you can sit beside me when the world comes down
Title you can sit beside me when the world comes down
Rating PG-13
Pairing previous Erik Friberg/Roger Levesque
Word Count 5218
Disclaimer not true
Summary Gen bro fic sequel to My Heart Was Blinded By You. Mike wants to be there to help Roger out after Erik leaves to play in Sweden only to discover the Sounders are trading him to Montreal.
A/N- Birthday fic for the always amazing luxover . Happy birthday boo. I hope you enjoyed the booze/schnitzel/pretzels/etc and that this adds to an already epic day.
Also, thank you to albion_lass for beta'ing <3
They can never agree on coffee. Roger likes his with too much sugar; Mike likes his with a shot of sugar free vanilla and half a Splenda packet. Roger goes for soymilk and Mike likes half and half. They always end up mixing all of that together and drinking it anyway, splitting a cup when they can just order their own. It doesn't really make sense, but it doesn't have to.
"This tastes like shit," Mike spits a bit of it out, takes another sip.
"You can always get your own," Roger shrugs, grins. "You know you won't though."
Roger's right, Mike won’t. He used to say he would, but it never happened. It's been three years. Mike doesn't think he'll ever get his own.
Adam walks by with Brad, laughing at something the midfielder said. Roger leans against Mike, rests his head on his shoulder, avoids looking at Adam even though the defender has done nothing wrong. Roger always avoids Adam like the plague.
"Well shit, now Brad is going to think he's funny," Mike mutters under his breath, drawing a laugh from Roger. He grabs the cup from Roger, finishes it, and chucks it in the garbage next to the bench they're on. "One day at a time."
"Yeah."
*
No one has said anything to them. No one knows what to say, so everyone pretends like it didn't happen. Roger's happy that they're ignoring it. It makes it that much easier for him to ignore and pretend like he isn't walking around like someone just cut his heart out. Except he's not walking around like a zombie; he walking around with a grin that's held up by fraying threads. Roger understands soccer, but that's it. The rest of the day he relies on someone to check and see if the patches are holding up and make sure he's not falling apart. He is a ragdoll that has seen better days.
"Want to go get Ivars?" Mike asks him as he shoves the rest of his stuff into his bag. "The one at the park?"
Roger feels like he's learning to live again. Trivial things that he used to take for granted seem new and he spends time thinking about things he's never really thought about before. As they zip around on 405 and he sees the giant industrial buildings that belong to Boeing, he remembers watching airplanes fly when he was a child and wondering how they flew. Curiosity has always been a part of Roger's life. So has trouble.
The nutritionist would kill them if he saw them eating fish and chips, but they don't think about it as they sit on the dock and watch the sea planes fly in and out of the airport on the lake. There's a certain thrill in it, wondering if the small plane will still be in one piece and if everything will be okay. Today, all the landings are smooth. Roger wonders if there are any airplanes decorating the bottom of the lake.
"Lobsters' on sale at Safeway, we should make lobster rolls." Mike says out of the blue as the bells on the other side of the park begin to chime, signaling an approaching train. "I get to make them this time. You suck at it."
Roger pretends to be miffed, looks down his nose at Mike. "I'm from Maine. Stick to your chowdah, Hahvahd boy. You wouldn't know a good lobster roll if it hit you on the side of the head."
"Oh my god," Mike shakes his head, as if it still surprises him when Roger butchers the Bostonian accent.
Roger laughs, throws a French fry into the water for the ducks despite the 'Do Not Feed the Waterfowl' signs around them. Mike stares pointedly at the sign and back to Roger; Roger grins and throws another fry. The shrill cry of a gull that has spotted him throwing food alerts the others in the area, and soon they're surrounded. Roger smiles at Mike's glare. These smiles are the only ones not held up by strings.
*
Roger's out doing some sort of advertising for the team. Mike and Taylor are too lazy to cook, so they decide to go to one of the small restaurants within walking distance. As they open the front door to leave, Mike almost trips over a package. It's addressed to Roger, from Sweden, and Mike and Taylor exchange a glance and a sigh as they put it inside.
They walk in silence; the only sound other than the passing cars is the rain that softly beats against their coats. The neon green sign of the local Vietnamese noodle house beckons warmly and they trudge inside, set on pho and some spring rolls. The little white teacups warm their fingers as they sit in silence, not really having anything to say. They can't say anything that hasn't been said before. Eventually Taylor starts talking about his new job and Mike fills him in with team gossip.
When they arrive back home, Roger's car is in the driveway, the package is missing from the front room, and Roger's bedroom door is shut, NPR faintly audible. It's Roger's way of saying 'stay out'. Taylor mutters something about doing laundry. Mike waits until Taylor has gone downstairs with his laundry basket before knocking on Roger's door and entering without waiting for a response.
The box is open, its contents spewed on the bed next to Roger. There's a light blue keychain, a few postcards, a letter, and a large bag of Swedish fish that Roger's already opened. Mike sits on the floor next to the bed, back against it and not facing Roger. Roger's head is buried in the pillows. He listens as the woman on the radio interviews the head of a local non-profit for a series on early childhood education. When the interview is over and filler music plays, he reaches over Roger and grabs the bag of candy. If he's going to sit here, he might as well have a few of them. Mike doesn't actually like Swedish Fish, something he never remembers until he sticks one in his mouth, but eats them anyway. It annoys Roger and Mike knows Roger's irritation will snap him out of his sulking.
"Give me my Swedish Fish," Roger mutters, except his face is still buried in the pillow and it comes out sounding more like, "gimmmeuh schhhhhedifips."
Mike eats another one. He keeps eating them until Roger moves and snatches the bag away from him. Turning, he raises an eyebrow at Roger, who in turn glowers at him.
"Dick."
Mike smiles innocently at him, as if he has no clue why Roger is upset or angry. Everyone else might ignore that Erik ever happened, but Mike knows that whatever it is still isn't over emotionally between Erik and Roger. The strings that connect them are tight and fraying because of distance; Mike won't stand by idly while Roger is suffering because of it. Mike will be a brat, a jerk, an asshole, and everything it takes to make Roger see that he's not alone, that there are people there for him. He'll bear the brunt of Roger's anger, his frustration, if need be because he knows that someday Roger will be able to move past this. Mike will be there every step of the way until then.
*
The roar of a plane overhead drowns out whatever Brad is prattling on about as they jog together. Sigi's told them to take it easy today, to avoid any last minute injuries. Roger's ahead of them, explaining something to Andrew with a gentle laugh and a smile that Mike knows is genuine. They're the Silly Beard Society or something, Roger more so than Andrew. Gspurning, Gspurnie as they call him, jogs on by, saying something in his heavily accented English that makes Brad laugh, before pulling on one of Mike's curls that's sticking out from under his beanie, and darting off. Mike shakes his head- Keepers are weird. Glancing around, he rolls his eyes and thinks they're all weird. You have to be a little insane to play for the Sounders.
"DARK IN THE CITY NIGHT IS A WIRE!" Roger starts singing loudly, off key, and Andrew shakes his head. "STEAM IN THE SUBWAY EARTH IS AFIRE!"
"Do do do do do do do dodo dododo dodo!" Half of the team chimes in and before long, they're all singing together, half of them making up words as Sigi looks on with feigned disinterest. "MOUTH IS ALIVE! WITH JUICES LIKE WINE! AND I'M HUNGRY LIKE THE WOOOOOLLLLFFFFFFF!"
"I don't know if I hate you or love you," Andrew tells them when they're done singing.
Roger slings an arm around the defender and ruffles his hair. "You love us."
"Keep telling yourself that."
There's a smile on Andrew's face despite what he's said. Mike gives him another month before he's just as insane as the rest of them. Or maybe he already is as insane and better at hiding it. Either way, he's happy to see the demented little smile on Roger's face as he teases the newbies.
"HER NAME IS RIO AND SHE DANCES ON THE SAND!"
Mike could live without the singing though.
*
Roger and Erik Skype when they can. Time zones, travels schedules, and personal obligations don't lend a lot of spare time, and they don't speak more than every other week if even that. When Mike wanders by and hears Erik laughing about something Roger's said, he frowns and prepares himself for what he knows will come next.
Sure enough, Roger hasn't left his room later that night. Mike makes dinner for the two of them, eats alone, and brings the rest up to Roger's room. There's a crime show of some sort on, but Roger's not watching it despite staring at the TV. He's deep in thought, frown on his face, and Mike knows exactly what he's thinking about. Roger wears guilt on his face as plainly as if it were scribbled there in a black marker.
"I don't know why I keep doing it," Roger says after a few minutes of silence. "It's like seeing him, talking to him, is the best feeling in the world, but as soon as he's gone…" Roger rubs his face. "I don't know how to feel anymore."
Mike doesn't say anything. He just nods like he understands even though he really doesn't. Deep down, he feels like Roger is fooling himself in thinking that Erik is coming back. They both know he isn't.
*
Mike gets this crazy idea in his head that Roger will be happier, or at least less upset, if he is busy. His reasoning is that Roger won't have time to think about Erik and what could have been if he's out doing something else. So Mike volunteers them to do promotional and community events, things everyone runs away from as soon as it's asked of them. When they're not doing things for the club, Mike packs their days full of stuff they haven't done before and things he's always wanted to try.
There are hundreds of miles of hiking trails surrounding Seattle and one Tuesday he drags Roger out to Cougar Mountain. Roger loves hiking and Mike feels like he's prodding Roger in the direction of rediscovering what he used to love. In Mike's mind, it's a quiet hike through the woods, until Jeff calls them up and asks if they wouldn't mind pet sitting. Which is how Mike finds himself scowling as he carries a lick-happy Boston terrier up the steep slope of the trail they're on.
"It's more of a rodent than a dog. I mean look at him," Mike holds out a panting but smiling Pain Machine to Roger.
"He's cute," Roger takes the small dog, which licks his face. "He's pint sized, like a certain someone I know." Roger looks at him knowingly and Mike rolls his eyes. "Aw Mikey, he just wants to be loved. Why won't you love him?"
Mike looks at Pain Machine's stupid dog smile and sees the same grin echoed on Roger's face. He can't stop the smile that breaks onto his face as he shakes his head and mutters under his breath about wishing a cougar would eat the dog.
*
Mike can't fix Roger if he's not there. He doesn't like to leave anything unfinished. When he hears from the front office, from Sigi, the first thing he thinks about is Roger and how he's a work in progress. That only lasts a minute though, before anger overtakes him. Anger at Adrian, anger at the front office, anger at everything; Mike wants to destroy something. The fact that they don't even have the decency to tell him and Lamar about it once they get back to Seattle, that it has to happen here in Florida of all the fucking places makes him even more furious. The look on Lamar's face, it's something that won't leave his mind for a while.
"Come on."
Roger is in front of him, cup of coffee in his hand, pulling him to his feet and to the parking lot. Mike doesn’t say anything, doesn't ask how Roger got the keys to one of the cars, how he knows about the transfer even though no one else is supposed to, and just climbs into the seat. He takes a sip of the coffee and almost spits it out in surprise. There's only vanilla, Splenda, and half and half in it; it's what he likes but it tastes foreign.
They drive for thirty minutes; Mike doesn't ask where they're going. A lone saxophone is wailing on the radio and Mike wears a sardonic grin on his face at the fact that Roger can find an NPR station three time zones away from home. Home. It's not going to be home anymore.
Roger pulls into a large parking lot and Mike sees fake pirate ships, some Jolly Rogers, and a sign about the alligators being real. Alligators give him the creeps. Maybe it's the way they don't move, eyes open but unseeing, teeth just waiting to destroy and kill, but they freak him out. Then he sees some kids with putters and brightly colored balls whizzing across fake grass and realizes they're at a mini golf course.
"Really?"
"It's Florida- they have height requirement for the adult sized versions." Roger says cheekily and dodges as Mike takes a swipe at him.
Mike takes a blue ball and for laughs, Roger selects a hot pink one. The jaded teenage girl running the front booth just stares at them, mascara and eyeliner smudged under and around her eyes. Roger throws her his most disarming grin, asking where the children putters are for Mike. She blinks, tells them it's cute that they're on a date, before ignoring them to text someone on her phone. Mike is sputtering and protesting the idea that Roger has taken him out on a date, but she's not listening and Roger's pushing him out to the first hole.
"You're a dick," Mike tells him, rolling Roger's ball to a nearly impossible shot when he's not looking, smirking when Roger gets a 4 on a par 2 hole.
Half way through they're tied and decide to take a break. They split a bag of Skittles and pretzels from the vending machine. It's not an ideal combination, but nothing in either of their lives ever seems to be. The bench they're sitting on is next to one of the alligator enclosures and Mike swears the vile creatures are sizing him up for dinner. It must suck to be stuck in a cage though; Mike feels a brief sympathy and connection with the creatures that have no say over their living situation.
"I don't fucking speak French," he grumbles under his breath. "And I don't care what anyone says, poutine is disgusting."
"You'll be close to your family and you won't be alone," Roger points out and Mike shrugs; yeah he'll have Tyson and Lamar, but they're not Roger.
He scoots closer to Roger on the bench, his knee resting against Roger's knobby one, forehead on Roger's arm. Roger shifts, throws his arm around Mike and pulls him close.
"This fucking sucks," Mike spits out, not trusting his voice to be anything other than angry.
"Mikey," the roles they've been carrying about with for the past two months have been reversed; Roger is the calm one now, "you can't control the future."
"I don't want to leave you."
Mike's not leaving Seattle, he's leaving Roger and everything he's built for himself since he left college and started out on his own. Except he's never been on his own because Roger's been there every step of the way. Roger has always been strong for him, and now when Roger needs him, Mike won't be there. He'll be in Montreal, time zones and a country away.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," Roger tells him with an easy smile, a smile that inexplicably makes Mike feel better. "We can go to Claire's and get best friend necklaces."
No one can make Mike laugh better than Roger can.
*
When Sigi tells the team that night during dinner, Mike stares at his plate. The room is silent. They've already lost nine players so far- Lamar and Mike make it eleven. An entire team. He tells himself that it's part of the job description, that there's no such thing as home when you're an athlete who can be bought and sold. He's a commodity.
The quiet is suffocating. They're generally a loud bunch, but this hushed up, last minute transfer has stunned them into silence. Lamar doesn't want to deal with it, Mike doesn't blame him, and stands from his chair and leaves the room. No one says anything. There's nothing that can really be said. He wishes Kasey was still there, because the front office, Adrian, would have listened to Kasey and none of it would have happened. As it is, Kasey's not there and soon Mike and Lamar won't be either.
Zach is the next person to stand up and leave, not even bothering to hide the disgust on his face. Next to him, Roger grabs his hand under the table and squeezes it, as if to tell him to stay in his seat put on a brave face. Eventually they start talking again, conversations hushed. After another few minutes, Mike is able to slip away, Roger following behind. They find Lamar and Zach outside, kicking the ball back and forth in the parking lot. Lamar passes to Mike, and the circle expands.
When Kasey retired, Lamar was the only Seattle native left. With Taylor retired and the rest traded off, Roger and Zach are the only NASL era Sounders left, but are both getting on in their years. Mike feels a bit out of place with these three, Seattle's son and her adopted torch bearers, but he knows he was, and still is, just as loved. His name will be on a different shirt, he'll play in a different city, but once you are loved by Seattle you are always one of her children.
The problem with team owners making the calls is they want big names, players that will draw crowds and trophies. This isn't LA and this isn't New York. Seattle doesn't need to draw crowds and they already have trophies. They did it without big names. The Sounders are a team where the shirt wears the player, not the other way around. Mike will always be proud of the years he was lucky enough to wear it.
*
He leaves two days later, packs up his room, his life, and the following week reports to training camp in Montreal. No one else really speaks French either. They're nice, but everyone is still kind of awkward around each other. Most of them weren't playing for Montreal last season, picked up during the drafts or from trade agreements. They've been training together for a month before Mike and Lamar arrive, and they both feel like outsiders. Tyson is there though, in something other than rave green, and as Mike suits up in his new, blue training outfit, he realizes that he's truly gone. He pauses while lacing up his boots; there's a dull ache in his chest.
Practice is different. Commands aren't barked out by Chris or Dave or Ezra; the voices are new and he finds himself straining harder to hear them. His head hurts from the extra mental exertion. There's a smile on his face, but it's as fake as fuck because he's not happy to be there. He has a new found understanding of smiles held up by strings.
After lunch, they head back to the locker room to grab their boots. Tyson is in and out before Mike gets there and throws Mike an amused look and doesn't bother to hide a snigger. He hears laughs and when he gets to his locker, has the urge to slam his head against the metal.
There's a disgustingly pink, sparkly vase containing a dozen roses. The roses have glitter on them. Mike wants to throw the entire lot in the garbage. There's a generic card with 'good luck' scribbled on it, but no name. Mike finds it somewhat alarming that he can't narrow down a small list of people he knows who would do this; he makes a mental note to pick better friends.
He doesn't end up throwing them away. When Mike picks the vase up to move it, he sees a metal chain. Removing it from around the roses, he sees it's a necklace with a puzzle piece pendant. It says 'st ends'. Somewhere in Seattle, he knows Roger is wearing the piece that says 'be fri'.
There aren't strings strong enough to hold up the grin on his face as he laughs and puts the roses on his shelf for safe keeping.
*
It becomes a tradition between the two of them. Mike will return to his apartment after practice and find some random gift from Roger and likewise sends one in return. Mike's sent Roger some candy, an obnoxious scarf that is so ugly that he knows Roger will love it, a cat toy for Taylor's cat, and a few other odds and ends. He's received a copy of The Hobbit, a French phrasebook, and a finger painting that Roger insists is the sunset but to Mike looks like a rainbow vomited.
Most of the time they send each other items that have no real meaning, things that are meant as jokes. Sometimes though, sometimes things have deeper meaning.
There's a bonsai one day when he gets home, some sort of coniferous tree with a few green and blue glass pebbles meticulously arranged in the soil. The pot is gray. The meaning doesn't go unnoticed by him. Mike makes sure to place it where it will receive the correct amount of sunlight. Its needles are kind of scraggly looking and he decides to name it Roger. Then he decides that naming trees is stupid and judges himself for it. It doesn't stop him from referring to it as Roger though.
Gray for the mountains, blue for the sound, green for the trees. Sounders colors. Seattle's colors. A piece of home to keep with him.
*
There's a week long break from training coming up and Mike's not really sure what to do. His parents visited him a few weeks back, and he doesn't have a real reason to go to Boston. Part of him wants to disappear down to Mexico for a few days and go deep water fishing, but he doesn't want to go alone. A solution always seems to present itself though. Taylor invites, pleads, Mike to come back to Seattle. Mike can never say no when he knows Roger needs him.
Taylor picks him up from the airport on a rainy Thursday. People still shake his hand, tell him that they want him to come back, and Mike is floored by how much Seattle still supports him.
The two of them stop off for a drink and lunch first to catch up before Mike is inevitably caught in the ocean that is Roger. Taylor's settled in well at his new job, he's still seeing the same girl, and everything is going fine for him. It's the same with Mike. Montreal is not home, but it's a good place for now. He likes his teammates and the team is doing better than expected. It's not Seattle though; it's not playing on the C-Link. It will do for now.
"I think he thinks no one sees how upset he still is. It's not as bad as it was, but he's still not himself." Taylor stirs the ice in his glass with his straw. "He's always been good at hiding things but now." He sighs. "I hope that you being here will help." He gives Mike a small but hopeful smile that Mike can only mirror back.
Before they go into the house, Mike sticks a plastic, gift bow on his head. Taylor looks at him sideways, but doesn't ask about it. Roger's no where to be seen, but his car's in the driveway and the TV is on in his room. Mike stows his bag in the guest room- he has to remind himself it's the guest room now, no longer his room- before going to stand in front of Roger's door.
"You got a package," he says as he swings the door open. "It was too big to ship through the normal mail though."
Roger's sitting in front of his computer. When he hears Mike's voice, his shoulders tense as he stops typing. He turns around, stares at Mike for a few seconds as if he can't believe he's standing there, before a grin overtakes his face. Roger crosses the room in a few steps and all but crushes Mike in a hug.
For the first time in two months, Mike feels like he's home.
*
"Her name is Ebba," Roger tells him as they walk around Green Lake. He pulls out his phone and shows Mike a picture of a baby that has the same vaguely dreamy look to it that Erik always had. "Ebba Mikaela. He told me not to tell anyone but you though."
Mike laughs. "I don't think Mikaela is a traditional Swedish name."
"Someone told him Mikael was a good name for a boy, but he had to adapt it when she was born." Roger winks at him. "You know how those Swedes are."
"Yeah," Mike mumbles, putting his hands in his pocket.
They walk for a bit, the only noise is the rain crashing against the surface of the lake- an untimed beat for a song no one can hear. It isn't until they're in a roofed off area, sitting on a bench that looks over the lake that Roger opens up.
"She's so beautiful." Roger is staring up at the few blue patches of sky off in the distance. "It's so selfish of me, but I still want him to come back. Then I look at her, I see him in her and know that she needs him more than I ever could." He lets out a breath of air that is half huff, half laugh. "Yeah, sure maybe someday in the future we could figure it out, but I'm not going to wait." Roger looks at Mike, and Mike sees a stringless smile. "I love him, but I'm letting him go. I'm not going to do this anymore."
Mike doesn't know what to say. He's never been good about opening up or this heart to heart stuff. Roger's smile is infectious though, and he finds himself grinning back. It's rare that Mike doesn't have something to say, but he's happy, so fucking happy, for Roger right now.
"I was afraid I wouldn't see you again you know," Roger tells him as they walk back toward where they parked. "You know, that you'd fuck off to the Impact and never think of us again." He fakes a sniffle. "Little Mikey Fucito, off to conquer the world with his fancy footwork and Ivy League education."
"Well, you kind of are my best friend," Mike snorts, pushing Roger into a light post, drawing a laugh from him. "Don't tell anyone though; I have an image to maintain."
"You came back." Roger is all but skipping and Mike rolls his eyes.
"I did." He tells himself more than Roger.
*
Mike doesn't know why he thought this was a good idea. Despite the hat and SPF 60 sunscreen, he's pretty sure he's already sunburned. The waves and rocking of the ocean are turning his stomach- he's already vomited up his breakfast and the Gatorade he brought with him. He didn't know puke could be those colors.
"Isn't this amazing?" Roger has a wild grin on his face.
The wind is blowing Roger's hair everywhere, and with the ocean surrounding them, he looks like a pirate. A hairy, plaid-wearing pirate. Mike turns around and throws up again. At least one of them is having fun. And to think this was Mike's idea.
It's August and Mike's convinced Roger to spend four days with him in Cozumel for break. Except it hasn't really been a relaxing break because he's been in hot, cramped buses, running around Mayan temples after Roger, and throwing up over the side of fishing boats. He's pretty sure a shark was considering eating him, but then Roger showed up and the shark thought twice. It wouldn't want to choke to death on a hairball after all. It's not until later that night, when they're watching the sunset on the beach with a few beers that Mike feels any semblance of relaxation. He scrunches his toes up on the sand, feeling the grains move against his feet- he's not setting foot on a boat again anytime in the foreseeable future. Or ever.
"This was a good idea." Roger is all smiles, his head nodding in time with the band playing somewhere down the beach. "You always have the best ideas. I missed this." He takes a swig out of his bottle and sets it down in the sand next to him. "So where are we going over winter break?"
"Safari?" Mike throws out with a shrug. "I've always had this subconscious urge to visit Tanzania."
Roger's eyes light up and Mike imagines him in khakis with one of those pith safari helmets on. Mike doesn't know if he should be alarmed that it's not that hard to picture Roger in one of those outfits. Mike knows Roger will be tromping through fields, excited about everything, pretend to be David Attenborough, probably make friends with a water buffalo, and will have the time of his life. Mike will get indigestion and be eaten alive by mosquitoes. It will be worth it though. Any time with his best friend is worth it. The world could come down around them, but Mike knows as long as Roger's by his side he'll be okay.
Rating PG-13
Pairing previous Erik Friberg/Roger Levesque
Word Count 5218
Disclaimer not true
Summary Gen bro fic sequel to My Heart Was Blinded By You. Mike wants to be there to help Roger out after Erik leaves to play in Sweden only to discover the Sounders are trading him to Montreal.
A/N- Birthday fic for the always amazing luxover . Happy birthday boo. I hope you enjoyed the booze/schnitzel/pretzels/etc and that this adds to an already epic day.
Also, thank you to albion_lass for beta'ing <3
They can never agree on coffee. Roger likes his with too much sugar; Mike likes his with a shot of sugar free vanilla and half a Splenda packet. Roger goes for soymilk and Mike likes half and half. They always end up mixing all of that together and drinking it anyway, splitting a cup when they can just order their own. It doesn't really make sense, but it doesn't have to.
"This tastes like shit," Mike spits a bit of it out, takes another sip.
"You can always get your own," Roger shrugs, grins. "You know you won't though."
Roger's right, Mike won’t. He used to say he would, but it never happened. It's been three years. Mike doesn't think he'll ever get his own.
Adam walks by with Brad, laughing at something the midfielder said. Roger leans against Mike, rests his head on his shoulder, avoids looking at Adam even though the defender has done nothing wrong. Roger always avoids Adam like the plague.
"Well shit, now Brad is going to think he's funny," Mike mutters under his breath, drawing a laugh from Roger. He grabs the cup from Roger, finishes it, and chucks it in the garbage next to the bench they're on. "One day at a time."
"Yeah."
*
No one has said anything to them. No one knows what to say, so everyone pretends like it didn't happen. Roger's happy that they're ignoring it. It makes it that much easier for him to ignore and pretend like he isn't walking around like someone just cut his heart out. Except he's not walking around like a zombie; he walking around with a grin that's held up by fraying threads. Roger understands soccer, but that's it. The rest of the day he relies on someone to check and see if the patches are holding up and make sure he's not falling apart. He is a ragdoll that has seen better days.
"Want to go get Ivars?" Mike asks him as he shoves the rest of his stuff into his bag. "The one at the park?"
Roger feels like he's learning to live again. Trivial things that he used to take for granted seem new and he spends time thinking about things he's never really thought about before. As they zip around on 405 and he sees the giant industrial buildings that belong to Boeing, he remembers watching airplanes fly when he was a child and wondering how they flew. Curiosity has always been a part of Roger's life. So has trouble.
The nutritionist would kill them if he saw them eating fish and chips, but they don't think about it as they sit on the dock and watch the sea planes fly in and out of the airport on the lake. There's a certain thrill in it, wondering if the small plane will still be in one piece and if everything will be okay. Today, all the landings are smooth. Roger wonders if there are any airplanes decorating the bottom of the lake.
"Lobsters' on sale at Safeway, we should make lobster rolls." Mike says out of the blue as the bells on the other side of the park begin to chime, signaling an approaching train. "I get to make them this time. You suck at it."
Roger pretends to be miffed, looks down his nose at Mike. "I'm from Maine. Stick to your chowdah, Hahvahd boy. You wouldn't know a good lobster roll if it hit you on the side of the head."
"Oh my god," Mike shakes his head, as if it still surprises him when Roger butchers the Bostonian accent.
Roger laughs, throws a French fry into the water for the ducks despite the 'Do Not Feed the Waterfowl' signs around them. Mike stares pointedly at the sign and back to Roger; Roger grins and throws another fry. The shrill cry of a gull that has spotted him throwing food alerts the others in the area, and soon they're surrounded. Roger smiles at Mike's glare. These smiles are the only ones not held up by strings.
*
Roger's out doing some sort of advertising for the team. Mike and Taylor are too lazy to cook, so they decide to go to one of the small restaurants within walking distance. As they open the front door to leave, Mike almost trips over a package. It's addressed to Roger, from Sweden, and Mike and Taylor exchange a glance and a sigh as they put it inside.
They walk in silence; the only sound other than the passing cars is the rain that softly beats against their coats. The neon green sign of the local Vietnamese noodle house beckons warmly and they trudge inside, set on pho and some spring rolls. The little white teacups warm their fingers as they sit in silence, not really having anything to say. They can't say anything that hasn't been said before. Eventually Taylor starts talking about his new job and Mike fills him in with team gossip.
When they arrive back home, Roger's car is in the driveway, the package is missing from the front room, and Roger's bedroom door is shut, NPR faintly audible. It's Roger's way of saying 'stay out'. Taylor mutters something about doing laundry. Mike waits until Taylor has gone downstairs with his laundry basket before knocking on Roger's door and entering without waiting for a response.
The box is open, its contents spewed on the bed next to Roger. There's a light blue keychain, a few postcards, a letter, and a large bag of Swedish fish that Roger's already opened. Mike sits on the floor next to the bed, back against it and not facing Roger. Roger's head is buried in the pillows. He listens as the woman on the radio interviews the head of a local non-profit for a series on early childhood education. When the interview is over and filler music plays, he reaches over Roger and grabs the bag of candy. If he's going to sit here, he might as well have a few of them. Mike doesn't actually like Swedish Fish, something he never remembers until he sticks one in his mouth, but eats them anyway. It annoys Roger and Mike knows Roger's irritation will snap him out of his sulking.
"Give me my Swedish Fish," Roger mutters, except his face is still buried in the pillow and it comes out sounding more like, "gimmmeuh schhhhhedifips."
Mike eats another one. He keeps eating them until Roger moves and snatches the bag away from him. Turning, he raises an eyebrow at Roger, who in turn glowers at him.
"Dick."
Mike smiles innocently at him, as if he has no clue why Roger is upset or angry. Everyone else might ignore that Erik ever happened, but Mike knows that whatever it is still isn't over emotionally between Erik and Roger. The strings that connect them are tight and fraying because of distance; Mike won't stand by idly while Roger is suffering because of it. Mike will be a brat, a jerk, an asshole, and everything it takes to make Roger see that he's not alone, that there are people there for him. He'll bear the brunt of Roger's anger, his frustration, if need be because he knows that someday Roger will be able to move past this. Mike will be there every step of the way until then.
*
The roar of a plane overhead drowns out whatever Brad is prattling on about as they jog together. Sigi's told them to take it easy today, to avoid any last minute injuries. Roger's ahead of them, explaining something to Andrew with a gentle laugh and a smile that Mike knows is genuine. They're the Silly Beard Society or something, Roger more so than Andrew. Gspurning, Gspurnie as they call him, jogs on by, saying something in his heavily accented English that makes Brad laugh, before pulling on one of Mike's curls that's sticking out from under his beanie, and darting off. Mike shakes his head- Keepers are weird. Glancing around, he rolls his eyes and thinks they're all weird. You have to be a little insane to play for the Sounders.
"DARK IN THE CITY NIGHT IS A WIRE!" Roger starts singing loudly, off key, and Andrew shakes his head. "STEAM IN THE SUBWAY EARTH IS AFIRE!"
"Do do do do do do do dodo dododo dodo!" Half of the team chimes in and before long, they're all singing together, half of them making up words as Sigi looks on with feigned disinterest. "MOUTH IS ALIVE! WITH JUICES LIKE WINE! AND I'M HUNGRY LIKE THE WOOOOOLLLLFFFFFFF!"
"I don't know if I hate you or love you," Andrew tells them when they're done singing.
Roger slings an arm around the defender and ruffles his hair. "You love us."
"Keep telling yourself that."
There's a smile on Andrew's face despite what he's said. Mike gives him another month before he's just as insane as the rest of them. Or maybe he already is as insane and better at hiding it. Either way, he's happy to see the demented little smile on Roger's face as he teases the newbies.
"HER NAME IS RIO AND SHE DANCES ON THE SAND!"
Mike could live without the singing though.
*
Roger and Erik Skype when they can. Time zones, travels schedules, and personal obligations don't lend a lot of spare time, and they don't speak more than every other week if even that. When Mike wanders by and hears Erik laughing about something Roger's said, he frowns and prepares himself for what he knows will come next.
Sure enough, Roger hasn't left his room later that night. Mike makes dinner for the two of them, eats alone, and brings the rest up to Roger's room. There's a crime show of some sort on, but Roger's not watching it despite staring at the TV. He's deep in thought, frown on his face, and Mike knows exactly what he's thinking about. Roger wears guilt on his face as plainly as if it were scribbled there in a black marker.
"I don't know why I keep doing it," Roger says after a few minutes of silence. "It's like seeing him, talking to him, is the best feeling in the world, but as soon as he's gone…" Roger rubs his face. "I don't know how to feel anymore."
Mike doesn't say anything. He just nods like he understands even though he really doesn't. Deep down, he feels like Roger is fooling himself in thinking that Erik is coming back. They both know he isn't.
*
Mike gets this crazy idea in his head that Roger will be happier, or at least less upset, if he is busy. His reasoning is that Roger won't have time to think about Erik and what could have been if he's out doing something else. So Mike volunteers them to do promotional and community events, things everyone runs away from as soon as it's asked of them. When they're not doing things for the club, Mike packs their days full of stuff they haven't done before and things he's always wanted to try.
There are hundreds of miles of hiking trails surrounding Seattle and one Tuesday he drags Roger out to Cougar Mountain. Roger loves hiking and Mike feels like he's prodding Roger in the direction of rediscovering what he used to love. In Mike's mind, it's a quiet hike through the woods, until Jeff calls them up and asks if they wouldn't mind pet sitting. Which is how Mike finds himself scowling as he carries a lick-happy Boston terrier up the steep slope of the trail they're on.
"It's more of a rodent than a dog. I mean look at him," Mike holds out a panting but smiling Pain Machine to Roger.
"He's cute," Roger takes the small dog, which licks his face. "He's pint sized, like a certain someone I know." Roger looks at him knowingly and Mike rolls his eyes. "Aw Mikey, he just wants to be loved. Why won't you love him?"
Mike looks at Pain Machine's stupid dog smile and sees the same grin echoed on Roger's face. He can't stop the smile that breaks onto his face as he shakes his head and mutters under his breath about wishing a cougar would eat the dog.
*
Mike can't fix Roger if he's not there. He doesn't like to leave anything unfinished. When he hears from the front office, from Sigi, the first thing he thinks about is Roger and how he's a work in progress. That only lasts a minute though, before anger overtakes him. Anger at Adrian, anger at the front office, anger at everything; Mike wants to destroy something. The fact that they don't even have the decency to tell him and Lamar about it once they get back to Seattle, that it has to happen here in Florida of all the fucking places makes him even more furious. The look on Lamar's face, it's something that won't leave his mind for a while.
"Come on."
Roger is in front of him, cup of coffee in his hand, pulling him to his feet and to the parking lot. Mike doesn’t say anything, doesn't ask how Roger got the keys to one of the cars, how he knows about the transfer even though no one else is supposed to, and just climbs into the seat. He takes a sip of the coffee and almost spits it out in surprise. There's only vanilla, Splenda, and half and half in it; it's what he likes but it tastes foreign.
They drive for thirty minutes; Mike doesn't ask where they're going. A lone saxophone is wailing on the radio and Mike wears a sardonic grin on his face at the fact that Roger can find an NPR station three time zones away from home. Home. It's not going to be home anymore.
Roger pulls into a large parking lot and Mike sees fake pirate ships, some Jolly Rogers, and a sign about the alligators being real. Alligators give him the creeps. Maybe it's the way they don't move, eyes open but unseeing, teeth just waiting to destroy and kill, but they freak him out. Then he sees some kids with putters and brightly colored balls whizzing across fake grass and realizes they're at a mini golf course.
"Really?"
"It's Florida- they have height requirement for the adult sized versions." Roger says cheekily and dodges as Mike takes a swipe at him.
Mike takes a blue ball and for laughs, Roger selects a hot pink one. The jaded teenage girl running the front booth just stares at them, mascara and eyeliner smudged under and around her eyes. Roger throws her his most disarming grin, asking where the children putters are for Mike. She blinks, tells them it's cute that they're on a date, before ignoring them to text someone on her phone. Mike is sputtering and protesting the idea that Roger has taken him out on a date, but she's not listening and Roger's pushing him out to the first hole.
"You're a dick," Mike tells him, rolling Roger's ball to a nearly impossible shot when he's not looking, smirking when Roger gets a 4 on a par 2 hole.
Half way through they're tied and decide to take a break. They split a bag of Skittles and pretzels from the vending machine. It's not an ideal combination, but nothing in either of their lives ever seems to be. The bench they're sitting on is next to one of the alligator enclosures and Mike swears the vile creatures are sizing him up for dinner. It must suck to be stuck in a cage though; Mike feels a brief sympathy and connection with the creatures that have no say over their living situation.
"I don't fucking speak French," he grumbles under his breath. "And I don't care what anyone says, poutine is disgusting."
"You'll be close to your family and you won't be alone," Roger points out and Mike shrugs; yeah he'll have Tyson and Lamar, but they're not Roger.
He scoots closer to Roger on the bench, his knee resting against Roger's knobby one, forehead on Roger's arm. Roger shifts, throws his arm around Mike and pulls him close.
"This fucking sucks," Mike spits out, not trusting his voice to be anything other than angry.
"Mikey," the roles they've been carrying about with for the past two months have been reversed; Roger is the calm one now, "you can't control the future."
"I don't want to leave you."
Mike's not leaving Seattle, he's leaving Roger and everything he's built for himself since he left college and started out on his own. Except he's never been on his own because Roger's been there every step of the way. Roger has always been strong for him, and now when Roger needs him, Mike won't be there. He'll be in Montreal, time zones and a country away.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," Roger tells him with an easy smile, a smile that inexplicably makes Mike feel better. "We can go to Claire's and get best friend necklaces."
No one can make Mike laugh better than Roger can.
*
When Sigi tells the team that night during dinner, Mike stares at his plate. The room is silent. They've already lost nine players so far- Lamar and Mike make it eleven. An entire team. He tells himself that it's part of the job description, that there's no such thing as home when you're an athlete who can be bought and sold. He's a commodity.
The quiet is suffocating. They're generally a loud bunch, but this hushed up, last minute transfer has stunned them into silence. Lamar doesn't want to deal with it, Mike doesn't blame him, and stands from his chair and leaves the room. No one says anything. There's nothing that can really be said. He wishes Kasey was still there, because the front office, Adrian, would have listened to Kasey and none of it would have happened. As it is, Kasey's not there and soon Mike and Lamar won't be either.
Zach is the next person to stand up and leave, not even bothering to hide the disgust on his face. Next to him, Roger grabs his hand under the table and squeezes it, as if to tell him to stay in his seat put on a brave face. Eventually they start talking again, conversations hushed. After another few minutes, Mike is able to slip away, Roger following behind. They find Lamar and Zach outside, kicking the ball back and forth in the parking lot. Lamar passes to Mike, and the circle expands.
When Kasey retired, Lamar was the only Seattle native left. With Taylor retired and the rest traded off, Roger and Zach are the only NASL era Sounders left, but are both getting on in their years. Mike feels a bit out of place with these three, Seattle's son and her adopted torch bearers, but he knows he was, and still is, just as loved. His name will be on a different shirt, he'll play in a different city, but once you are loved by Seattle you are always one of her children.
The problem with team owners making the calls is they want big names, players that will draw crowds and trophies. This isn't LA and this isn't New York. Seattle doesn't need to draw crowds and they already have trophies. They did it without big names. The Sounders are a team where the shirt wears the player, not the other way around. Mike will always be proud of the years he was lucky enough to wear it.
*
He leaves two days later, packs up his room, his life, and the following week reports to training camp in Montreal. No one else really speaks French either. They're nice, but everyone is still kind of awkward around each other. Most of them weren't playing for Montreal last season, picked up during the drafts or from trade agreements. They've been training together for a month before Mike and Lamar arrive, and they both feel like outsiders. Tyson is there though, in something other than rave green, and as Mike suits up in his new, blue training outfit, he realizes that he's truly gone. He pauses while lacing up his boots; there's a dull ache in his chest.
Practice is different. Commands aren't barked out by Chris or Dave or Ezra; the voices are new and he finds himself straining harder to hear them. His head hurts from the extra mental exertion. There's a smile on his face, but it's as fake as fuck because he's not happy to be there. He has a new found understanding of smiles held up by strings.
After lunch, they head back to the locker room to grab their boots. Tyson is in and out before Mike gets there and throws Mike an amused look and doesn't bother to hide a snigger. He hears laughs and when he gets to his locker, has the urge to slam his head against the metal.
There's a disgustingly pink, sparkly vase containing a dozen roses. The roses have glitter on them. Mike wants to throw the entire lot in the garbage. There's a generic card with 'good luck' scribbled on it, but no name. Mike finds it somewhat alarming that he can't narrow down a small list of people he knows who would do this; he makes a mental note to pick better friends.
He doesn't end up throwing them away. When Mike picks the vase up to move it, he sees a metal chain. Removing it from around the roses, he sees it's a necklace with a puzzle piece pendant. It says 'st ends'. Somewhere in Seattle, he knows Roger is wearing the piece that says 'be fri'.
There aren't strings strong enough to hold up the grin on his face as he laughs and puts the roses on his shelf for safe keeping.
*
It becomes a tradition between the two of them. Mike will return to his apartment after practice and find some random gift from Roger and likewise sends one in return. Mike's sent Roger some candy, an obnoxious scarf that is so ugly that he knows Roger will love it, a cat toy for Taylor's cat, and a few other odds and ends. He's received a copy of The Hobbit, a French phrasebook, and a finger painting that Roger insists is the sunset but to Mike looks like a rainbow vomited.
Most of the time they send each other items that have no real meaning, things that are meant as jokes. Sometimes though, sometimes things have deeper meaning.
There's a bonsai one day when he gets home, some sort of coniferous tree with a few green and blue glass pebbles meticulously arranged in the soil. The pot is gray. The meaning doesn't go unnoticed by him. Mike makes sure to place it where it will receive the correct amount of sunlight. Its needles are kind of scraggly looking and he decides to name it Roger. Then he decides that naming trees is stupid and judges himself for it. It doesn't stop him from referring to it as Roger though.
Gray for the mountains, blue for the sound, green for the trees. Sounders colors. Seattle's colors. A piece of home to keep with him.
*
There's a week long break from training coming up and Mike's not really sure what to do. His parents visited him a few weeks back, and he doesn't have a real reason to go to Boston. Part of him wants to disappear down to Mexico for a few days and go deep water fishing, but he doesn't want to go alone. A solution always seems to present itself though. Taylor invites, pleads, Mike to come back to Seattle. Mike can never say no when he knows Roger needs him.
Taylor picks him up from the airport on a rainy Thursday. People still shake his hand, tell him that they want him to come back, and Mike is floored by how much Seattle still supports him.
The two of them stop off for a drink and lunch first to catch up before Mike is inevitably caught in the ocean that is Roger. Taylor's settled in well at his new job, he's still seeing the same girl, and everything is going fine for him. It's the same with Mike. Montreal is not home, but it's a good place for now. He likes his teammates and the team is doing better than expected. It's not Seattle though; it's not playing on the C-Link. It will do for now.
"I think he thinks no one sees how upset he still is. It's not as bad as it was, but he's still not himself." Taylor stirs the ice in his glass with his straw. "He's always been good at hiding things but now." He sighs. "I hope that you being here will help." He gives Mike a small but hopeful smile that Mike can only mirror back.
Before they go into the house, Mike sticks a plastic, gift bow on his head. Taylor looks at him sideways, but doesn't ask about it. Roger's no where to be seen, but his car's in the driveway and the TV is on in his room. Mike stows his bag in the guest room- he has to remind himself it's the guest room now, no longer his room- before going to stand in front of Roger's door.
"You got a package," he says as he swings the door open. "It was too big to ship through the normal mail though."
Roger's sitting in front of his computer. When he hears Mike's voice, his shoulders tense as he stops typing. He turns around, stares at Mike for a few seconds as if he can't believe he's standing there, before a grin overtakes his face. Roger crosses the room in a few steps and all but crushes Mike in a hug.
For the first time in two months, Mike feels like he's home.
*
"Her name is Ebba," Roger tells him as they walk around Green Lake. He pulls out his phone and shows Mike a picture of a baby that has the same vaguely dreamy look to it that Erik always had. "Ebba Mikaela. He told me not to tell anyone but you though."
Mike laughs. "I don't think Mikaela is a traditional Swedish name."
"Someone told him Mikael was a good name for a boy, but he had to adapt it when she was born." Roger winks at him. "You know how those Swedes are."
"Yeah," Mike mumbles, putting his hands in his pocket.
They walk for a bit, the only noise is the rain crashing against the surface of the lake- an untimed beat for a song no one can hear. It isn't until they're in a roofed off area, sitting on a bench that looks over the lake that Roger opens up.
"She's so beautiful." Roger is staring up at the few blue patches of sky off in the distance. "It's so selfish of me, but I still want him to come back. Then I look at her, I see him in her and know that she needs him more than I ever could." He lets out a breath of air that is half huff, half laugh. "Yeah, sure maybe someday in the future we could figure it out, but I'm not going to wait." Roger looks at Mike, and Mike sees a stringless smile. "I love him, but I'm letting him go. I'm not going to do this anymore."
Mike doesn't know what to say. He's never been good about opening up or this heart to heart stuff. Roger's smile is infectious though, and he finds himself grinning back. It's rare that Mike doesn't have something to say, but he's happy, so fucking happy, for Roger right now.
"I was afraid I wouldn't see you again you know," Roger tells him as they walk back toward where they parked. "You know, that you'd fuck off to the Impact and never think of us again." He fakes a sniffle. "Little Mikey Fucito, off to conquer the world with his fancy footwork and Ivy League education."
"Well, you kind of are my best friend," Mike snorts, pushing Roger into a light post, drawing a laugh from him. "Don't tell anyone though; I have an image to maintain."
"You came back." Roger is all but skipping and Mike rolls his eyes.
"I did." He tells himself more than Roger.
*
Mike doesn't know why he thought this was a good idea. Despite the hat and SPF 60 sunscreen, he's pretty sure he's already sunburned. The waves and rocking of the ocean are turning his stomach- he's already vomited up his breakfast and the Gatorade he brought with him. He didn't know puke could be those colors.
"Isn't this amazing?" Roger has a wild grin on his face.
The wind is blowing Roger's hair everywhere, and with the ocean surrounding them, he looks like a pirate. A hairy, plaid-wearing pirate. Mike turns around and throws up again. At least one of them is having fun. And to think this was Mike's idea.
It's August and Mike's convinced Roger to spend four days with him in Cozumel for break. Except it hasn't really been a relaxing break because he's been in hot, cramped buses, running around Mayan temples after Roger, and throwing up over the side of fishing boats. He's pretty sure a shark was considering eating him, but then Roger showed up and the shark thought twice. It wouldn't want to choke to death on a hairball after all. It's not until later that night, when they're watching the sunset on the beach with a few beers that Mike feels any semblance of relaxation. He scrunches his toes up on the sand, feeling the grains move against his feet- he's not setting foot on a boat again anytime in the foreseeable future. Or ever.
"This was a good idea." Roger is all smiles, his head nodding in time with the band playing somewhere down the beach. "You always have the best ideas. I missed this." He takes a swig out of his bottle and sets it down in the sand next to him. "So where are we going over winter break?"
"Safari?" Mike throws out with a shrug. "I've always had this subconscious urge to visit Tanzania."
Roger's eyes light up and Mike imagines him in khakis with one of those pith safari helmets on. Mike doesn't know if he should be alarmed that it's not that hard to picture Roger in one of those outfits. Mike knows Roger will be tromping through fields, excited about everything, pretend to be David Attenborough, probably make friends with a water buffalo, and will have the time of his life. Mike will get indigestion and be eaten alive by mosquitoes. It will be worth it though. Any time with his best friend is worth it. The world could come down around them, but Mike knows as long as Roger's by his side he'll be okay.