Work Text:
Can You Play Me A Memory
By crabmoney3
For baliset
“Yo Townsend!”
Mike is hesitant to look away from the creaking baggage claim at BWI. He’s worried enough he’ll miss his bag on his own, let alone by answering the call of a voice he only vaguely recognizes. Better to just ignore it and keep watch. He’s already questioning what he’s doing in Baltimore. He doesn’t need someone asking him the same thing.
“Micycle Townsend as I live and breathe the man the myth the mcfuckin’ legend!” A hand smacks him on the back almost hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He wonders if it’s possible to keep ignoring the somewhat-stranger, but it’s too late. He’s already turned around and made eye contact with a tall, beach-bronzed Miami blonde with a unicorn horn sprouting from his head.
“Uh. Hi.” He pauses. “Um, Logan, right? Horseman. Logan Horseman.” Jesus, great social skills buddy.
Logan doesn’t seem to mind Mike’s lack of articulation. He’s standing in front of Mike, bright smile plastered all over his face. He’s holding onto the straps of a big pack on his back, like the kind you see twenty-year-olds traveling Europe and staying in hostels carrying on a their loosely-planned journeys abroad, complete with a rolled-up sleeping bag attached. He’s wearing a backwards Mlaryland snapback, horn protruding through the opening above the snap and airport giftshop price tag still hanging off the side.
That’s right, Mike thinks. Logan got traded to the Crabs.
“Hell yeah, that’s me! The one and only DJ Logi Horse.” Logan finishes his introduction with a snap into a finger gun. “Man, what brings you to big ole salty Balty?”
Ah, right. The question Mike doesn’t fully have an answer for yet.
“Well, uh.” He watches his suitcase go past him on the conveyor belt, just out of his reach. “Just figured if I was going to be shadowed again, I might as well take a vacation.”
“Shit, dude, again? That fuckin’ bites.”
Mike shrugs. There are worse things. But, yeah. It bites.
“Nothin’ like the seaside for your agonies though amiright aha up top man.”
Mike slowly and softly hi-fives Logan. He’s a bit overwhelmed, but he’s not going to leave the guy hanging. He seems nice enough. Logan hangs loose, as if to signify that the ritual of hi-fiving was properly completed. Mike’s eyes turn back towards the baggage claim, where his suitcase is coming around again.
“Ay wait, so where are you crashing, fam?”
“Uh, an AirBnB I guess. I don’t know. I hadn’t really figured that out yet. I guess an AirBnB for the whole season would be pretty expensive, but—”
“Shit, man, fuck that noise. I’ve got the best idea.”
“Uh.” Mike tentatively starts to reach for his bag before it can take another lap.
Logan notices Mike reaching and scoops up the suitcase in one swift move. “Motherfuckin’ roommates, dude.”
“What.”
Logan snaps the handle out of the suitcase and leans on it. “You heard me, bro.”
“Uh.” Mike doesn’t know what to do or say in this season. It’s true he still needs a place to stay; sleeping on Tosser or Luis’ couches can’t be the solution for an entire situation. And Logan is holding his suitcase hostage at the moment. Hostage situations are delicate, after all.
“Listen, man. I’m crashing at the Phli Dlelt house in uhhhh Charles Village, I think. Nerdy ass frat boys with some extra rooms. It’s gonna be tight as hell, dude. I know they’ve got another free spot and it’s one-hundo gonna cheaper than whatever weird AirBnB you find.”
Mike’s brain feels like it’s melting in his skull. There’s so much information to unpack. A frat house? Was Logan ever even in a fraternity? Everything about him would point to yes, but he’s also from the Dale, and the venn diagram of the two is pretty much a circle. He’s staring blankly at Logan, who’s still holding Mike’s suitcase hostage and wiggling his eyebrows as he does it.
“A frat house.” It’s all Mike can manage to say.
“It’ll be fun,” Logan replies in a sing-song voice.
He places a hand to his temple. This is certainly the last thing he was expecting after his five-hour flight from Seattle. He’s tired, he’s jetlagged, and he’s full of agonies.
“Fuck it. Sure, why not.”
What does he have to lose by saying yes?
***
“Tomorrow I start teaching these fuckin’ crustaceans how to PARTY!”
A bottle smashes on the ground downstairs. A cheer erupts from the three actual fraternity brothers who live in the house. Mike stares at the ceiling as he lays perfectly center on the faded navy comforter of the full bed he supposes he’ll call his own for the rest of the season. He’s lying mostly in the dark save for one humming lamp on the nightstand wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into. He listens to the creaking wood of someone ascending the sticky stairs. There’s a knock on the door.
“Yo Townsend, you sure you don’t wanna come kick it?”
“Yeah, uh, I think I’m just going to lay here if that’s okay.”
“Yeah for sure man, just wanted to make sure you were chillin’.”
Mike hears Logan snap into what he assumes are finger guns again before he heads back downstairs. At least the Crabs don’t know what the hell they’re getting themselves into, either.
***
“How are you settling in?”
“Dope as hell, Captain Dad.” Logan feels great after a couple hours of practice. He tosses his mitt into his new locker at the Crabitat and whips around to face Kennedy, his mane whipping around with him and flinging droplets of sweat.
“Captain… dad.”
“Yeah man I heard you were like the captain bro and the dad friend on twlitter and shit. So, Captain Dad.”
“Huh. All… right then.” Kennedy is noticeably flustered. “Where are you staying? Were you able to find a place easily?”
“Oh hell yeah dude, I’m crashing at the phli dlelt house with my boy Mikey T.”
Finn James cocks her head to the side behind Kennedy. “Mikey T?”
“Yeah you know fishbabe, the bro from the songs.”
Parker Parra slams their locker and snorts. “You mean Mike Townsend?”
Logan puts on his sunglasses. “You know it, dude.”
Adalberto and Brock exchange a concerned glance. The pair knew Mike was spending the season in Baltimore. In fact, they’d invited him over to their apartment for dinner that night. They nod, silently agreeing that it’ll be better to wait and hear an explanation from Mike himself over carbonara in a few hours. At the very least, it will be a more intelligible explanation than one from Logan.
“Ah. Well, okay then.” Kennedy turns to face the rest of the remaining team in the locker room. “First day of the season tomorrow, everyone. Meet here bright and early so we can head off to Canada. We may not know what’ll happen this time around, but I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. We’ve fought a God together, after all.” He pauses and looks at Logan, Jacoby, and Squid. “Well, most of us have. And that’s good enough.”
Logan raises an eyebrow above his sunglasses and shrugs it off. Captain Dad doesn’t seem to be the smoothest talker, anyways. He slings his bag over his shoulder, closes his locker, and decides to chill out with a Natty Boh before bed.
***
“I brought egg tarts.”
Mike stands in the doorway to Tosser’s apartment, carefully balancing a severely dented tray with individually sized egg tarts in aluminum tins on top. He hadn’t considered what the state of a fraternity’s kitchen would look like before he had committed to baking for the welcome dinner Brock and Bertie decided to host. He had spent most of the day cleaning the mildewed mess of a sink in order to have any semblance of a functional kitchen. By the time the sink was emptied he’d been worried the tarts wouldn’t set in time.
“They look fantastic, Mike,” Bertie says, gesturing with his long prosthetic arm to welcome the guest into his home. Brock waves from the apartment’s couch.
Mike always hestitates before walking into Adalberto’s home. The old beige carpeting is exactly the same as it was the first time he was here, uncomfortable and clinging to the walls at Combs Duende’s wake. He holds his breath as he crosses the threshold and releases once he realizes he is not going to be transported back to that moment, that he is here for a dinner with friends.
Brock helps Bertie bring out the salad and pasta he made for the occasion as Mike pours glasses of wine for everyone. The carbonara smells amazing. They clink glasses and dig in. Brock waits until Mike’s mouth is full to pop the question.
“So. Logan Horseman?”
A noodle slips from Mike’s mouth back to the plate as he’s taken by surprise. He chokes down the far-too-big-a-bite and lets out a little cough into his napkin. “Uh, yeah. I guess so. He told you?”
“He mentioned it at practice when Kennedy asked how he was settling in,” Tosser chimes in. “In all honesty, I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Well,” Mike pauses. “I don’t, really. It just sort of happened? He’s very convincing, in a weird way.”
“Hm,” Brock responds.
“Hm,” Bertie echoes.
Mike sheepishly twirls another mouthful of carbonara onto his fork. He knew he would have to mention his living situation eventually, but he figured he’d at least have time to come up with a better explanation by then. He’s not sure there is a better explanation now.
***
“Weird fuckin’ vibes, man.”
Logan sits on the porch of the 223 sipping a Natty Boh and thinking about his first day with the Crabs. He tries to brush it off as the whole thing being weird for him personally—after all, he’s never been anywhere but Miami. Of course it’s going to feel off busting into a locker room without Randy or Sixpack hyping him up. He’s probably just homesick.
The one thing that bothers him the most, though, is how few people were at practice. Where the fuck were their shadows players? Maybe it’s just a Dale thing to vibe with everyone. Maybe it was just this practice. Still, it bugs him.
“Klobe!” he says, tossing the empty Boh towards the little blue recycling bin on the porch. He misses horribly, and laments having to retrieve the can from inside a bush. “Man, wish the bush could make the shot for me.”
The leaves rustle and the can pops out. It also misses, but at least now it’s back on the stoop.
“Oh word, nice,” Logan says, placing the can this time. “Thanks bush bro.”
“You’re welcome,” a small voice replies.
“Oh holy shit, a TALKING bush bro?”
The leaves rattle as deer antlers push through, followed by the small faunal head attached. Logan looks around like he’s being punked.
“Uh. Sup?”
***
“Hey did you know Bevan Underbuck lives in our fucking bushes?”
Mike hasn’t even had time to step through the doorway yet. He’s carrying an empty baking tray under his arm. “What?”
“Yeah man,” Logan says, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “Y’know the deer dude in the Crabs’ shadows?”
“I’m vaguely aware.”
“Lives in our bushes, bro.”
“Huh.”
Logan leans back and stares up at the ceiling. He sighs. Mike finishes stepping through the threshold of the rowhome and locking the door behind him.
“I mean,” he starts. “Bevan is a deer. Living outside seems, I don’t know, natural?”
“It’s fucked up, bro.”
Mike puts the baking tray down on the counter. The sink is already full again. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You wanna know what else is fucked up?” Mike nods. “They call Bevan and the other bros what got yeeted onto them during ascension the Cridays.”
“Yeah,” Mike replies. “Crabs and Fridays.”
“Ok, yeah, but c’mon, dude. Cridays? At least call them the Frabs so they don’t sound so fuckin’ sad.”
Mike sits down on a worn chair across from Logan and nods. The Florida man does have a bit of a point. “Yeah. I guess that is kind of fucked up.”
***
“Ay! Ay! Ay! Ay!”
Logan jumps around Pedro’s RV in celebration of their 5-4 win against the Moist Talkers. The floor springs back slightly underneath him. It’s a great way to start the season.
“Logan, please, you’re going to knock over all of my research!”
“C’mon P-Diddy we won! It’s time to get hyped!” He runs over to Squid Galvanic and lifts her up onto his shoulder. “This Squiddy Mama bagged us so many fuckin’ runs dude no wonder she can handle three kids.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says, clinging onto Logan’s horn to keep from falling. “We’re all trying our best out there.”
“No, Logan’s right,” Kennedy says. “This is definitely worth celebrating.”
“To a good season thirteen!” Parra says, raising their glass of water.
The Crabs echo the cheer and clink and collection of other beverages in the van. Logan puts Squid down eventually, and does indeed knock over Pedro’s research. Pedro doesn’t seem to mind as much now.
***
“How was Canada?”
Logan throws his travel bag down on the floor of the 223. Mike is in the kitchen making dinner. Logan’s not sure what it is, but it smells good as hell. He kicks off his shoes, flops down on the leather couch, and lets out a twenty-second groan.
“Bro, we got our asses HANDED to us.”
“I thought you won the first game?” Mike asks.
“Yeah, and THEN we got our asses handed to us. A motherfuckin’ shutout the next two games. Shit was straight up catatonic.”
“Catastrophic?”
“Yeah, same soup.” Mike snorts from the kitchen. “You makin’ fun of me, Townsend? You trying to start shit?”
“No, no, of course not.” Mike’s already laughing too hard to sound convincing.
“I think you’re trying to start shit.”
“No, no, wait, hey! Logan, come on—“
“HYUH”
Logan picks Mike up in a fireman carry, and he’s laughing now too.
“You’re going to drop me!”
“Shit yeah I’m going to drop you, dumbass. Get ready to be YOTE.”
Logan throws Mike onto the couch and pretends to pile drive him. Mike’s trying to push him off, but he’s snorting too hard to put any muscle behind it. After pretending to be both wrestler and referee, Logan finally lets Mike return to the kitchen.
“Do you want some chicken and dumplings?” he asks.
“Yo, hell yeah I do. Bring me the hot dumps.”
“Please never call them that again.”
“Can’t promise that, Mikey T.”
Mike rolls his eyes to himself as he fills up a bowl with soup and brings it over to Logan. He fills up a second for himself, and tries very hard not to spill it on his lap while sitting in the worn chair.
“Yo, you can sit on the couch too, you know,” Logan points out. “There’s enough room and you can actually use the table.”
Once again, the Florida man has a point. Mike moves his soup over to the coffee table and manages minimal spillage on the way. The two slurp soup next to each other in a contented silence until Logan snickers.
“What?”
“I’m gonna be honest, man. I definitely just thought about smacking your face into the soup for a hot sec.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Hell yeah, I’ve got too much respect for my homie.”
Mike smiles. He guesses they are friends now, in a strange way. He’s not sure he’d go as far as to call them homies, but it’s a start. It’s better than whatever he would be dealing with back in Seattle right now, that’s for certain.
***
“Aight who’s coming to the Turtle with me to celebrate these shames?”
Logan looks around the Crabitat locker room as the team begins to mutter excuses. Forrest best signs, “Sorry,” and skitters off into the night.
“Fishbabe?”
“Oh, sorry, Logan,” she shakes her head. “Kennedy and I have dinner plans tonight, actually.” Logan groans while people file out of the room.
“What about you, P-Diddy?”
“Um, well, hm,” Pedro stammers.
“Your twink isn’t in town, right? No dinner plans?”
“My… you mean Valentine? I wouldn’t say he’s… well, that’s beside the point, but—”
Logan slams his locker and flicks on his shades. “That sounds like we’re partying to me.”
***
“Man, Goobster told me you could get loud but DAMN, bro!”
Pedro coughs twice before handing the joint back to Logan. His RV is parked in a lot not too far from Fells Point, but they never made it into the Greene Turtle. The whole space is hazy with smoke. Logan takes another puff while lying flat on his back.
“Well, I don’t do this very often anymore,” Pedro replies. “I didn’t think Goobie would go around telling people, though.”
Logan laughs. “Dude I fuckin’ love the Goobster. He’s not puttin’ you on blast or anything, he just told me after a Dale game in Chicago about the whole Chiclawgo bullshit. Deadass I thought he fucking with me.”
“Why?”
“Bro, look at you. Tweed professor-lookin’ ass. I didn’t think you’d be down to clown.”
“Well, you pick up some vices when you murder your life’s work.”
Logan blinks twice. “Yo, that’s heavy.”
“It happens.”
“You sure about that broski?”
Pedro takes the joint back and takes a long drag. “Maybe.”
“I’m tellin’ you dude,” Logan starts as he sits up and grabs the roach from Pedro’s hand. “The Crabs need some chill the fuck out time. Y’all are literally at the seaside, tend to your fuckin’ agonies like Townsend is.”
“And what agonies are those?”
Logan thinks for a moment, but his head is full of fog. He’s not sure if Mike has actually told him what drove him all the way out to the east coast. He thinks he’d remember it, and maybe he will when he’s sober. But if not, he should probably check in with his bro. He rolls the roach back and forth in his fingers.
“Oh, I have an ashtray for that,” Pedro says, clumsily trying to pull himself out of the RV’s recliner.
“No need, my man,” Logan stops him. “The Dale used to call me Logan Goatman for this shit.”
Logan pops the roach in his mouth, swallows it whole, and lets out an ashy burp.
“You are a fascinating creature.”
“Yeah? Write your next fuckin’ thesis on me, then.”
***
“That sure is a lot of nuggets, buddy.”
Mike was asleep when Logan first got home, but the clattering and clanging of the door and sound of, “Aw fuck, my nugs,” drew him downstairs. Logan plops five orders of chicken nuggets onto the coffee table and promptly sits on the floor. Mike can smell the reefer emanating from him. In all honesty, he’s a bit jealous. He hasn’t smoked since getting to Baltimore. He lives in a frat house. It shouldn’t be too hard for him to change that.
“P-Diddy takes one fuckin’ puff and does not shut the fuck up, man. It rules.”
“P-Diddy?”
“Yeah you know what lives in the fuckin’ uhhhhh. Fuckin’ uhhhh… the house. That goes places. The wheely bitch.” Logan pops four chicken nuggets into his mouth at once. Mike decides to take one, too.
“Pedro?”
“That’s the bitch.”
Mike tries to imagine what Pedro’s like high. He’s never thought to offer before despite Goobie Ballson mentioning that Davids partakes. He just doesn’t seem the type.
“He fuckin’ loves his boytoy dude. It’s cute as shit. They gotta hop on that wending shit while I’m here to get an invite.”
“I’m sure Val and Pedro would still invite you.”
“They mcfuckin’ better,” Logan says, popping another two nuggets in. “The Crabs are weird as shit exclusive vibes though.”
“What do you mean?”
Logan leans his head backwards onto the couch. “I don’t know how you did it man, it’s like. Ok this one time me and Raúl found a mattress and we tried to use it as a raft right. Just straight chilling. And then all of a fuckin’ sudden this bitchass gator swims up and bites down on our rightfully yoinked street mattress and just does not want to let go. It took us three blaseball bats and a good bonk to pry that guy off, and he still took some of the mattress with him. That’s what it’s like, bro. Getting the Crabs to vibe or do shit outside of their weird little trauma circle is like plucking a gator off a mattress. It’s fuckin’ exhausting and I dunno how hard I gotta boink their beezers to get them to open up.”
Mike nibbles on the edge of a nugget. He can’t say Logan’s wrong, really, even if that was certainly an interesting way of explaining it. The Crabs do tend to keep to themselves. They’ve been through a lot, especially the few of them who’ve been there since the start. He gets why they’d want to stay quiet about things, avoid dealing with the fallout. It’s hard to let yourself move forward from things when you’ve already lost so much. Even when you’re holding onto something that hurts, it’s hard to let go.
“They’ve had a really harsh time,” is all he manages to say.
“No shit, dude. But that’s just the game, you know? Play’s gonna continue whether you want it to or not. Might as well see where the immateria takes you instead of letting yourself get pounded by it.” He crumples an empty bag of nuggets and moves on to the next one. “Hey, Mikey-T?”
“Yeah?”
“What’ve you got agonies about anyways?”
What doesn’t Mike have agonies about, really. He’s been shadowed more times than he can count. He can’t go to a coffee shop or a mall without hearing the radio call him a disappointment. He brought his best friend back from the dead only to realize that it may not have been the best thing for either of them. The list goes on.
Logan leans over and puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder. He looks at him with bloodshot eyes. “Listen, man. I’m not gonna make you say shit you’re not ready to have get said. But it’s gonna help to do a bitch and brew about it eventually, and I’ve fuckin’ got your back, bro. I’ve got so much of your back, it makes Baby look fuckin’ backless. Sir Mlix-A-Lot has fuckin’ NO back compared to what I’ve got. You got it?”
He may be stoned out of his mind, but Mike can tell Logan’s being completely genuine. Maybe it is time for him to start talking about things again. Maybe it won’t come back around to bite him in the ass this time.
“Now I need you to get my back, Townsend.”
“Oh? Uh, how can I help?”
“I got too many fucking nuggets.”
Mike helps Logan eat as many of them as they can. There are still two orders left over, which they distribute throughout the frat house to the similarly stoned college students who live there. He thinks about offering some to Bevan in their bushes before Logan mentions he’d tried that on his way in only to discover that Bevan’s a vegetarian. Mike takes note of this for the next time he cooks a large meal. The Crabs have another home series coming up against the Breath Mints soon, so he has a few days to put something together for the three of them before the team leaves for the next set in Kansas City. Maybe he’ll invite Adalberto and Brock or even Luis, too.
***
“Emergency Alert: Flash Immeteria Flood Warning in the Kansas City area.”
The alert buzzes on cellphones throughout the stadium and blares across the scoreboard. The Mints and the Crabs brace for impact, steading their breathing and preparing to swim. Logan Horseman flips his bat and digs it into the dirt around home plate. He twists his cleats into the Earth. The blases are loaded. Fox on third, Avecedo on second, Roadhouse on third. The Creature, the Vlocaloid, and the Cowboy. He was ready to bring them all in, to whack that sucker all the way into the Meadow and let Spearmint chase the ball like a fucked-up Kujo-ass dog. But now he can hear the rumbling of immateria rushing towards the field, through the stands, over the scoreboard, and there it is.
It hits the outfield first and continues to plough towards him. He watches Marco Stink begin to swim and thinks maybe the Crabs will be fine. This is their whole deal, right? They brought the flood with them. They’re sea creatures. Hell, one of them is literally a fish lady. But the immateria keeps coming. It slams Tot into the Breath Mints’ dugout. Silvaire loses her footing and her ten-gallon hat. Luis is lifted off the bag and drifts away as the flood approaches Logan. He takes a deep breath and thinks about the waves he misses on the Florida coast. He knows how to stand up to the tides. He’s been knocked off his surfboard more times than he can count. He relaxes his shoulders, flexes his core, and lets the waves crash over him.
When the water passes, he takes a deep breath and pulls his bat out of the soggy earth below. The blases are empty. The padding in his helmet is squishy. He takes a ready stance. Play continues.
“Luis?” he hears Finn panic from the dugout. “Has anyone seen Luis?”
Logan hits a ground out as the scoreboard displays an animation of question marks bobbing in the harbor. Luis Acevedo has been swept Elsewhere.
***
“Yo, Fishbabe, take a deep breath. Bubble. Gill slurp. Whatever the fuck it’s called.”
Finn paces anxiously in the shallow end of their hotel’s pool. Logan floats a few feet away on an inflatable unicorn. The resemblance is uncanny. Finn dips her head under the water and screams, bubbles flying out of her gills and up to the surface. The shallow end looks more like a hot tub than a saltwater pool.
“Close enough.”
Finn surfaces. She pushes her soggy red hair behind her scaly ears and flares the gills on her neck. “What if they’re not okay? How are we going to get them back? What if they get scattered?”
“The vlocaloid is gonna be fine, dude. Parra literally dipped and came back in one at-bat and they said it was a vibe out there.”
“That’s different. Parker came back.”
“And Luis will too, bruh.” Logan paddles his pool floatie closer to her. “I’m gonna be real with you, fam. There’s not shit you can do to bring someone back from elsewhere, right?”
“But what if there is?”
“Fishbabe. C’mon man. You’re studying for a test in a class you’re not fuckin’ signed up for at a school in a different state. Stressing isn’t gonna bring them back any faster, y’know? It’s just gonna make you stressed.”
Finn pouts and sinks back under the water. She stays at the bottom of the pool for a bit while Logan floats above her. She thinks about screaming again, but she doesn’t. She just has to trust that Luis will be okay. She closes her eyes and the next time she opens them, the sun is almost out of the sky. Logan is still floating above her.
“You can go back inside if you want,” she says when she surfaces.
“Nah.”
“Huh?”
“No way I’m going to let a homie stress out on her own. We’re vibing, bro.”
He takes off his sunglasses and manages to recline even farther into the second unicorn. Finn decides to mimic his posture and float on her back. She watches the stars faintly twinkling in the purple to orange gradient sky. She doesn’t look at the sky enough since they fell back to earth. It’s pretty.
***
“You coming down for the party tonight, king?”
Logan is carrying a keg on each of his shoulders when Mike opens the front door for him. He hadn’t really considered that living in a fraternity house meant living through a fraternity party, but he hadn’t really thought about a lot of things when agreeing to their living situation. It hasn’t been so bad, though. The parties are mostly on weekends when Mike’s awake playing Tetris until 3am anyways, so the noise doesn’t bother him. He definitely hasn’t thought to join, though. It makes more sense for a party horse like Logan to blend in, but Mike feels out of place at a Garages party let alone one with normal college students.
“I’m not sure if I should.”
“You should.”
“But—”
“And you are.”
Logan says it with such conviction that Mike nearly accepts his fate right then and there. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. Logan puts down the kegs.
“It’ll be fun, dude. It’s alumni weekend so it’s gonna be a bigass bash, you won’t be the oldest motherfucker there, and I want to party with my homie.”
Mike relents. “All right.”
Logan grins.
***
“Is that Mike Townsend?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Like, the blaseball player?”
“Yeah, he lives here.”
“That’s… weird. But in a cool way.”
“Yeah? You like blaseball?”
“Totally! And I like, listen to the Garages all the time.”
“Shit forreal? Well, uh, Mike and I are pretty tight, y’know. Yeah I might even end up working on a song with him. No big deal. Did you know I play guitar?”
***
“It’s you and me, Mikey T.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. Logan has been running around the party all night, darting from room to room, getting iced by the other guys who live in the house, sprinting down to dance to Daddy Ylankee’s “Gasolina” in the basement. Mike has mostly stuck to smoking hookah in the corner of the living room, but now he’s in the kitchen eating a lemon square. He figured if he was going to attend the party, he might as well bake something for it. He doesn’t know what to make of it when Logan gets down on one knee in front of him.
“Will you…”
“Logan, I, um. I know you really like weddings but—”
“Be my motherfuckin’ pong partner?”
He opens his hands to reveal a scuffed, orange ping pong ball cupped gently in his hands. Mike lets out a small sigh of relief and then laughs. Of course this was what Logan would ask. He thinks about trying to stammer his way out of it—it’s been a good few seasons since he last indulged in a drinking game—but decides to skip ahead to his inevitable agreement.
“I’m warning you, I’m a shittier pong player than I am a pitcher.”
“You’ll do fine, bruh.”
***
“Did you see what Logan posted on Tlik-Tlok?”
“No,” Kennedy responds. “I’m not really on the Tlik-Tlok.”
Finn laughs and hands him her phone. “Stop sounding so old.”
Kennedy watches the video. It’s a compilation of Mike missing shot after shot during a game of beer pong in a sticky frat house, the air clearly saturated with sweat and vape smoke. In the worst shot, the ball flies from Mike’s hand and disappears diagonally through the doorway to the kitchen. Kennedy turns up the volume and hears the sound of, “The SAME way to the SAME place every TIME like an ASShole.”
“Oh my.”
Finn takes the phone back. “At least they seem like they’re having a nice time.”
***
“That was fucking abysmal.”
Mike wipes a dribble of Natty Boh from the corner of his mouth. He drank the bitch cup when they lost since Logan made every one of the successful shots. It was a disaster, but Mike admits that it was pretty fun. Logan had showed him the video he took during the game and how he edited it, and Mike gave his blessing to post it. Fuck it. Mike Townsend can still have fun sometimes. The Garages can know that.
“That fucking ruled!” Logan smacks his hand against Mike’s shoulder.
“I got our asses kicked.”
“And it RULED, dude! It was fuckin’ hilarious.”
Mike smiles and shakes his head. Ever the optimist, as always. Logan’s right, though. That was some of the most fun Mike’s had since getting to the city. Maybe he should take advantage of living in a party house a bit more than he does. Sure, it is a little weird when people put two and two together and realize they’re hanging out with a couple of oldschool blaseball players. But for the most part, nobody seems to care beyond the occasional joke or selfie. It’s nice.
“Yo Horseman!” a voice calls from the game room.
“Wassup fam?”
“Slap cup?”
“Oo YUH baby, count us IN.”
Logan grabs Mike by the arm and pulls him back into the game room. The table they’d played beer pong on has now been redecorated with a hive of red solo cups, all filled to varying heights. The centermost cup is completely full. Logan enthusiastically explains the rules to everyone and hands out the starting cups, one to himself and one to the guy standing opposite him. Mike tries to clean his glasses before the game begins, but only ends up smudging them worse. Logan bounces the ball beautifully into his cup on the first try, and Mike realizes he has made a horrible mistake standing to his right.
***
“Oh god.”
Logan shows Mike the boomerang he took before he posts it on ilnstagram. It’s a quick repeating photo one of the brothers took during the slap cup game of Logan smacking the cup away from Mike with an incredibly dramatic flair. Logan has edited it so that on the windup the image reads “another” before changing to “DINGER” when he makes contact. Unsurprisingly, Mike was once again stuck with the bitch cup. Logan split it with him that time, but he’s not sure whether that was because the horse was trying to be a good splort or just wanted another Boh.
“Permission to post it, captain?” Logan stands at attention with the remainder of the bitch cup crunching again his forehead.
“Sure. Fuck it, why not.”
***
“Hm?”
Adalberto leans over and grabs his phone from the nightstand. He sees a message notification lighting up the screen from Logan Horseman. When he unlocks his phone, he realizes it’s an image he’s been sent in a groupchat along with Jacoby, Finn, and Brock. All of the pitchers.
It’s a photo of Mike haphazardly doing a keg stand in the backyard. His glasses are falling off, but otherwise it’s truly quite impressive. He can’t remember the last time he saw Mike cut loose and party a bit. He saves the photo.
“Wait fuck wrong pic 1 sec” reads another text from Logan.
Bertie’s phone dings again and it’s the same photo, now with white block lettering added that reads: WHEN U PITCH A GAME N WIN BOTTOM TEXT. He snorts and saves this version too.
***
“Micycle we’re going on a mcfuckin’ adventure.”
Mike slowly opens his eyes. He wasn’t asleep, he just took way too big of a hit off of the hookah pipe. It takes him a second to realize what Logan is asking.
“I don’t think my legs can take me any farther than the other end of the couch,” he says.
“Come on, man. Please? I’m not tryin’ to bust the mission by myself you feel me.”
“What’s the mission?”
Logan pulls a nerf dart gun seemingly out of nowhere. “Buck hunt.”
“Bevan?”
He pulls out one of the lemon squares in a little ziplock baggie. Mike cannot for the life of him tell where Logan is getting all these items from. Mike slowly pulls himself out of the chair and shakes his friend’s hand in agreement to go on this journey. They make their way through the first floor of the house the out the back door. There’s a few people gathered in the back yard, mostly smoking or getting a quick breath of fresh air. The grass is muddy and saturated with the spillage of failed keg stands and shotgunned beers. Logan immediately shoots his nerf gun into the bushes.
“Ow.”
“Hi, Bevan,” Mike says.
Underbuck sticks their head out from the bushes. The partygoers in the backyard stare for a second and either continue on their merry way or slowly inch back inside. You can tell which of the two choices was made by Mlarylanders.
Logan tosses the lemon square at Bevan, who gleefully opens the ziplock bag and begins eating. “Munch up, Buck.”
“Thanks, Logan.”
“I gotchu, bro. Mad respect for a homie who knows they hate to party but still wants a lemon square. Didn’t want you to feel left out.”
Bevan’s already finished the lemon square by the time Logan’s done talking. “I appreciate it.” They turn to Mike. “You make really good lemon squares.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Dude yeah you may be a deer but my boy Mikey T is the fuckin’ GOAT in the kitchen.”
Mike blushes a bit and tries to brush off the compliment.
“Nah, dude, seriously. These baked bitches are dank as hell.”
The three of them sit in the wet grass for a little bit and talk. Logan asks about the other shadows players and what they’re like. Bevan mentions that Rosa Holloway is a doctor at the hospital across the street from the house, and Logan immediately dms her on twlitter inviting her to the party when she gets off of the late shift. Mike watches, absolutely fascinated with the ease at which Logan can reach out to anybody about anything. Logan carries himself with such an inviting confidence, something Mike has never had, and it amazes him. Man, he thinks to himself, I got really lucky with my flight, huh.
***
“Your turn to munch up, homeskillet.”
A package of oreos smacks Mike in the face. He’s lying down on the couch. The house is quiet now, save for the few remaining conversations between straggling guests and their housemates. He feels the quiet stuffed into his ears like cotton, practically louder than the shouts and music he’d grown accustomed to.
“Man, I love this part of the night.”
“Really?” Mike asks through a mouthful of oreos. “But you’re the life of the party.”
Logan sits on the floor and leans back against the same arm of the couch Mike’s head rests on. He lets out a contented sigh.
“Yeah the party slaps, but you don’t know that’s how it’s gonna be in the moment. It’s like a fuckin’ uhhh. Y’know those paintings by that dude fuckin’ uh, Georges Seurat. The dot dude. Spend the whole party painting all these fuckin’ dots and they’re niceass dots fosho but you’re still busy running around painting all these gotdamn dots all over the place. But once it’s done? You get to take a step back and chill the fuck out and enjoy this dope ass painting you’ve made and think, ‘Fuck yeah, this shit’s tight as hell. That ruled.’ You know what I’m sayin’?”
“Why do you know the name of an impressionist painter?”
Logan takes a few oreos from the container between him and Mike. He lets out another content sigh. “Sometimes shit’s just good, dude.”
“Yeah,” Mike stares up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He takes another oreo. “Thanks for this.”
“Dude yeah, snacking is important when you’re smashed.”
“I mean for all of it. Asking me to stay here and to actually go to the party.”
Logan reclines with his hands behind his head. “Thanks for going along with it, bro.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Mike says.
“Do what?”
“Just talk to people like that. Like you’ve known them for years and whatever you say will be fine. It’s insane.”
He shrugs. “It be what it do, you know? We’ve all got different communication stations. Your radio is tuned the fuck in to the Crabs, man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude, you have dinner with the Rock and Arms McGee like every week. I hear Captain Dad and the Vlocaloid and P-Diddy talk about you more than they talk about some other bros on the team. How the hell did you swing that?”
Mike stares at the ceiling fan spinning overhead and doesn’t answer. He thinks about Combs reaching out after Derrick died when none of the Garages did, telling him about Nora Perez, sitting with him in his grief, and then getting incinerated soon after. He never really got to thank them, or know why they did that. But since it was Combs, the rest of the Crabs trusted him, too. So it must have meant something.
“Is it agonies shit?” Logan asks.
“Yeah,” Mike answers. “It’s agonies shit.”
“Aight,” Logan grunts, standing up. “Then it’s agonies time.” He extends a hand to Mike.
“Huh?”
Logan keeps his arm extended. “The bitch and brew. It’s time, bro.”
“If I drink another beer I will die.”
Logan pries Mike off of the couch. “The brew is metamorphical, dog. We’ll get you bevvy from the hydration station.” Mike brings the oreos with him.
***
“So what’s going on, dude?”
Mike takes a sip from his water bottle. The concrete steps leading up to the porch are cold underneath them. The streets are quiet at this hour, save for the crickets singing and the wind whistling along.
“I’m just tired.”
“Nah, you don’t get to pull that bullshit on me broski.”
He stares out at the streetlamp flickering on the opposite side of the road. “I mean, it’s more complicated than that, but, yeah. Things are tiring in Seattle.”
Logan doesn’t pry. He’s a firm believer in respecting someone’s privacy, and that when the time comes to open up, they’ll do it. He’s also a firm believer in a little push when it comes to making sure the people he cares about are taking care of themselves. If Mike needs to sit and think, he’s happy to sit with him.
“When you bring someone back from the dead, you never really think about how that’ll affect the mourning process,” he says after a few minutes.
“Shit, man. Guess you sure as fuck don’t,” Logan responds.
“And you don’t think about how they’ll write a song about you doing it like you’re some sort of hero when they’ve spent all these years calling you a disappointment. And you don’t think they’ll blame you when she causes a bunch of incinerations, and maybe most people don’t, but there are definitely some people who know it’s your fault.”
Mike takes a sip of his water.
“And you don’t expect to start thinking about people in the hall, and what they’re doing, and if they can talk to each other, then what is your dead ex-boyfriend saying about the fact you saved the person he replaced and not him. And you don’t expect that when you finally tell your undead best friend about this that she’ll get mad about the fact you fell in love with her replacement because in her mind it means you replaced her without a second thought, so you end up tired of fighting and decide to move away for the season just so you don’t have to deal with that anymore.”
“Fuck, man. No wonder you’ve got agonies as hell.”
“Yeah. Yeah I guess when you start saying it all it really adds up, huh.”
“It adds up like a fucking multiplication table, dude.”
Mike doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring at the lamppost flickering in the moonlight.
“Man, I can’t even imagine being that pissed off at my homie for shit that’s out of my control,” Logan says.
“Yeah, well. Jaylen’s got her own shit going on. She didn’t ask to be brought back.”
“You didn’t ask to go get her.”
“I guess.” Mike finishes his water bottle and places it into the recycling bin. “She’s dealing with a lot.”
“Still fucked that she’d go bonkers yonkers on you like that, dude. You’re allowed to care about other people.”
“That’s just how she is. And she’s my best friend, so—”
“That’s a pretty shitty best friend if you ask me. But you didn’t, and you’re my homie, and it’s no good talking shit about a homies homie. So I’ll leave pie on the widow to cool.”
Logan takes a swig from his own water bottle. He remembers Mike brought the oreos out with them and has another of those, too. He offers the last oreo to Mike, who munches on it quietly.
“Thanks, Logan.”
“Hey man, that’s what broskis are there for.” He thinks for a moment. “You and the Crabs deal with shit way different than the Dale.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that’s just how shit is man. Things change all the time. You get yote from team to team, you vanish for hot sec, umps incinerate people. It sucks, then you mourn and move on. Y’all just mourn.”
“It’s hard when you miss someone.”
“Letting yourself be okay doesn’t mean you miss them any less, fam.”
He thinks about Raúl. Logan misses him, of course he does. Raúl was a day one ride or die kind of sound wave. But that doesn’t mean his life just stopped when Raúl’s did. He finished the season, he got traded to the Crabs, and now he’s here. Hell, Raúl would come back and kick his ass if he was moping around being a sad bitch about it still. Being sad about shit forever doesn’t do you any good. It just makes you sad.
They sit for another minute and feel the cool pressure of an atmospheric change. Something lands next to Mike and bounces down the stairs.
“Ah, shit, I forgot it’s supposed to peanut today.”
“I forgot that tomorrow is already today.”
Logan grins. “Let’s get you to bed, Kegmaster Mike.” The two go inside as the sound of peanuts plinking on the rowhome’s roof steadily grows louder. Logan pulls Mike into a hug before going into his room. “Tonight was fuckin’ lit, brah.”
“Yeah,” Mike smiles. “It was.”
***
“Bro there are too many peanuts in my brainskull.”
Finn hands Logan an advil and a water bottle in the dugout. She’s not surprised at the state Logan’s in after all of the videos he posted last night. He downs the advil, chugs the water, and steps into the on-deck circle.
He hits a flyout to the Lovers’ center fielder. On one of the stadium screens, the boomerang of “another DINGER” he posted last night starts playing, now with added audio reading it as well. The new clawmentary intern has a pretty dope sense of humor.
***
“Emergency Alert: Flash Immeteria Flood Warning in Baltimore City.”
Flood sirens start blaring in the Crabitat. Logan gets ready to brace himself at third blase. The flooding in Baltimore is different than the flooding in other places. It doesn’t surge from the harbor. It doesn’t overflow the Jones Falls. It comes from the sky, straight from the rift that the Crabs fell back through on their way back down.
Mike sits in the stands, watching. He puts on a plastic poncho and holds on to his seat. The water pounds down onto the field as players get swept away. He watches Logan cling to third blase and take the whole bag with him as he’s pulled away by the current. He loses track of who’s being pushed where when the immateria starts to rise over him. He takes a deep breath and waits it out.
When the flooding passes, Logan and the bag are still gone. He watches the scoreboard display question marks bobbing in the water. His roommate is Elsewhere.
Mike stays calm. It’s only the bottom of the first inning, after all. There’s plenty of time for Logan to ride the wave back.
Mike waits.
And he waits.
And he waits.
***
“Yo this shit feels like Squidward’s future.”
Logan floats along the elsewhere fog, using third blase as a makeshift flotation device. Everything around him is variations of white and gray, mist and shadow. He can tell he’s swimming but it doesn’t feel wet here. It’s like he’s somewhere deep inside the belly of a cloud. He hollers into the void and it slowly echoes back to him.
“Fuck, dude. Guess I better start looking for land’s hoes.”
***
“You doing all right, Mr. Townsend?”
One of the fraternity brothers knocks softly on Mike’s door. He always watches the Crabs games, so he certainly knows what happened to Logan. It’s a thoughtful gesture, but…
“Chad, you don’t have to call me Mr. Townsend. Please don’t, actually.”
“You got it Mr. Mike, sir.”
“Chad, I’m perpetually 25. I’m not that old. Logan and I are practically the same age.”
“I miss Logan, Mr. Mike, sir.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, lying flat on his bed. “Me too.”
***
“Vlocaloid, is that you?”
“Hi Logan!” Luis chirps.
“Shit, man,” Logan paddles third blase over to Luis. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Here! Isn’t it neat?”
“Yeah man, I guess, but it’s been like two coachellas bruh. That’s a longass time.”
Luis does the math in their head and Logan can see the numbers hovering in their projection. “Wow! That’s longer than I thought.”
“Yeah, fam. Go home.”
Luis laughs. “Well that’s not really up to me is it? It’s up to the tides.”
“Shit,” Logan says. “I guess so.”
Logan flips onto his back and uses the blase as a pillow. “At least we can vibe for a bit.”
“Yeah!”
***
“I spy with my little eye something that starts with M.”
“Hmmmmm…” Luis scans their surroundings. “Is it mist?”
“Elemayo yeah. Right again.”
***
“Do you miss Seattle?”
“A little. Mostly I miss my husband.”
“Oh shit, you’re married?”
Luis gushes to Logan about Tot Clark, the Garages resident mummy. They explain that before they became a hologram, they were a vampire, and it was love at first bite. Ze and Luis have been together ever since. Logan tears up several times during the story. What can he say, he simply loves love. And to spend an eternity together before and after the return of blaseball? Shit, that’s some of the dopest love he’s ever heard get loved.
“Do you miss Miami?”
“Of course, dude. Those are my boys.”
“Do you want to go back?”
Logan thinks on this. He misses his team. He misses his house, and his surfboard, and guy around the corner who makes the most wicked Cubanos you’ll ever have in your life. But he likes Baltimore, more than he expected to. He likes living with Mike and Chad and the other dudes in the house. He likes vibing in the parking lot with P-Diddy and jumping into the harbor with Finn. It’s different. It’s nice. He’s lived in Miami his whole life up until now. Same places, same people, same vibes. He’s finally taking the time to try something new. He wants to keep trying more new things. But Miami is his home.
“Eventually, yuh,” he finally answers. “But for now? I’m straight chilling.”
“What about Mike?” Luis asks. “Does he still have agonies?”
Logan laughs. “Oh shit yeah. But I think the seaside’s been good to him.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“He’s a good bro and a dope roomie. I don’t get why y’all rag on him all the time in the band. Like, I don’t even know what fuckin’ instrument this dude plays because all the Garages talk about is how much he sucks ass or gets shadowed.”
“Oh, Mike plays bell!”
“Bells? For real?”
Luis shakes their head and then perfectly mimics the chime on one lone bell. “Singular bell! I gave him one of mine when the band decided there were too many guitarists.”
“Well I’ll be damned.”
***
“Letting yourself be okay doesn’t mean you miss them any less.”
On day five of lying around in an uncannily quiet frat house, Mike drags himself out of bed and keeps repeating Logan’s words. He lets the mantra echo in his head as he roots through the bottom of his suitcase. He finds his old harmonica.
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry as much about playing when the house is empty.”
He’s rusty at first, and so are a couple corners of the harmonica. It takes a second to get his breath control together. He doesn’t play as much these days, not the way he did when it was just him and Derrick in the back of his van. He remembers more than he thought he would. It’s nice to hear the tinny sound again.
***
“Dude we’re basically besties now.”
“Yeah! Just a couple of elsewhere pals.”
Logan and Luis have been floating through the empty mist together for eight days so far. They found a phone bobbing in the immateria at one point, but it didn’t get a signal. It did have tetris, though. Logan wonders how Mike and his agonies are holding up without him.
“Vlocaloid, when we’re out of here we are throwing the wildest fucking rager to celebrate. All gas no brakes just going hard as hell. I think we’ve earned it elemayo.”
“I like parties! I bet Tot would fly out for it.”
“Shit yeah I want to meet your fruity-ass mummified babe.”
“That’s what ze is!”
“Yo, hold up. Does the current feel stronger or am I losing my last marble?”
***
“Will this game ever end?”
Finn is exhausted by the time they go into extra innings. She is exhausted when they go into the eleventh inning. She is exhausted when they go into the twelfth inning. By the inning thirteen changeover, she’s ready to quit.
“We’ve been tied since the eighth,” she complains. “I want to go home.”
The rest of the Crabs echo her sentiment. This game against the Breath Mints just won’t end, and with Logan and Luis both elsewhere the lineup is having to deal with far more at-bats than anyone is used to. The stadium screens remind everyone that Luis is elsewhere as Silvaire steps up to the plate.
“What’d I miss?”
The dugout jumps. Silvaire strikes out, staring blankly and trying to figure out what everyone else is looking at.
“Oh shit, I guess I’m up, huh.”
Logan bounces up to home plate, smacks it with his bat, and chokes up on the grip slightly. Winnie Hess lets loose a pitch perfectly down the middle. Logan thwacks it out of the park and the crunch of his bat echoes through the stands. Everyone watches the ball fly out of the park and goes wild as he starts to trot around the blases.
“Oo YUH baby, it’s good to be back!”
***
“Is that fucking Blilly Jloel?”
Mike drops his harmonica. It’s like he’s heard a ghost. But it’s not one, it’s Logan, standing in the doorway to his room wearing the dirtiest Crabs uniform he’s ever seen in his life.
“Holy shit, Logan?”
“That’s me.” Logan does finger guns at Mike.
Mike picks up the harmonica and gives Logan a hug. Logan picks Mike up and spins him around. He hears Mike’s back crack, and puts him back down.
“It’s good to see you,” Mike says.
“You know it is. Dude, since when do you play the fucking harmonica?” He points at the tiny instrument in Mike’s hand.
“Since always?”
“Bullshit, Luis told me you played singular bell, not fuckin’ harmikeica.”
Mike laughs. “Technically, yeah. I never played harmonica for the band.”
“Dude why not? You were absolutely shredding on that thing.”
“I don’t know, it always felt like more of a thing for me.”
“Baking, harmonica, being a bro. You’re the total fucking package, Mikey T. The Garages don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
Logan pops into his room and changes into a clean pair of salmon pink board shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt. The rest of the brothers in the house catch wind of the Horseman’s return and start breaking out the Natty Boh. Not the cans, either. The fancy stuff. The bottles with the little picture riddles on the cap. Mike takes one and clinks it in a toast with everyone else.
***
“Did Luis seem okay?”
“Yeah, FIshbabe. They’re honestly having a pretty good time.”
“Oh. Oh, good. So that’s why they haven’t come home.” Finn’s hand slips while she’s painting Logan’s nails. She paints the side of his pointer finger. “Sorry.”
“I mean, you don’t really get to pick when the immateria sends you back.” He helps Finn wipe the paint off. “They’re def gonna be back soon, and we’re going to throw a hella big bash when they do.”
Finn smiles at the idea. “That could be nice.”
***
“Ay, will you teach me how to make these bitches?”
Logan points to his half-eaten apple turnover, steam billowing out of the pocket of filling. You can tell from his voice that he burnt his mouth but it’s not going to stop him from taking another bite the second he finishes his question.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Yeah, sure.”
“Fuck yeah.”
***
“Whomst wants a motherfuckin’ turnaround?”
Logan takes the lid off of a tray filled with apple turnovers. Some are burnt, most are misshapen, and filling overflows from at least two thirds of them. They are perfect. The team indulges after practice.
“Did you make these yourself?” Bertie asks.
“Nah, my boy Mikey T talked me through it. King’s a fuckin’ oven genius or some shit.”
“They’re very good. Thank you, Logan.”
“I gotchu, fam.”
There isn’t a single turnover left by the time the locker room empties out.
***
“Emergency Alert: Flash Immeteria Flood Warning in the Kansas City area.”
Logan sighs and digs his cleats into the dirt around home plate. The immateria washes over the meadow and crashes through the stadium. When it clears, Silvaire has been swept away.
“It’s always the fucking Breath Mints,” he says before finishing his at-bat.
***
“Deadass, we gotta stop playing the Mints.”
“It sure does seem a bit ridiculous at this point,” Mike says, popping a French fry into his mouth. He and Logan have made a habit of doing roommate dinners whenever he gets back from an away game.
“We’re playing them tomorrow. I tried getting Rocko to start a betting pool about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, my money’s on the cowboy coming home.”
“Not Luis?”
Logan takes a slurp of soda. “Man, I fuckin’ wish. I miss that hologram.”
***
“I fucking called it, bro.”
“The Mints?” Mike asks.
“The fucking Mints. Cowboy’s back.”
“You really did call it.”
“I miss Luis.”
“Me too.”
***
“So no more Mints games this season?”
“Nope. Fishbabe is totally freaking out about it.”
Mike, Logan, and Bevan all sit in lawn chairs in the back yard, soaking in the sun. It’s a nice day, but Mike is still tense. The Garages get to town tonight for a series against the Crabs. His agonies have gotten better, sure. But he hasn’t had to confront them yet.
“You’re going to be fine, fam,” Logan says, seemingly reading his mind.
“Yeah.” Mike takes a deep breath. “I am.”
“You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” he reminds Mike. “And if you do, that’s cool, too. It’s all you, man.”
“Thanks, Logan. You’re a good friend.”
“I’m just tryin’ my best, Mikey T. We all are.”
***
“Having fun with your new best friend?”
“Hi, Jaylen.” Mike had managed to avoid her at the first game. This time he isn’t so lucky.
“So was leaving me alone in Seattle’s shadows to run around with your little Florida boytoy worth it?”
“Logan’s nice. You should talk to him sometime.”
Jaylen scoffs. Mike knows her, he’s known her for years. She wants to get a rise out of him, and it’s not working, not this time. He doesn’t want to get upset with her. He doesn’t want to be mad anymore. He’s still tired, but now it’s on his own terms. He’s not exhausted from dealing with everyone anymore. He’s tired of letting himself be put in those positions.
“Whatever.”
“It was nice seeing you, Jaylen.” He means it. He missed her. Setting better boundaries for himself doesn’t change that. She stares at him as he walks off to sit with Tot Clark, Luis’ husband who won’t be pitching until the next day.
***
“Luis Acevedo, you bitch of a bitch.”
Logan nearly runs off the bag when he see Luis wander into the stadium. It’s been 49 days since they were first swept away, and here they are now. Not a Breath Mint in sight, only their two teams, the groups of people who care about them immensely, all together to see them home safely.
“Hi everyone!” Luis beams. You can tell they’re scattered by the glitch of their hologram, static and fuzz slowly moving through different chunks of their hard-light body. But it doesn’t matter, what matters is that they’re here. Finn and Tot race each other onto the field to see who gets to hug them first. Finn wins out by just an inch, but Tot doesn’t mind. Ze and Luis have had centuries of reunions, and never waivered in knowing they’ll have centuries more.
Mike texts the house group chat to let everyone know Logan’s planning to throw a party tonight. He’d been saying ever since he got back that he’s hosting a celebration upon Luis’ return, and Mike knows he’s a horse of his word.
***
“You ready to bust the mission?”
“Absolutely.”
Mike puts the Zlipcar they’re renting in drive. Logan hooks up his phone to the Bluetooth and starts blasting his favorite party jams. They’ve got two hours to get everything they need for the party, and Chad offered to help sets things up at the house while they’re gone.
“Where to first?” Mike asks.
“Party City baby, we need some motherfuckin’ glowsticks.” Logan puts on his sunglasses and the two drive off on their mission.
After spending a bit too long in Party City while Logan tries on a slew of silly hats, they speed through the rest of their tasks. They pick up snacks, they pick up drinks, and they go back to Party City for the “Welcome Home Luis!” banner they forgot at the counter. Bevan helps them unload the car when they get home, actually going inside for once rather than remaining in the bushes or the backyard. Mike heads into the kitchen to start baking cupcakes while Logan returns the Zlipcar and jogs back.
***
“Are we the first ones here?”
Finn and Kennedy walk into the house. They’re not sure what they were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Finn thinks about the kinds of frat houses she’s seen on TV—they’re large, sprawling buildings with gilded Greek letters emblazoned on the front. But this is just a rowhome. Just a normal rowhome, not much bigger than Kennedy’s is a few blocks away. There are no gilded letters, nothing on the front of the house but the number 223 in a standard spot like homes 221 and 225 on either side of it. The only thing indicating they made it to the right house is a blue flag with the letters hanging in the window, but that’s about it. The inside looks like a regular rowhome shared by a few people, albeit with more party accoutrements. There’s a faint smell from years of spilled beers seeping into the floorboards, but it’s mostly covered by the scent of the cupcakes Mike just finished frosting.
Next to the staircase to the second floor there’s a collection of photos in a large black frame. The top of it reads “Phli Dleta Thleta Brotherhood 20XX” and it’s filled with portrait pictures of college-age people Finn has never seen. At the bottom, she notices polaroid photos taped to the frame, one on either side of the bottom row. They’re portraits of Logan and Mike.
“Oh hell yeah, you made it,” Logan calls from the top of the staircase. He runs down and takes the sixpack Kennedy brought to the kitchen. Slowly but surely other Crabs and even a few Garages start trickling into the house as Logan cranks up the music.
***
“So this is where you’ve been staying?”
Mike nods as he pops the cap off of a Modelo, shoves in a quarter of a lime, and hands it to Bertie. He does the same with one for himself, and they clink bottles.
“And you’ve been having an okay time?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Mike takes a swig of his drink. “It’s been pretty great, actually. Logan’s a good roommate.”
Bertie smiles. “It’s been good to see you having some fun again.”
“You should try it. We’re only young forever once, you know.”
Bertie laughs and drinks his beer. “I guess you’re right about that.”
“To Combs,” Mike says, raising his glass.
“To Combs.”
***
“We’re playing on hard mode, brah.”
Logan tosses the ping pong ball through one of the gaps in Luis’ hologram. It gets thrown off course as scattered static shifts in the air. It just barely misses the cups.
“That tickles!” Luis says, laughing.
Brock tosses the ball back through and makes a perfect shot.
“Fuck man,” Logan says, taking out the ball and starting to drink. “This rock is just too damn good at pitching.” Mike pats him on the back and steps in to take a celeb shot. He misses horribly and it bounces off of Luis.
***
“We’re starting party time EARLY, fam.”
Logan climbs up on the pong table. “Tonight we celebrate the return of our fuckin’ vlocaloid bestie over here. Garages and Crabs we may be in a mcfuckin’ death match right now but Luis is our scattered-ass homie and we both love them and THAT is the shit that matters.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re in a death match,” Betsy Trombone says.
“Trombitch Trombabe I am trying to be dramatic for EMPATHY.”
“He means emphasis,” Mike says.
“Yeah that’s what I said.”
Kennedy laughs and Forrest stabilizes Logan when he starts to fall off the table.
“Shit, dude,” he continues. “I gotta say, this has been a bonkers fucking yonkers season for me. Baltimore’s no Miami I’m gonna say that up front, gotta keep that shit real. But that’s pretty fuckin’ dope in its own way. Garages straight up I don’t know shit about you or your deal but if you’re good to Luis and you’re good to my boy Mikey T, then you’re good to me. Let’s fuckin’ celebrate!”
Everyone lets out hoots and hollers as Logan goes to do a stage dive off of the pong table. Forrest catches him before he can do any damage to himself or to the property. The vibes are good, better than Logan had honestly expected. Sure, it’s calmer than any of the parties this house is usually host to, but it’s nice to see the Crabs interacting with each other and with others. Finn is in the kitchen making grilled cheeses for anyone who wants one, Bevan and Parker are enjoying the quiet of the backyard. Jaylen stays along the wall, but at least she hasn’t tried to pull some shit. Kennedy mentions the idea of karaoke and both teams are completely on board. Logan wakes Chad up and makes him help set up the machine.
***
“This one’s for you, Mikey T!”
The piano music starts slowly, but Mike recognizes it immediately. He laughs as Logan dramatically starts singing Blilly Jloel’s “Piano Man.” It’s a song everyone in the room knows, Seattle to Baltimore. Mike pulls his harmonica out of his pocket and joins in as the verse transitions.
Logan passes the Mike to Kennedy, who belts with a beautiful melancholic bellow. Partygoers start placing their arms around each other and swaying to the music as it builds. Silvaire picks up Tot Fox and starts swinging her around in her arms. Pedro takes a video to send to Valentine. He can’t remember the last time they’d all done karaoke. Mike is completely enraptured in the music, and the moment is for him. The audience of two teams is incidental.
“I didn’t know he still played,” Jaylen says.
“I didn’t know he played at all,” Betsy responds. “He’s actually really good.”
“Yeah.” She watches him play while Logan spins wildly to the piano solo. “He always has been.”
The final verse swells, and everyone sings along. Logan puts his whole heart and soul into it as Mike harmonizes with his harmonica. Even Chad and the other brothers make their way to the stairs for the final chorus, belting their lungs out and cheering on their blaseball-playing guests. When the song ends, Kennedy has worked up a sweat from his performance. Logan pulls Mike into a hug and then holds up his arm, harmonica in hand.
“Micycle fucking Townsend, everyone!”
There are hoots and hollers from his teammates and his roommates and his friends. Ollie Notarobot starts beeping “ENCORE. ENCORE. ENCORE.” Someone queues up another Blilly Jloel number.
***
“Best part of the night.”
“Best part of the night,” Logan echoes. The two friends lie down on the floor, a package of oreos resting between their heads. The floor is sticky, but it’s cool compared to the hot air that hangs above them, so they don’t mind. Karaoke went late, far later that anyone expected. People finally left around three when the Garages’ manager called, wondering why not a single band member was in the hotel at that hour when the next game starts in the afternoon.
Mike closes his eyes and listens to the quiet hum of the house, but it’s not deafening this time. The karaoke machine buzzes softly beside him and the oreo package crinkles when Logan grabs another cookie. Mike grabs one, too.
“Derrick would have loved that,” he says.
“Raúl would have, too. He’d go apeshit for a good jam sesh.”
“Good thing we did it then, huh.”
“Hell yeah, Mikey T.” Logan stacks an oreo on Mike’s forehead. “Hell yeah.”
They sit in the silence for a little while, Logan stacking oreos and eating them when they fall from forehead to floor. It’s comfortable, even on the hardwood floor, and Mike feels himself start to fall asleep.
“Ready to knock the fuck out?” Logan asks.
“Yeah, definitely.”
Mike forces himself to open his eyes and make the climb to the second floor. He hears his bones creak as much as the stairs, but he makes it. And hey, he’s not the one who has to be awake for a game in a few hours.
“Night, Logan.”
“Catch some zees, Mikey T.” Logan tosses him one last oreo. “Love you, man.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
Mike gently places the old harmonica on his nightstand and drifts off to sleep.