting out a cigarette on the Crabs’ empty dugout bench and rolling his eyes performatively. He’s always surprised at how fast the Crabs empty back into the Crabitat after their games; then again, maybe it’s because it’s so early into season 4 and most of them have better things to do than practice. He does relish in the time alone goofing off on the field it gives him whenever he’s up near Baltimore to hang out with Tillman, though. “Seriously.”
“Well, jesus, you want me to grant you permission to ask me shit? Just aaaaaask, Mikey,” Tillman teases, shooting him a shiteating grin before shaking his head and stretching one arm out dramatically. “No, wait, here. Yes, Mikey, Mike Townsend, the most specialist and lucky fan to ever grace the presence of Tillman Henderson, you may ask the awesomely epic and radical Tillman a q--”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Mike’s struggling to stop laughing between words, lightly punching Tillman on the back of shoulderblades and wheezing into a closed fist. “I hate you. Nevermind.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mikey! What’s up?”
“No. You’re terrible and I hate that we’re,” Oh, he hates thinking about this. He knows his face is already flushed from laughing, but he usually finds himself happier around Tillman anyways. “Friends. Asterisk.” Maybe if he could ever get over himself. Well, it’s a nice thought to contemplate - he doubts it’s mutual.
“No, you love this. C’mon, what did you wanna know?”
He pauses, trying to think of a good way to articulate what he’d originally thought about; it’s one of those offhand observations he has no idea if normal people pay attention to. Then again, neither him nor Tillman are exactly normal, so he probably shouldn’t overthink it that much. “Earlier, when I got here and everything was just wrapping up - you said you don’t really have friends on the team, right?”
“Yeah, dude. That’s cringe. You’re like, the only guy I’ve met who isn’t cringe, so you should be glad you’re so special.” The fact Declan is their mutual best friend goes subtly ignored, an acknowledgement that it’s just different between them in a way they haven’t examined yet. “Why?”
Mike has no response to being called anything positive, so he ignores the subtle compliment and the way his face heats up. “Okay, well, mostly I was just wondering why Loser asked to meet your family? Like… “ he wiggles a hand in the air, trying to think of a good word to fill in for twenty. “That’s weird, right? Or is it just me. Plus, like, you guys didn’t even win - no offense, I just--”
He cuts off when he notices Tillman’s gone very, very still, staring at the ground without a single retort and immediately regrets opening his mouth. “Um. You can forget I asked, sorry. That was weird.”
“...It’s fine,” Tillman finally responds with a strain to his voice that emphasizes that it was very much not fine. God, Mike feels like a fucking asshole. “He was being a dick, you know how it is around the Crabitat. L-O-L.”
“Oh. …Yeah, sorry, I guess- I guess I should’ve guessed. Haha,” Mike trails off awkwardly, fidgeting with one of his belt loops and wishing that the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. It figures he’d step on one of the only landmines Henderson could even have. The silence that engulfs the conversation makes him wish he could just teleport back in time ten minutes and ask a stupid question about whatever awful game Suzanne showed him this week.
“... My family sucks.” It’s not what Mike expects to hear after about three minutes of silence, and Tillman is very pointedly not looking at him. “It’s not, like, secret knowledge around the team. I’ve… probably said equally shitty things, so it’s. Uh. Fair.”
“Oh.” He treads very lightly, trying to think through his next response. “That’s a dick move.”
“I do a lot of dickish things, Mikey, it’d be fail if they couldn’t get me back a little!” Tillman’s laugh is forced, and Mike contemplates if it would be weird to put his hand over Tillman’s. Is it weird or reassuring? God, social conventions sucked. He inhales as slowly as he can and scoots over to Tillman on the bench, awkwardly sneaking his hand on top of his and pretending to not notice when Henderson freezes in place.
“Okay, sure, but probably not that dickish. You probably unplug all the computers in the Crabitat so nobody can beat your high score on Gloogle Dinoslaur Jump game.”
“Fuck you, I play better games than that.”
“And get high scores?”
“Fuck you! My gamerscore is epic! You don’t believe me?”
Mike’s laughter feels slightly performative to his own ears, but he’s just relieved to hear Tillman relax back into their normal banter and arguing so quickly. He hates it when he just says shit and it’s always the wrong thing to hear, always the thing that upsets people he knows. “Nope. You gotta show me you can play games other than, like, I don’t know. Halo 2.”
“Oh, get fucked, Mikey! I so will show you how fucking epic of a gamer I am! You’re coming to my apartment!” Tillman snaps, grabbing Mike’s hand and yanking him practically into Tillman and subsequently due to the laws of physics, into the dirt. Mike’s laughter is only outmatched in his head by the roaring in his ears and what surely must be his face on fire.
“What if I beat you, huh? I can play Guitar Hero like nobody the fuck else. I’m gonna outgamer Tillman Henderson,” he taunts back, trying to ignore how lightheaded he is and how hard he’s sure he’s blushing. Tillman responds by scowling and practically attacking him, the two of them pointlessly rolling in the Crabitat’s dirt back and forth between laughing and playful hair pulling and punching, and Mike’s pretty sure he’s going to die.
They subside into breathless laughter, sprawled out on their backs in the dirt making faces at each other in comfortable silence, and he sends a silent thanks up to whatever entities inhabiting the elements of the Crabitat let his fuckup not ruin this… thing he has with Tillman.
He’s still catching his breath and coming down from nearly hyperventilating himself to death when Tillman finally speaks, sounding smaller than Mike’s used to.
“...Does it bother you?”
“What?” His mind’s spinning, trying to catch up with where Tillman was in this conversation. “That you’re bad at games?”
“Oh, fuck you, no!” He hits Mike with an open palm on the head, and Mike wheezes in response. “I’m serious, okay? Just this… just this once. Does it, like, bother you that. Uhhh. I’m not, like, perfect?”
“...Huh?”
“That I don’t have, like, this cool family you’d expect. Or anyone that you could ever meet. If you wanted to. Which of course you would want to. But.”
“Tills,” The nickname slips off his tongue before he can catch himself, but he briefly sees Tillman try and tamp down a genuine smile and decides maybe that’s okay. “You’re dumb as hell.”
“Oi!”
“No, it doesn’t bother me, dude.” Mike lets out a long sigh, running one of his hands through his hair and grimacing at the amount of dirt that comes out. “I don’t have parents, so.”
“Oh. Uh.”
“They disowned me.” It’s weird to think about; he hasn’t been bothered by it in a very long time. Too used to living on his own and raising himself, he thinks. “So it wouldn’t bother me anyways, but. If it makes you feel better, it’s not like I have anyone else to introduce you to if you wanted to meet anyone close to me. It’s pretty much just…” he trails off; sometimes he forgets Jaylen is dead, still.
“...Oh.” Tillman rolls over to look at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Mike suddenly feels a little too warm and cold at the same time to be watched like this. “Well. That sucks, dude, but like. No offense? I’m glad you don’t give a shit. My family’s fucking lame. And cringe.”
“None taken. My, uh, birth parents are ‘cringe’, I think.”
“Hahaha! Yeah, fuck, they have to be! Who wouldn’t wanna be around you?! Only cringe, stupid losers!”
Mike never knows how to actually respond to Tillman seemingly genuinely thinking he was worth being around, or existing in general. He swallows nervously and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Hey, did you invite me to your place, or did I hallucinate that?”
“Oh, shit!” Tillman bolts upright, a wicked grin immediately sprawling across his face. “Haha! So attentive! Hell yeah, c’mon, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you in Smlash Bros!”
He lets Tillman help him to his feet, putting on a good performance of rolling his eyes and pretending to not believe that Tillman’s ‘so actually an epic mlelee player’. Really, all he can think about is a mixture of ‘Jesus christ, I have it bad and I have it bad for Tillman Henderson’ , and how strangely poignant he feels about how much they have in common.
Odd, how much he relates to someone everyone else keeps writing off.
iii.
Tillman doesn’t make the flight to Seattle nearly as much as Mike flies down to Baltimore, it feels like; subsequently, he usually only catches Garages’ games on the tv or on the field. It leaves out the crowd atmosphere; he’s a pitcher and he gets to sit in the dugout most of their games, and Mike hasn’t played in the games the Garages have been up at Baltimore for so he’s really got no idea of what the crowd is actually like for anyone other than him. Naturally, when he has extended time off from being a shitty pitcher, he takes the oppertunity to zip up to see Mike and definitely to repay all the times he comes to visit the Crabs, and not because he hasn’t seen him in what feels like ages (it’s probably only been two weeks, but that feels like a year) and he- well. Missing people is cringe, and he can’t be cringe. So it’s just to hang out and see what’s so good about the Big Garage and bars in downtown Seattle.
It’s his first attendance to a Garages game in their home ballpark, and Mike is pitching, and all Tillman can think about in the top of the 9th inning is the sheer genuine disbelief he’s feeling hearing the crowd’s irritated yelling of ‘ Town sennd’.
Yes, Mike isn’t the greatest pitcher. He’s known that considering the Garages have written it into most of their music, new single about to be debuted damned - Tillman considers being labelled ‘a credit to the team’ almost a fucking shameful attempt of reparations, but he knows Mike will pretend it’s all good because he’s too nice for his own good and it makes him feel so angry. But the vitriol and mixed reactions the crowd spits at him goes beyond his Blaseball skills, goes beyond even what Tillman usually expects for his games when he’s actively being a dick, trying to get all the heat he can on him so he feels like his presence is at least meaningful.
It’s the crowd chant of a crowd that either genuinely loathes him for not being Jaylen, for his attitude, or at the very least the fans who are trying to buy into Garages culture and their attempt to market themselves a little bit more as a team.
Tillman Henderson is stuck processing all this and staring in disbelief as Mike throws his final strike of the inning, listening to a crowd genuinely fucking hate him and trying to figure out how a guy so normal and laid back has perhaps even more people hating him than he does actively accepting the negative attention and egging it on. He’s starting to understand why Mike just… accepting this kind of behavior bothers him so much, but listening to it makes him feel nauseous to be a part of the crowd.
He doesn’t stick around to listen for the changeup, snaking his way from the floor seats of the stands into the Garages dugout and almost kicks the fence when the next song that shuffles over the ballpark speakers opens with a few guitar riffs and ‘The waterboy looks down on him, as he picks up the ball--’ .
He beats Mike to his own dugout, and while the rest of the Garages glare at him and he hears Malik grumble about ‘that guy owes us $50, why don’t we kick him out?’ , Mike slips into the dugout with an expression Tillman isn’t used to seeing on him that makes him feel distinctly like he’s been punched in the stomach. Mike’s face is practically ashen, a zoned out look in his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders as he shambles over to an empty bench that not even the rest of the pitching rotation is lounging on; Tillman feels like a deer in headlights.
He shouldn’t be here, but Mike shouldn’t be here either - he’s struck with the urge to steal him out of this shitty game, take him anywhere else and be a pain in the ass until Mike’s laughing and trying to clip his hat and failing because he’s laughing too hard.
He stays frozen in place, hovering near the left door entrance to the dugout transfixed by the seemingly invisible barrier that keeps the rest of the Garages away from Mike; he doesn’t even hear the game end, doesn’t register that the bottom of the 9th blinked by as Malik comes back to the dugout and throws his bat down with a violent swear. Tillman feels like his muscles unfreeze all at once as Theodore leads the team back out onto the field for the end of the game and finds himself sprinting over to Mike faster than he knew he was capable of. “Mikey!”
“Tills?” Mike’s head snaps up from whatever daze he was caught in staring at the dirt, his eyes wide and full of confusion and - Tillman feels something catch in his throat and stomach when he recognizes shame in his expression. Jesus, as if he cares about Mike’s performance on the field. “What are you- what? Why? When? What? Did Baltimore play the Lovers today?”
“Nope. Got two weeks off pitching, flew up to catch your games, hang out, see you, yadda yadda. You should be super duper grateful that the Tillman Henderson wanted to come all the way out here to see y-- to hang out!” He’s already over grabbing Mike’s wrist as he speaks, pausing when it dawns on him he’s not at all acting rationally or even like he normally might. Mike’s staring at him with the same wide-eyed, kicked expression and he’s suddenly self conscious as he very slowly lets go of his wrist. “Ah, right. You do stuff on the field after the games, right? You always make fun of how the Crabs just scatter back to the clubhouse, but af--”
“No.” Mike cuts him off in a tone Tillman has no idea how to read; he’s never heard such a clipped, empty tone from Mike before and he immediately hates it. That’s not how Mikey’s supposed to sound. “It’s… keep going.”
“Go downtown with me.” It’s supposed to be a question; it comes out a statement as he grabs Mike’s hand without thinking. “I mean, like, seriously you were the pitcher for this g--”
Mike drags him out of the dugout through the entrance Tillman snuck into before he can finish his sentence, a rare show of force from Townsend that he has frankly no idea how to deal with.
They make it about three blocks from the Big Garage before Tillman pulls him off to the side through a little alleyway and Mike puts his face in his hands and inhales violently, like he’s trying not to break down or scream. He has no idea if he’s made the average game for Mike better or worse and he feels strangely like he’s underwater, lungs unable to take in air, thrashing desperately out of his element.
“Jesus,” Mike exhales, his voice audibly cracking. “I didn’t-- well. Sorry you had to see that.”
“See what? A game you’re in?”
“Yeah.” There’s not a trace of irony in his voice, and Tillman’s too stunned to respond; he opens his mouth before he can even think through his response, blurting out his first thoughts on reflex.
“Dude, why are you apologizing for being in a game? What the fuck?”
“I,” Mike looks at him as if Tillman has played the wrong chords next in whatever song they’re supposed to be playing. “Um. I’m bad at… pitching. Or, well, everything. Fuck, this isn’t-- you came all the way up here to hang out, and I’m--”
“You’re not that bad at pitching. You’re definitely not bad at everything. What the fuck, Mikey?” Tillman cuts him off, unable to mask the genuine disbelief in his voice. Sure, he knew Mike’s self esteem was - well, low might be a nice way to put it, but who would have self confidence when your entire shtick is being your team’s most hated member?
Knowing that and seeing it firsthand’s a different story entirely, though; it’s jarring and unnerving to him that it’s not an act. The fans hate him for reasons Tillman can’t fathom. His team doesn’t get along with him, again, for reasons he can’t fathom. It’s not like Mike tries to piss everyone off, says exactly the right things to provoke people into punching him, orchestrates every action he takes to sabotage people trying to get close to him. He’s just Mike.
“I… um.” Mike gestures helplessly, his eyes rimmed lightly with tears he’s clearly trying to hide, and Tillman feels hopelessly out of his depth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, okay? I wanted to come up, and I also wanted to see you play for once.” The honestly slips out before he can joke it off. He pauses, weighing the pros and cons of being a little bit more vulnerable, a little bit more - possessive implies something he’s not fully able to accept about how he feels towards Mike yet.
And yet. “And, well, if your team’s fans make me wanna fuckin tape gum to the bottom of their soles and spraypaint their cars, that’s their fault for being fucking assholes with no taste. And if your team is being shitty to you and I want to key the Big Garage, that’s--”
“Don’t,” Mike interjects with a little bit of forced laughter, but it strangles in his throat rapidly. “I like the Big Garage. And this is just-- this is just how it is. When I pitch. I’m … used to it.”
“Dude, this is worse than I get. And I’m trying to piss everyone off.”
Mike gestures emptily towards Tillman with an unreadable expression, and his heart sinks. Wrong thing to say, Henderson. “Sorry, wait, I know you’re not trying to piss everyone off and it sucks! That’s my point! They have no taste!”
“It’s,” he exhales slowly before moving towards Tillman with an empty smile. “Fine. I promise.”
“It’s not fine.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Mike just looks at him, eyes unreadable and scrutenizing his every move. Tillman forces himself to go through with it. “Like, listen, I’m used to this. Hell, this is what I strive for, baby! But this- you don’t deserve this kinda reaction, okay? Let me be mad for you. You’re too fucking nice.”
Mke’s stare breaks when Tillman finishes talking, spinning to very pointedly not look him in the eyes; he pretends he doesn’t know that he’s wiping his eyes. “Can I go home and change? I look stupid.”
“You don-- yeah. I mean,” Is it weird to invite himself to Mike’s house? He’s overthinking. His head’s buzzing too fast. “Like, can I come with? Or do I have to make the reservations in Seattle when I’m barely here?”
“You can come with, dipshit.” Mike manages to crack a small smile, glancing over at Tillman with a shake of his head. “You can meet Peaches.”
“Your cat? Fuck yeah.”
He follows Mike back to his apartment in something that was at least an understanding silence, and contemplates that, as strange as it felt to admit, he’d burn this fucking league down if it made people recognize how special Mike was. There’s no good reason that a tired and depressed pitcher for the Garages should be even in the same league of hated that Tillman was.
iiii.
It’s closing in on the end of the season when Mike finally gets a chance to fly back over to Baltimore for a few days, taking advantage of their team’s inevitable party time free time and his downtime from pitching to get the hell out of Seattle for a few days.
Well, he says that. He knows in his heart he’s just desperate now for any chance to see Tillman, any opportunity to sneak off into parties or bars with him and watch the way he so effortlessly plays the people around him for fools. Sometimes he thinks about the way that they can share a joke or be a part of the same scheme across the room, and Tillman will shoot him that mean smile that comes so naturally to him, and his heart kicks up by about 20 BPM.
He knows he has it bad and he’s pretty sure the rest of the team’s caught on to it at least somewhat, although he’s doubtful they’ll retain it after the gossip wears off and he’s not sure if he’s glad about that or not.
None of that matters right now though, because he’s waiting for Tillman outside the Crabitat as the end of the 9th inning wraps up and the game closes and he doesn’t want to kill the vibes of whatever they have going on now.
Tillman’s the first out, flipping his bat once back towards the crowd with a smarmy smirk as they give him one last round of boos before his drifting gaze catches sight of Mike and his eyes light up, sprinting over, the game results forgotten win or lose.
“Mikey!”
“Hey,” Mike gives him a slight nod and a half smile, rolling his eyes slightly as Tillman comes to a barely controlled stop in front of him. “Showoff. Liking being a pinch batter?”
“Oh you know it, dude. I get to flip my bat and show off, and the crowd haaaates it when I hit a dinger!”
Tillman drums his fingers on the end of his bat to punctuate, shooting him a grin while Mike shakes his head with a soft chuckle.
“Insufferable. Well, you look good out there doing it, so.” He doesn’t really think through how it sounds until it’s out of his mouth; thankfully, it’s not as if Tillman notices. He just beams at the praise, hooking an arm under Mike’s.
“Of course I do, dumbass. Anyways, let’s-- let’s get the fuck outta here. My place so I can change outta this shit before- before we hit the town?”
Mike hesitates slightly, a ‘sure!’ already on the tip of his tongue; there’s a slight waver to Tillman’s tone, an uncharacteristic hesitance that he’s only observed a few times in late, chilly Baltimore nights causing problems in the empty ballpark and sharing personal anecdotes.
“Uh… sure. …Look, you don’t have to tell me, but… are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay? Never better.”
“You’re shaking.”
He doesn’t mean for it to come out so bluntly, but Tillman’s hands are wavering against Mike’s arm as if he’s the only thing steadying Henderson from a force Mike’s unaware of. Tillman’s eyes widen for a second before he shakes his head more violently, dragging him off towards the backroads towards a shitty little Baltimore apartment complex as the rest of the Crabs begin staggering out. Mike can’t help but realize that all of the Crabs are varying shades of pale, as if they’ve just seen a ghost.
He knows what it means. They all do. He might’ve missed most of the game, but he didn’t need to see it to understand what happened.
“Hey, Henderson!” One of the Crabs players Mike’s unfamiliar with - he faintly thinks he’s seen ‘BEST’ written across the back of their jersey - shouts after the two of them, and Tillman automatically quickens his pace. “ Henderson! ”
He opens his mouth to gently ask Tillman if he needs to attend a funeral or start planning - god knows he’s been there, of course - but another Crabs’ member interrupts his thoughts as they start to become a small little blot in the distance. “ Coward! You won’t even fucking stay to get the invite?”
“...Who was it,” he mumbles, letting himself be dragged along as Tillman starts basically sprinting, his hands trembling against his arm so hard Mike’s almost concerned he might trip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… see.”
“Combs. Duende.” His voice is flat, with no intonation that Mike could use to determine what a normal level of sympathy would be in the situation. “We’re captainless now, I guess. Kennedy and Forrest are filling in and shit.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t.” He stops so abruptly Mike almost crashes directly into his back, throwing a dark glance over his shoulder that under other circumstances might make Mike feel more than a little flustered (god, something is wrong with him.) but at the moment just spikes his concern through the roof. “I don’t care, so don’t give me sympathy.”
“...Okay.” Mike knows better than to argue about this topic. He knows Tillman actually does care, in his own way. He might be the only person who’s figured that out.
They walk to Henderson’s apartment in muted silence, and Mike waits patiently on the couch as the moon rises outside his window for Tillman to finish changing out of his jersey. He tactfully ignores the sound of running water that betrays a desperately needed shower; he’s showered after every incineration they’ve had, too. It’s the only way to get the feeling off of you.
Tillman stumbles out twenty minutes later with sopping wet hair, an oversized tank top, and an expression flitting across his face that breaks Mike’s heart a little before collapsing on the couch next to him. He’s debating if he should take off his shoes and stop sitting so formally on Tillman’s couch when he speaks.
“Not feeling like a bar tonight. Nobody fun will be there, anyways.”
“I’m good with that,” he leans down, pulling off his shoes and neatly crossing them into a t on the floor before swinging his legs up onto the couch. “We can just hang out here.”
There’s a long stretch of silence before Henderson replies. “Thanks. I guess.”
“It’s fine, Tills. I get it.”
“Hahaha!” His laugh is almost deranged, bordering more of a sneer than actual humor and it makes Mike feel like he’s already put his foot in his mouth. “Nah, Mike, you don’t. But, hey, that’s a good thing. I promise.”
He’s so taken aback by that kind of a response he can’t stop his retort. “Try me.”
Tillman looks at him as if he’s insane, a mix between genuine surprise and something darker visible in his eyes. “Seriously? Drop it, Mike.”
“I--” He opens his mouth to retort ‘actually, I do get it, lest you forget the entire reason everybody’s fucking catching fire is because of my team’ , but logic gets the better of him as he exhales and drops a hand to his side. “Okay. Whatever. I’ll put something on TV.”
“Dude, you’re actually fucked in the head if you think you get it and you still want to push it. Don’t give me that ‘whatever’, as if you think you’ve got the fucking grounds to go toe-to-toe on this with me.”
“I’m trying to- to be helpful, or nice, or whatever, okay? You’re so fucking weird about actually, like, letting me help you or needing some fucking downtime that it’s impossible to give you any fucking sympathy, Tills!” He regrets saying it as soon as it slips out, grimacing and mentally kicking himself immediately. “Fuck, wait, that’s not what I m--”
“Jesus christ, Mike! I’m fine! I don’t give a fuck Combs is dead or whatever, okay?! I don’t need any fuckin sympathy! You wouldn’t get it, because you don’t have people shouting at you because if you had been just a fucking little closer in the outfield you’d be the incinerated one instead, and how fucking sick would that have been?! Why couldn’t you have been fielding that ball like, slightly closer to the batter’s box, Henderson!”
The tv remote clatters to the floor with a loud, ringing plasticky rattle, fallen out of Mike’s hand as he snaps upright to meet Tillman’s eyes with a blank stare.
“I do know how it feels, actually.” He’s distinctly aware he should be being useful, comforting Tillman - he can see his hands shaking, see the wild caged animal look in his eyes that meant he was trying not to actually break and show anything other than his normal facade. Instead, his tone is clipped and blank and he feels less in control of his movements than he normally does. “There is not a single person in the Garages who wouldn’t have traded me for Jaylen in a heartbeat. Who wouldn’t say I should’ve opened the book, instead.”
‘How sad,’ He thinks. He thought that the experience of being just a few inches over, being the one who should’ve been incinerated and reduced to ashes was an experience that only he should have to know so intimately. Mike wonders if the Crabs have seen the way Tillman’s eyes change ever so slightly whenever his teammates are feedbacked, if they know he’s trying in the best way he can. It’s so complicated to care for a team that doesn’t care back.
“...Oh,” the shaky response clips into his thoughts like a bad radio signal, and Mike shakes his head a few times to try and clear the static clouding his brain. “I… oh.”
“No, don’t. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have said that,” Mike lets out a slow, controlled sigh, his voice sounding so far away to his own ears, glancing up at the cracking ceiling plaster before finally absentmindedly taking Tillman’s hands into his. He runs a finger over cracked, tattooed knuckles while ‘we’re gonna win in spite of you!’ cheerily loops in the back of his brain. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m… so sorry, Tills.”
“I,” and Henderson is looking at him with wide eyes that remind Mike distinctly of a left behind puppy who doesn’t know that its owners are going to come back, who thinks that its world just fell out underneath it. “Literally felt his fucking ashes drift near me. Jesus, Mikey, I almost--”
“You didn’t.”
“The fire singed my jersey.”
“That’s why you changed.” It’s a statement, not a question; Tillman nods mutely and Mike pulls him into a hug before he can change his mind. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Tillman echoes, and Mike can hear his voice cracking but he can’t see if he’s trying not to cry or not. “I don’t… jesus,”
“I’m happy you’re alive. For what it’s worth.”
“ Oh. ”
He tries not to think too hard about how he wants to comb his fingers through his messy raven hair, hold him until he stops shaking. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with that.”
“Used to it.”
“So am I, but it doesn’t make it fair to you, still. Nobody should get told they should’ve been Incinerated in the place of someone else. No matter how hated.”
“What about you?” Tillman’s voice is small; it reminds Mike of a sunset day at the Crabitat earlier this season, the last time Tillman told him something so personal and raw. “You haven’t done fuckall.”
“It’s fine. Not about me right now, okay? Just… you don’t deserve this.”
“Trust me, I do.”
His response breaks Mike’s heart. “No, you don’t. ”
“...You’re the only idiot in the ILB who believes that, you know, Mikey?” A forced, shuddery laugh. “Weirdo.”
“Well, it’s hard being the only person who’s right. Somebody’s gotta carry the burden, though.”
It makes him laugh more genuinely, so Mike silently considers it a win and leans over to one side, carefully releasing one arm to grab the remote off the floor and flip on some stupid MLTV reality show.
“...I’m glad you didn’t open the book.” Mike barely hears it; Tillman’s voice is almost a whisper. He doesn’t know how to respond without breaking like a pane of taped up glass.
Their lives for someone better’s; he hates how much he understands the feeling. He can only silently hope it’ll be his life for Tillman’s if it comes to it.
iiiii.
The sun is always setting when Mike visits.
It’s as if their world wants to frame him in the early shadows of sunset, a halo of fire crowning his silhouette in Tillman’s eyes accentuating sharp shadowed smirks and dark circles that seem to be getting worse every week through the season. He frames the encroaching night skyline of baltimore like one of those fancy paintings Tillman used to see as a kid, mindlessly staring at the brushstrokes composing the depictions of saints or angels, figures he had no respect for and art that held no value to him despite the price tags his mom proudly boasted about. If he tried a thousand times now despite never having held a brush in his life, every copy he made trying to depict these sunset gilded arrivals would be worth thirty times over whatever rich tacky garbage decorated the walls of the Henderson mansion.
He’s waxing poetic like some kind of cringey art student while Mike’s leaning against him, dozing off on his couch while the replay of this season’s ILB championship finishes up on their TV and cuts to the local Baltimore news. Tillman hates how much vulnerability he’s rediscovered exists in him since Mike stumbled into his life; he can’t imagine his life without the little hole in it that an indie guitarist filled without him even knowing it was there.
He feels so stupid thinking so deeply about it all, as if it had some strange grander meaning and wasn’t a complete chance encounter at a post-game party that changed his life. ‘Changed his life’, listen to him ; Tillman’s so hopelessly gay that he’s managing to find all the tiniest special meanings in the pieces of Mike that he’s come to possess that no one else does. He can’t help but cringe inwards a bit at his own tooth-rotting sappiness.
He doesn’t want what they’ve built to change, he’s too selfish to lose Mike in any way, and he’s certain that even if some fucked up freak occurance gave him exactly what he wanted that his teammates would use it against him relentlessly as payback for his own shitty behavior. (Lord help him, he’s starting to almost feel something about it. Disgusting of Mike’s niceness to rub off on him.)
“Hey,” Mike’s voice chirps up to break his spiral of thoughts, sleepy and a rare moment of content from him that Tillman tries pointedly to ignore makes his heart do stupid stutters. “Tills?”
“Yeah? What’s up, dude? You look like you’re about to pass out, c’mon - hanging out with me can’t be that unexciting!”
“I’m not bored,” he protests with a slight smile; Tillman glances at the tv as casually as he can. “Dumbass. You’re the opposite of boring, that’s my job.”
“Uh, no it isn’t. Idiot.”
“Whatever,” They’ve had this ‘arguement’ a few times, and Tillman wonders when he’ll just give up and accept that he’s the opposite of boring to him. “Not the point, okay? Jeez.”
“Alright, alright, what’s the point then?”
Tillman waits for a minute, but Mike goes quiet instead of responding. Even though it sparks a pinprick of - he hates saying anxiety, because being worried is stupid and fail and proves he cares way too much about what Mike thinks about him, but it’s true - concern, he can’t help but wonder if he just fell asleep before he could finish his sentence. The thought ‘cute…’ flits through his mind, and he tries very hard to not let it show on his face.
“...You wanna turn on something else other than local news? This sucks. And it’s hard to focus on, and we could watch like…” Mike finally says, pausing to tap his knee a few times, lost in thought. “Uh. I dunno, hahaha. Yloutube? Splorts drama? That’d be funny.”
“Sure, okay. You’re just gonna let me pick?”
“Yeah. I can’t think of anything very good, okay?”
“Your problem if you hate it, then,” Tillman shrugs, moving to start scrolling through his phone for anything funny he’d been watching recently to mirror. He’s very uncomfortably aware that wasn’t what he initially wanted to talk about, but he’s learned over the past season especially that Mike tends to bottle things up and talk himself out of sharing his thoughts if he felt they were particularly stupid.
“I won’t.” Mike’s response is so strangely confidant that it makes Tillman pause for a second, scrunching his eyebrows up with a glance over at Mike’s curled up form before clicking some random video discussing two of the minor leagues’ up & coming idolboard members latest feud.
“Well, that’s awfully fuckin certain of yourself, Mikey! Awww, you trust my excellent and perfect taste soooooo much!”
“Oh, shut up,” There’s a low rumble against his shoulder that he recognizes as Mike smothering laughter, and he grins. “We have similar taste anyways, dipshit.”
“Tells me you have good taste, Mikey! Since my taste is, of course, fucking untouchable. But I knew that one already.”
He can hear Mike’s wheezing into his hands, trying very hard not to egg on Tillman’s behavior and failing; it makes him feel so stupidly warm in his chest. It’s these moments where he has Mike stolen away from the league and nobody’s bothering either of them that he’s come to clutch so close to his chest the most; he’s so scared something will steal them away from him, punishment for being… Tillman Henderson. He’s not supposed to have something this precious, and yet.
(He’s waxing poetic again and he’s not even good at poetry, but it’s hard not to. When Mike’s not worrying about his band hating him and making fun of him quite publicly and the fans throwing popcorn down onto him and his friends dying and planning funerals, he’s the happiest Tillman ever sees him, and it’s infectious.)
“Man, you should get into league drama. We should stage like, a league rivalry,” Mike pipes up a while later between laughter, a particularly good bit about hlockey players a few seasons ago having gotten into a physical fistfight in the rink having sent them both into stitches. “We’re good enough at acting to pull it off and hot enough for it to sell tickets, or something.”
“Mikey, I literally love the way you think,” Tillman coughs, trying to compose himself enough to get air back into his lungs. “We so fucking are. You can like, you should release a fucking diss track on your personal blandcamp and then I’ll sell it on the field the next Crabs v Garages game.”
“Oh my god,” Mike wheezes, doubling over into a position Tillman kind of marvels that he can even stay in for longer than a few seconds in laughter. “Yeah, holy shit! I’ll write like a whole single about you and just that act alone will make fans hate me even more, but then they’ll see the rivalry and be like. Oh, fuck, who’s the heel?”
“We’re makin them play the fuckin Prisoner’s Game or whatever it’s called to determine who’s more poggers!”
“ Prisoner’s dilemma? ” Mike croaks out, before violently laughing so hard tears are visibly running down his face, coughing into one hand; it just makes Tillman laugh even harder, barely able to breathe in properly between laughs. “Jesus, I hate you!”
“Annndd scene! ”
He slams his closed fist weakly into Tillman’s arm a few times, crying from laughing almost hysterically; it takes them both five or so minutes just to recompose themselves into something resembling normal, Mike still wiping a tear out of his eye and Tillman still wheezing heavily. “God, we’re so fucking funny.”
“I know! Literally nobody else appreciates how fucking awesome we are, Mikey! It’s a crime! ”
“Declan does.”
“Declan is the thirdmost pog guy in the league, of course he does!”
“Who the hell is second?” Mike sputters, shaking his head with a visible wide grin across his face that sends butterflies through Tillman’s stomach.
“You, duh! You had to ask?! ”
“Uh, yes? I knew you’d put yourself at first, but how am I above Declan?”
“You just are! You can’t question me, I’m Tillman Henderson and my pogchamp ratings are fucking perfect!”
“You--” He cuts himself off with a noise into his hands a cross between a laugh, a sputter and a cough; Tillman’s got a hand over his mouth to try and muffle a second laughing fit before it starts.
“Dude, don’t argue my rankings. You’re the second most pog guy and if you have a complaint I’m gonna kill you.”
“You’re terrible.”
“It’s literally a compliment!”
Mike manages to drag himself into more of a sitting position to give him an indecipherable look before sticking his tongue out; Tillman almost opens his mouth to be a whiny bastard and complain about losing the warmth of mike cuddled into his side, but he knows exactly how gay and stupid that sounds. He doesn’t really have to complain inside his own head for long, though, because Mike goes back to leaning on him after a second with an indescribable smile flitting across his face.
It stays like that in cozy silence for a while after, only broken by snide commentary and laughter at splorts rivalries across the leagues periodically as Tillman tries to ignore the warmth in his chest and the lump in his throat from Mike practically lounging against his shoulder.
(He’s come to accept that despite the fact they’ve thrown way worse jokes and outright flirtatious at each other, like the time he teasingly suggested Mike should ‘get Tillman’d’ in person and Mike only retorted that if he wants to throw his shorts at him so bad he should just go to a concert, he’s just bad at coping with the fact it’s more than thinking the guy’s hot.)
“Tills.” It breaks dead silence as another video starts to shuffle on, a markedly more nervous edge to it this time than the first time he’d tried to start a conversation earlier.
“Mikey?”
Another gap in a response confirms that whatever he wants to say is related to the topic from earlier that he pivoted away from, and Tillman’s about to prompt him further when he responds. “Man, did I tell you how much of an ass Malik was to me this week? He’s so terrible. Like, not as bad as you, he’s technically my best friend and maybe the only person in the band I KNOW doesn’t hate me, but-- man. He can be so fucking good at giving me the third degree! The only person who’s better is Ja-- uh. You get the idea.”
Tillman knows for a fact this is, again, not what he wanted to talk about; that said, he’s still incredibly intrigued as Mike so rarely talks about his teammates other than the dead Jaylen and sometimes Destiny. He’s pieced together that Destiny is his best friend now that Krueger is dead and everybody else seems to have awkward tensions with him, and that’s about it. “Uh, no, and do I have to kick his ass?”
“No! Jeez, it’s fine. Nah, he was just giving me shit; I’m excited to be able to give him more shit after these elections, though.”
“What, not worried about the alternate thing mucking shit up?” He’s processing the first part of that while Mike rolls his eyes. “Wait, why’s he giving you shit?”
“Uh,” Mike pauses visibly, and his eyes widen just enough that Tillman connects it to whatever topic he keeps trying to bring up. “It’s stupid. You know how it is, team gossip and shit.”
“Nah, c’mon, you said it was kinda funny. What’s the scoop in the Big Garage? What’s this fuckin league drama I’m not privy about Mikey is?”
There’s another long pause as Mike glances away from him, clearly contemplating on telling Tillman whatever it is he’s been withholding. It starts to give him a little bit of concern; it’s become clear over this season to him that the Garages are sometimes actually cruel to him and he pretends it’s fine.
“Um, you know. They’re just teasing me and stuff. For, like. You know?” He finally manages, waving his hands around the room with a sharp nervous laugh. “Flying up to Baltimore so often, and shit.”
“...Why?” Tillman’s genuinely puzzled, turning to look at Mike with furrowed eyebrows. “Seriously, are they that jealous you get to hang out with the league’s future ace pitcher-turned-batter?”
“Nah, hahaha. Malik’s the ferry between the rest of the team’s gossip and giving me the third degree about you.”
“... Why? What a fuckin weirdo, seriously.”
“Oh, you know,” Mike’s laughter is growing more nervous - Tillman thought it was just him at first, but combined with the increasing disconnection and rambling he’s starting to do, it’s becoming clear it’s all nerves.
“Like, I don’t. I know sooo much shit, but I sincerely don’t know what you’re trying to explain away by saying ‘oh, you know’. Genuinely, no jokes, I’m serious.”
Mike looks at him with a wide eyed expression Tillman can’t decipher, and after the silence lingers a bit, he can’t help but let out a small sigh. “Like, I’ll bite, okay? Just tell me.”
“It’s stupid.”
“So? I still wanna hear.”
“I,” Mike’s drumming a song Tillman’s never heard on his knee at an alarming rate; he guesses it must be a new single they’re working on. “I’ll do a stupid shitty job at explaining, and stuff. Also, it’s boring. I’m boring.”
“You’re not boring. Stop saying that.”
“I am!”
“You aren’t, okay? Fuck, Mikey, if you say that again, I’ll--” he grinds his teeth, trying to keep from scowling; he knows it’ll just discourage the prompting he’s done so far. “Bite you and give you gamer rabies or something. You’re super interesting and shit and that’s that okay? So tell me.”
Mike’s hand stills for a minute before it continues, this time accompanied with a leg bounce that gently shakes the couch if Tillman focuses on it long enough. “You can’t laugh.”
“No promises.”
“ Tillman. ”
He blinks back in surprise at the seriousness in Mike’s voice, immediately feeling bad. First misstep of the conversation, probably not the last, and now he’s even more concerned. “Okay. I promise.”
“Okay, well,” Mike inhales sharply, briefly seeming lost in thought as if trying to piece together how to say whatever he’s been trying to say for the past few hours. “Um, somebody- somebody started a rumor. Or something? That I keep visiting you because we’re- uh, like. You know. Malik was like, why do you hang out with Henderson so much? And I guess everybody’s been bugging him, because we talk the most out of anyone else in the Garages and he’s my best friend there, and he like. Was just like, ‘Mike, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna put you in front of an ump until you tell me what’s up between you and Henderson’, and I was like, ‘you seriously don’t have better gossip to pursue?’ and it was just. Like. Stuff like that. I was like, you’re just taking advantage of the fact inevitably if you ask enough I’ll answer somewhat.”
Tillman blinks a few times, trying to follow the sheer volume of words Mike was spluttering out, clearly lost in a nervous rant. “Mikey? Slow down.”
“Um. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he pauses, digesting this information and starting to piece it together. “They’re teasing you about me?”
“I’m apparently too boring to tease about anything else. Their words, not mine this time.”
“Why are they teasing you about me?”
Mike looks like a deer caught in headlights, and Tillman’s heart is going about 90 MPH for some stupid reason. “Um.”
“Tell me?” He hesitates; he’s going to sound pathetic and stupid if he tries to be nice about it. “C’mon.”
“...You can’t, um.” Mike exhales, staring at some vaguely interesting crack in Tillman’s floor. “You can’t laugh. And also, forget we had this conversation, okay? If it. Like. If it goes bad.”
“...Okay? I promise, Mike.”
“Oh,” and he looks so genuinely lost for words at that both of his hands drop abruptly to his side. “Okay. Thanks. Um, they’ve been teasing me because I’m. I guess not very subtle? About. You, and how I feel about you, and stuff. And…”
Tillman’s left reeling from that sentence alone as Mike inhales before rapidly continuing. “Uh, Malik was like. I’m gonna give you advice on how to, like. Get over yourself and do something about it. And I’m like, I was like, I can’t just do that we have a thing and what if I fuck it up? I always fuck it up. I don’t want to fuck this up, whatever this is, whatever we have here, I seriously can’t deal with that. And you seem so like, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and you never really like to do the feelings thing, and so--”
“Mike. Slow down. You’re nervous rambling.” Tillman cuts him off, putting a hand over Mike’s and using his other to turn his head to face him. He immediately falls silent, and Tillman lingers to take in the blush across his face before continuing. “Just spit it out, okay? You know I’m bad at trying to decipher when you’re being vague and stuff.”
When Mike stills, clearly too nervous to open his mouth again and seemingly equally shocked he even noticed the obvious tic, Tillman takes the moment to add. “And- look, Mikey, I know.. I’m bad at like. Talking and stuff. But I don’t, like, hate doing feelingsy shit,” a pause, before quickly clarifying. “With you.”
“I…” Mike glances away again, swallowing a few times before trying to speak. “Tills? I like. I like you. Like, a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. And-- and like, god this is coming out so stupid and bad, I’m sorry. You can forget we talked about this if it’s weird and stuff and we can pretend this never happened. But like, if- if you want to like, go out with me. And be my boyfriend. That would be cool. That would be really nice. I like you a lot, Tillman.”
Tillman pauses to process this, knowing that anything even remotely joking would come across as an instant rejection - it’s written across Mike’s face. His heart is racing in his throat as he tries to very carefully step through his response.
“Mikey. You’re stupid, and thinking I would hate this conversation is-- reasonable, but also stupid.”
“I’m s--”
“Shh, listen, okay? Yes.”
“...Huh?”
“Yes, I wanna be an official thing. I think,” he swallows; this isn’t his forte as much as it isn’t Mike’s. “Being your boyfriend would be really nice. Awesome, even. Poggers, even.”
A tiny smile briefly cracks on Mike’s face before quickly cycling through several levels of shock and bewilderment. “...Really?”
“Yes, Mikey. I like you a lot too, okay?”
Before Mike can finish another completely bewildered whimper of ‘really?’ in response, Tillman just shakes his head with an embarrassed smile. “I’m saying yes I’ll go out with you, okay? Christ.”
“...Okay.”
There’s a pause of silence after that as both of them start to actually comprehend what just happened, and Tillman’s chest and stomach feel like they’re on fire. These kinds of good things just don’t happen to him. He’s so scared that he’ll blink and everything will shatter and he’ll wake up, exhausted and cold and alone in his stupid breaking bed and it’ll be the start of the season and this was just a pathetic moment he made up to feel a little better about himself.
He breathes in shaky and slow, and Mike slowly breaks the spell first, reaching out to hesitantly put a hand against his face. “Um, can I kiss you?”
“Duh.” Tillman manages, and Mike gives him a sweet smile under a blush spanning across his face that melts his heart before leaning in awkwardly to wrap an arm around Tillman’s neck and press his mouth to his.
It’s a messy, clumsy first kiss that’s more about a nervous excitement and hesitant expression of softer, sweeter emotions than some kind of picturesque movie moment, but it suits them both well. As they both stumble into messy, slow kisses that feel like another moment of figuring each other out carefully, he’s confidant he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
(Season five will start in a few weeks, and Tillman Henderson will go into it with a boyfriend and something to show off for that meant more to him than the copious negative attention he gets from the crowds.)