(fic) this broken beautiful mess we've made

[medusacascade22]

title: this broken beautiful mess we've made
pairing: mike green/brooks laich
rating: r
notes: beginning the caps cross-posting from ao3 to lj, bare with me, pls. ao3.t



It’s a constant struggle for Mike, being in love with his best friend. It isn’t just that Brooks is Mike’s teammate, or that he’s straight, or that the league doesn’t exactly smile upon homosexuality in the first place; it’s that Mike values Brooks’ friendship more than anything in the world, probably even more than a Stanley Cup. Mike is more terrified of losing Brooks’ friendship than being excommunicated from the sport of hockey altogether.

That’s what Mike has to remind himself of every time Brooks unknowingly tests his very thin patience with a smile or a glance or an infuriatingly tight t-shirt.

But Mike’s patience can only handle so much.

Brooks Laich is drunk. Brooks Laich is so drunk that Mike knew he wouldn’t be able to get him from the bar to his house, so he settled for his own apartment.

It’s not like Mike can blame the guy, as if he could ever really be mad at him. Brooks did have an amazing game that evening; he was completely within his right to celebrate.  But Mike still doesn’t think that’s much of an excuse for the way Brooks is acting; falling all over Mike and paying no attention to where his hands land and just giggling in an infuriatingly endearing way and Mike doesn’t think he’s going to last the ride to his place, much less talking care of Brooks through the night.

Much to Mike’s relief, they arrive at his place and Brooks is too distracted by describing the nearest tree to notice how much Mike fumbles with his keys.

“It’s such a nice tree. It’s so green. I like green. Green is nice,” Brooks rambles. Mike clears his throat in an attempt to scatter the stupid butterflies in his stomach.

“It sure is,” Mike agrees as absently as he can. He all but shoves Brooks through the door, who just smiles and lets Mike manhandle him. He wanders into the room and plops down on the couch. His hands fall face down on the cushions next to him, long fingers spreading across the fabric. Brooks lets himself become engrossed in the movement, and Mike realizes he is too.

“On a scale from zero to Patrick Kane, how drunk are you?” Mike asks, leaning against the side of the counter. A smile plays at the corner of his lips.

“I dunno,” Brooks says. “But I’m happy. Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“Of course you are, dumbass.” Mike rolls his eyes.

“You know what would make me extra happy?” Brooks says with a devilish smile. Mike’s mouth goes dry and he makes a little sound in the back of his throat that he hopes sounds like an inquiry.

“What?” He asks when Brooks doesn’t respond.

“Come sit with me,” Brooks commands and pats the seat next to him.

“I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” Mike sighs and tries to sound authoritative, even though all he wants to do is take Brooks’ suggestion.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Brooks shakes his head. “I want to hang out with you.”

Mike sighs again and joins Brooks on the couch, making sure to leave a few inches between their knees. Brooks grins and immediately closes the space, leaning his head against Mike’s shoulder. Mike’s body goes instantly still, and he can hear his heartbeat pounding against his ears. He takes a steadying breath and reminds himself that this shouldn’t be weird, they sleep on each other on planes and busses all the time, this shouldn’t be a big deal, but he just can’t get his pulse to slow.

Blindly, Mike reaches for the TV remote, desperate for some distraction from Brooks’ breaths falling over his chest and rippling his t-shirt, or the way his hair scratches against Mike’s chin.

While Mike flips through channels, Brooks does obnoxious little things like smelling good, not too much like alcohol, and burrowing his head closer into Mike’s chest, and making happy little noises when he likes what flashes across the screen, and breathing, and just existing and Mike genuinely considers throwing him out because seriously, Brooks is being a very inconsiderate guest.

ESPN finally flickers on so Mike leaves it and tosses the remote to the side. Brooks makes another happy noise and Mike doesn’t think he can take it anymore. He can’t even focus on the game playing enough to figure out what sport it is. Instead, Mike is synchronizing his breathing to Brooks’ and doing his best not to move and dislodge him against his chest.

A few commercial breaks later, Brooks abruptly snaps his head up and looks around wildly. Mike stares at him, eyebrows raised. He tries not to miss the weight on his chest and clears his throat to fill the emptiness.

“You okay?” He asks. “Finally ready to sleep?”

“No…” Brooks trails off, eyes settling on Mike’s.

Mike squirms a little under Brooks’ gaze, feeling naked and exposed. He wants to say something and relieve the layer of tension that has settled over the room, but can’t come up with anything.

“You have a nice mouth,” Brooks says almost in wonder. Mike stutters, completely unable to form a response.

It turns out that Mike doesn’t need to respond because Brooks presses their lips together.

Just like that, Mike’s patience and self-control and will completely disappear. He inhales sharply and his hands clutch at the back of Brooks’ head, pulling him closer and crushing their mouths together. There is no finesse to the kiss, only pressure and want and years of repression.

Brooks pulls away after a few seconds and Mike panics. He’s pretty sure that Brooks is about to slap him and leave and never speak to him again, but he only repositions himself to straddle Mike and grins down at him. Brooks weaves his fingers behind Mike’s neck, pulling their mouths together again.

It’s gentler this time, more exploring than attacking. Mike’s hands find their way to Brooks hips with just enough force to keep him in place. Mike’s tongue flits into Brooks’ mouth. He tastes alcohol and adrenaline and decides he likes it.

Brooks makes an involuntary noise at the back of his throat and sucks Mike’s tongue further into his mouth. Mike arches off the couch and his nails claw at Brooks’ back. When Brooks releases his tongue, Mike forces them to break apart. He leans their foreheads together, breath coming in pants as he tries to catch it.

Mike knows that Brooks is drunk, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that they shouldn’t be doing this, and that he needs to do something to stop this, no matter how much he wants to keep going.

When Mike finally regains enough oxygen and sanity to speak, he manages to choke out, “Brooks, what are we…” He trails off, interrupted by the darkness in Brooks’ eyes.

“Shhh,” Brooks whispers. His head dips back down and he kisses Mike lightly. Mike decides that’s enough consent, and then he feels a lump against his thigh, realizes it’s Brooks’ erection, and all hope for protest is so lost that its like it never existed.

Their limbs knock together in awkward and slightly painful ways as Mike fumbles to pull Brooks down on to the couch next to him.  He finally ends up on his back with Brooks wedged between him and the back of the couch, lying partly on top of Mike, not enough to hurt but enough to feel the pressure of Brooks’ body on top of him. Their lips find each other again, not quite hesitant, but still eager and excited.

Slowly, Mike’s hand wanders from the side of Brooks’ neck down to his collarbone, his shoulder, his side, his hip… and halts. He breaks the kiss and raises his eyebrows, hoping the gesture communicates his question. Brooks squeezes Mike’s hip and says so quietly it’s practically an exhale, “Please.” The sound is enough to send a shiver down Mike’s spine. Brooks smiles sheepishly and reconnects their mouths, tongue delving back into Mike’s. Mike shrugs, figures he’s just been given the green light he’s been dreaming about for years, and starts working on Brooks’ belt.

It takes him a little while since he’s only got one hand and Brooks’ tongue is kind of distracting, but his hand finally meets skin and Brooks gasps in a way that Mike can hardly believe is real, much less that he caused it.

Mike starts off slow, afraid of hurting Brooks, or worse, scaring him. It isn’t until Brooks whines into his mouth that Mike picks up speed and falls into a rhythm. His lips move almost in tandem with his hand, and he can feel Brooks coming apart.

Mike wonders what will happen if he runs his thumb over the head, so he does, and learns that the motion makes Brooks moan in a really encouraging way, so Mike can’t resist but repeat the motion every few strokes just to hear it over and over again.

“Mike,” Brooks gasps, mouth disconnecting from Mike’s and falling into the crook of his neck. He can’t help but thrust into Mike’s grip, which is growing tighter. Mike squeezes tightly and speeds up, and suddenly Brooks is coming and whimpering and Mike has to bite down on his own lip to keep from crying out himself.

Brooks pants into Mike’s neck as Mike wipes his hand on Brooks’ shirt. He lets Brooks catch his breath before kissing him again. Brooks responds gently at first, but he builds intensity as his own hands go to Mike’s belt loops.

Mike arches his hips to help Brooks tug his jeans off, tossing them across the room. Brooks wastes no time and dips his hand into Mike’s boxers, closing around him and stroking quickly. Mike was already about halfway there, so it only takes a few dozen strokes until his head is falling back against the couch and a million obscenities are falling out of his mouth as he comes into Brooks’ hand.

“Well,” Mike says a few minutes later, after he’s regained enough composure to speak. “That was fun. Bedtime?”

Brooks nods into Mike’s shoulder and allows himself to be pulled up and dragged into Mike’s room. They discard the rest of their clothes and climb into the bed. Mike decides it would be weird if he didn’t, so he scoots up behind Brooks and throws an arm over his waist. Brooks secures Mike’s arm with his own. He murmurs, “goodnight, Mikey,” and is asleep before Mike can respond.

“Goodnight, Brooksie.” Mike whispers with a smile. He nuzzles his face into the back of Brooks’ neck and is pretty sure this is the best moment of his entire life.

There are plenty of pleasant ways to be woken up, and with the sound of stomping and cursing isn’t one of them.

Mike groans. He wants to pull his pillow over his head and go back to sleep, but something tells him he has to face whatever fuckery has manifested itself in his bedroom. He sits up and rubs his eyes, opening them to a sight he isn’t very happy to see.

Brooks is fumbling around the room, tugging his clothes on, and swearing loudly. Mike clears his throat to get his attention and fiddles with the sheet thrown over his body. Brooks looks up at the sound, eyes narrowing as he meets Mike’s confused gaze. He grunts angrily, tosses Mike his boxers, and continues pacing the room.

“Everything okay?” Mike asks, pulling them on. Brooks stops mid-gait and stares at Mike with enough anger in his eyes to make Mike fear for his life.

“Okay? Are you fucking kidding me!?” Brooks practically spits out.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asks, alarmed.

Brooks throws his arms into the air in exasperation. “What the fuck do you think is wrong!? Last night is what’s fucking wrong!”

“Calm down,” Mike tries to say, but he’s cut off.

“No!” Brooks yells. “I will not calm down!” He realizes his tone and stops himself, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “I don’t, I’m not, I didn’t, we can’t…” Brooks trails off. He grabs the sides of his head in frustration, letting out a loud groan.

“It’s okay,” Mike says, terrified, wanting his words to be true. He swings his legs out of bed and steps towards Brooks. He tries to lay a comforting hand on Brooks’ shoulder, but doesn’t even make contact before Brooks’ head snaps up.

“Don’t touch me,” Brooks growls. Mike’s hand shoots back to his side and he feels like he’s just been slapped in the face.

“I… I’m sorry…” Mike stammers. “Brooks, last night was the best night of my life…”

“No, last night was a mistake,” Brooks says, the edge still clear in his voice. Mike can feel a prick behind his eyes and the words sting worse than anything he’s ever felt.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Brooks refuses to meet Mike’s eyes and bolts out of the room. Mike can feel his heart splintering a bit more with each of Brooks’ steps.

Mike is frozen in place. He doesn’t hear the front door slam over his heart pounding against the insides of his ears.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to puke, or faint, or sob, or just fucking die. He’d take the latter with open arms.

Everything that Mike had ever dreamed of became a reality. But then, just a few hours later, so did his worst nightmares.

Mike and Brooks don’t talk for a long time.

At first, Mike is so terrified that his heart practically races out of his chest every time he hears footsteps. He thinks that Brooks is going to start screaming at him, or hit him, or tell the whole team what Mike did, and Mike knows he deserves all that and much worse.

Mike basically fucking hates himself. He can’t help but replay the night over and over in his mind, telling himself that it was wrong, that he should’ve stopped, that Brooks was drunk, that Mike should have done something to prevent this whole fucking mess.

He ignores the little voice that reminds him that Brooks seemed like he wanted it, hell, he even instigated it. He also ignores the replays of all the sounds he made Brooks make, sounds that don’t sound all that upset. He especially ignores the memory of how fucking happy he was, and how fucking happy Brooks seemed to be.

Or at least, he tries.

He’s even pretty sure that he’d welcome a slap in the face or a screaming match because physical pain might distract him from the war inside his head and the constant crumbling of his heart.

Brooks isn’t so kind, though, and takes to completely ignoring Mike’s existence for a while. Mike gets used to it, learns to appreciate it, doesn’t want to push Brooks or talk to him and fuck things up even further. So, Mike stays far away from Brooks whenever possible, and when they have to be together, he makes sure not to force communication.

It’s kind of weird, Mike has to admit. It’s weird to wake up one day and not have your best friend. It’s weird for the team, too, as the entire dynamic has been thrown off. No one wants to meddle in their shit, though, so the few guys who actually care stay out of it and Mike is thankful. The last thing he needs is more people he loves hating him.

Because that’s exactly the problem. Mike loves Brooks. Mike loves Brooks more than he’s ever loved anything. Mike loves Brooks so much that if never speaking to Mike again makes Brooks happy, then Mike will go to his furthest lengths to avoid him, to never say so much as a word to him, to let him lead his own life without Mike.

And that makes Mike feel sick in about fifteen different ways, so he tries not to think about it, and focuses on skating and keeping a smile on his face when he has to.

It takes a few weeks, though to Mike it feels like eons, but Brooks meets his gaze one day in the locker room and grunts a greeting. Mike stumbles embarrassingly over his words but manages one back. Brooks nods at him, drops his head again, and continues the trek to his stall. Mike buries his face into his stall and hopes Nicky will think the red of his jerseys are reflecting on his face, and not see the blood rushing up beneath his skin.

It goes on like that, with grunted greetings and little eye contact, for a while. Then Mike graduates to “how are ya?” and maybe a few seconds of conversation, if he’s lucky.

Mike is hesitant. He drinks up every moment of attention he gets from Brooks, relishing in it, but always cautious not to tip the scale. Every word is calculated and weighed before he lets it slip from his tongue. Every movement is thought through before executed. He’ll be damned if he does something to stop the slow progress of what he hopes is their friendship piecing back together, even if his heart still lies shattered.

Their friendship begins to take on a new life, hesitant and careful instead of close and easy like it was before. There’s always an invisible barrier between them that neither challenge and an even thicker layer of tension that hangs over their heads. Mike thinks he is getting better at breathing through it instead of threatening to choke under it.

Its casual conversations and shallow topics and Mike’s fear slowly starts to ebb. He still watches his words carefully, but panics less, sleeps more. He makes sure that he and Brooks are never alone together, though. It’s not just that he wants to make sure Brooks isn’t uncomfortable, it’s that the last thing Mike needs is the temptation to bring up his feelings, his mistakes, his shame.

They haven’t talked about it at all, actually. Mike would think it hadn’t happened, it was just a terrible nightmare, but he has the pain and the anxiety and the dirty laundry to prove otherwise.

Weeks pass, Brooks’ smile grows more genuine, conversations grow longer, but Mike still hurts. He doesn’t even consider forgiving himself, no matter how normal and over it Brooks might seem.

Mike does his best to embrace this new normal. Soon it’s been months since that night and Mike realizes that he doesn’t have to paint a smile on for his friends, sometimes it’s there on its own. Ovi and Sasha stop shooting him concerned glances across the locker room like the maternal little fuckers they are, and Nicky stops offering beer and video games with the implication of a major heart-to-heart that Mike has no interest in.

Mike is really impressed with himself. He’s done a damn good job of internalizing all of the shit he wants to scream out off the rooftops. He’s done a damn good job of convincing everyone he’s fine, he’s happy, there isn’t anything keeping him up late at night. He’s done a damn good job of almost convincing himself that it’s true. But the night always comes, and the truth always follows.

The system works pretty well for a while; maintain the distant friendship with Brooks, pretend to be happy for the rest of the team, skate so hard his muscles ache more than his heart, go home, let the smile fall off with his coat, sulk alone until he falls asleep, recharge the self-control that keeps him from breaking and screaming and making an ass out of himself, wake up, repeat.

But it couldn’t work forever.

One day when Mike has just finished the “skate so hard his muscles ache more than his heart” bit of the system and is getting ready to leave the locker room for home, he hears a few words that stop him in his tracks. Brooks’ voice always makes Mike pause, but this time Mike’s stomach lurches into his throat and a layer of sweat bursts across his freshly washed forehead. Brooks is standing by his stall, surrounded by a few guys. Mike doesn’t think he should be listening but the urge to stay beats the urge to flee.

It’s the word “Amanda” at first. Mike knows that name, knows she was a friend of Brooks, but he’d never mentioned her enough for Mike to give her much thought. He’s about to take the last few steps to the door but something about Brooks’ tone makes him stay and keep listening.

But then the name is followed by “engaged” and “last night” and Hendy and Joel are saying “congratulations, man” and “happy for you.”

Mike’s neck moves on its own accord and sees the smile on Brooks’ lips, the blush on his cheeks, and Mike is running, running faster than he’s ever skated, and driving faster than he should, and almost kicking the door to his apartment open and collapsing on the ground and sobbing and heaving and feeling more than his broken heart and self-abused body can handle.

Mike spends an entire weekend curled around his pillow and refusing to drink anything because hydration means more tears and there are only so many tears Mike can cry before he give up all hope on any shred of dignity.

He does his best to convince himself that this is the best thing for everyone involved and that now Mike can move on and that Brooks is happy and it’ll all turn out okay, but it doesn’t work. Whenever he tries to imagine Brooks happy with Amanda, the memory of the look in Brooks’ eyes that long-ago night invades Mike’s mind and blots out the previous thought completely. He just cannot convince himself that Brooks will be happy with her, that he belongs with her, that he belongs with anyone but Mike.

It’s only the threat of free agency that forces Mike out of his bed and to Kettler for morning skate.

Unsurprisingly, Mike does terribly and it’s clear his head is elsewhere. He doesn’t even try to intercept Nick’s pass, letting it smack against the boards and slow to a halt. Ovi slides up to Mike’s side and tells him that he doesn’t care what the fuck is making him suck royal balls at hockey, but if he doesn’t get his head back in the game, he’s going to have Ovi’s skate up his ass, and we don’t want that, do we?

It takes a lot of psyching himself up, but Mike finally decides that he cannot let Brooks do this, has to talk to him, has to stop acting like Sidney Crosby and man the fuck up, so he gets his ass into the car and drives to Brooks’ house before the surge of courage fades.

Brooks lets Mike in, and the expression on Brooks’ face tells Mike that he looks as terrible as he feels. Brooks doesn’t say so, and Mike is glad for it.

Mike is so nervous that his hands are shaking. He thinks this is dumb because he is a hockey player; he gets beat up on regional television a few times a week. He’d learned to internalize the rare case of nerves years ago so that they wouldn’t affect his game. It’s not exactly easy to grip a stick when your hands are shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Mike feels like his hands are betraying him, so he clasps them together and squeezes as hard as he can as punishment, which makes him feel a little bit better.

Mike finds himself standing in the middle of Brooks’ kitchen, and realizes that Brooks is staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He wants to sneak a glance up from his shoes and into those eyes, but knows it will only worsen the situation. Mike opens his mouth to speak but nothing but air comes out, so he closes it and tries again.

Brooks leans against the counter, patiently watching Mike struggle. Mike hates him for being so calm when his own brain is overactive almost to the point of combustion. They stand in silence for what feels like seventeen lifetimes and Mike thinks he might collapse under the tension hanging between then.

“Did you come here to stare at me, or…?” Brooks trails off with an awkward smile. His tone isn’t patronizing, but worried and warm. The knot of tension wrapped around Mike’s sternum loosens a little and suddenly his mouth is open and words are falling out on their own accord.

Mike isn’t completely aware of the things that come out of his mouth. His heart and his vocal chords take over and his brain kind of shuts down under the pressure. It is a constant flow of words; sometimes twisting themselves into sentences and other times just hanging in the air, untouched and forgotten but still genuine.

Mike tells Brooks that he’s Mike’s best friend, that he’s the only one who really gets Mike, that Brooks is the best thing to ever happen to him, that Amanda isn’t good enough for him because no one can ever be good enough for Brooks, that Mike is sorry, that he just wants Brooks to be happy but Mike knows he isn’t right now, that he doesn’t have to hide or be ashamed anymore, that he really is sorry, that he loves Brooks more than the normal human capacity to love, and he’s done denying that, because Mike’s pretty sure it’s the truest thing to ever be true.

Brooks watches and listens to Mike the entire time. His poker face breaks at about the second malformed sentence into a mix of emotions that Mike can’t quite dissect but really wants to. Hell, he wants to launch himself across the floor towards Brooks and smooth the lines and sadness out of Brooks’ face with his fingers, but only squeezes his hands tighter and closes his mouth so that particular desire doesn’t fall out after the rest of the complete madness he’s just dumped into the room.

When Mike finally quiets, Brooks raises a hand to his face, wipes across it, and groans Mike’s name through his fingers.

In that moment, Mike completely panics. He’s sure that he’s fucked everything up again but this time worse, to a point that they’ll never be able to look at each other, much less speak, and Mike is going to have to ask GMGM for a trade to somewhere far away.

Before Brooks can say anything, Mike’s jaw unhinges again and more apologies escape and Mike isn’t even aware that he’s bolting out the door until he’s reached his car.

He drives on auto-pilot, not even sure how he gets home without crashing. Mike doesn’t look behind him for the entire drive home, so he never notices the pair of headlights that follow him all the way there.

Mike forces himself out of the car, only for his legs to give out the moment his feet touch the ground.

His back slams against the metal and Mike collapses. Mike’s hands find his head and props his elbows onto his knees. He sits like that for a long time and lets heavy sobs rip through him whenever they bubble up to his throat.

When he feels empty and dehydrated and like each one of his ribs has been kicked in with a steel-toed boot, Mike peels himself off the ground and gets himself into the building.

Mike shoves through the door, too broken and exhausted to wonder why it’s unlocked. He’s headed towards the kitchen for a water bottle with the long-term goal of sleeping the rest of his life away when he hears someone breathing and shit, Brooks is in his house, because of course that fucker still has a key, and now he’s standing in Mike’s living room, looking worried and a little bit crazed.

“Mike,” Brooks says and Mike’s heart threatens to stop completely. He grips the doorframe, leaning against it for the support he needs.

“What the fuck,” Mike says, clutching at his chest. “Do you want to give me a fucking heart attack!?”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Brooks tells him, stepping closer. “Not just about breaking in. Although, yeah, sorry about that too.”

Mike wants to say something, but no words come, so he just looks at Brooks with wide, confused eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Brooks is crying. He’s burying his face in his hands and his shoulders are shaking and Mike wants to reach out, touch him, comfort him, but it’s like steel cables are wrapped around his ankles and anchoring him to the floor.

Then Brooks is apologizing. He’s apologizing for that first night, for the morning after, for how shitty he’s treated Mike since, for hurting him so much, for everything, for things that Mike didn’t even know had happened.

“Brooks, no, stop,” Mike interrupts. “I took advantage of you. You were drunk. I shouldn’t have…”

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just… fuck, I was just an idiot. I wanted everything that happened, hell, I want everything that happened. I was just, I am just,”

“Spit it out, Brooksie,” Mike says because he can only deal with so much. His emotions are so fried that the nickname slips out. It seems to sober Brooks up, because he takes a deep breath and starts again.

“I’m an idiot. I love you, Mike. I love you so much. I’ve loved you for years. It’s just, it’s our jobs. You know the stories. You’ve heard the smack-talk. We both know what happens to gay hockey players. I was scared, okay? I’ve always been scared, since I first knew I was falling for you. I tried to keep it under control and I was doing so well. It was just that one night and I was so drunk and I didn’t stop myself like I usually do and then I woke up and I was terrified of what would happen to you, to me, to everything, so I panicked, and I’m just so fucking sorry, Mike, I really am. I thought that getting out of your life would be the best thing for both of us, for our careers, for our safety, and you seemed to be doing well and I was doing a good job of pretending to be doing well too, but now I know that you weren’t, and all I did was hurt you worse than any homophobic asshole ever could, and you didn’t deserve any of it, and I am so fucking sorry.” Brooks’ breath comes out in heavy bursts and he looks at Mike, eyes huge and scared, and Mike doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re getting married,” is all that Mike can get out.

“No, no, no,” Brooks says, almost smiling. “I’m not getting married. Amanda is. She asked me to be her best man.”

It’s like the weight of an entire universe is lifted from Mike’s shoulders. He feels like he might collapse with the feeling of relief that sinks deep into his bones, but he just blinks hard and takes a deep steadying breath.

“So, you’re not getting married?” Mike asks, and takes a tentative step towards Brooks.

“Not getting married,” Brooks repeats.

“And you’ve been just as fucked up as I have?”

“Yeah, I have. I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. But then I saw what it did to you, what I did to you, and I had to put a stop to it.”

“And you don’t hate me?” Mike takes another step.

“I could never hate you.” Brooks’ face brightens a little. “Mike, I love you. I love you so much that I couldn’t handle the thought of getting in the way of your career, but now I see that kind of backfired, and if I’m what it takes to make you happy, I will never leave your side, and I will never stop apologizing for what I’ve done. I’m so sorry…”

Mike winds a hand around the back of Brooks’ neck, pulling him closer as he speaks. Mike kisses him and cuts off the rest of his apologies because yeah, Brooks was a dick, but with each one of Brooks’ words, Mike’s heart pieced itself back together, and that feeling is better than any apology.