me when… me when I think about grian telling mumbo about grumbot prime and the rift and what happened to the grumbot over in empires…
me when I think about mumbo being the first person to hear grian admit how much it stung to see that grumbot be destroyed. how much it killed him that he wasn’t able to protect him.
me when I think about mumbo listening very patiently as grian talks him through it all and let’s himself actually process the grief. I think mumbo holds him close and comforts him. he isn’t angry, not at grian. never at grian. he’s angry at the other server for destroying a version of his son (though he can understand why they felt the need to — with a robot threatening to purge your world…)
but mainly he’s angry at himself, for not being there when grian needed him. and mumbo promises to make it up to him.
me when
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hiii can i please ask for “sparks when skin brushes skin” for milan??? only if you’re still doing the prompt list shsjsjs i realized i haven’t given my bestie enough love 😪 thank you <33
There are many ways to describe an athlete. A human being, yes. Definitely. But there are difficulties that come with understanding someone who dedicates every waking moment of themselves to sport. Who dedicates their life to it. The ones who are competitive, the ones who dream of winning and feel the tingle in their bones after doing so.
But also feel the deep dread and shame when inevitable loss occurs.
That. That is not what many would understand.
Milan does. They experience it the same way you have countless times.
They have a court. You have a pitch. They can have up to hours. You have ninety minutes.
You came out with a win today. Milan suffered a loss.
Milan’s personality is easy to decipher. It’s carefree, happy-go-lucky, ‘you only live once’, ‘dance in the rain’ and ‘live in the moment’.
This is a moment they do not want to live in. Being stuck in their hotel room. A broken racket on the floor, a broken heart too.
It’s only the two of you in there, and neither of you have uttered a word. They’re sitting with their back against the wall whilst Milan let’s you take the sofa for yourself.
“Milan…” What could you possible say? ‘You played well?’ That would be a lie, and Milan would suss that out in an instant — not because they’d hear the sound of your voice but because they know their match was utter shit.
They scoff. “You don’t have to console me.” They lift their eyes up to you. “You can go, if you want.”
You do the exact opposite. You move from the sofa and take a seat next to them on the floor. You mirror them: your back against the wall, your legs outstretched.
“It just wasn’t your day,” you murmur.
“The match was done in less than an hour,” Milan counters.
“And in the next one you’ll last longer and have a smile on your face at the end.” Silence washes over you again. “I’ll even buy you a new racket.”
Their lips curl up at that. Slightly. So slightly. “That was my favourite one too.” Milan glances towards it before looking at you. “What are you doing here anyway? Not that I’m not grateful, but you have a flight in the morning and it’s already late.”
You shake your head. “A rare occasion where the two of us are playing in the same city abroad.”
“Exactly. Which is why you should be out celebrating your own win.”
Your eyes stay locked on their dark brown ones. “The two of us are getting to the pinnacle of our sports. We’re doing that together, and that means being here for you the same way you have for me.”
You know for certain that if the roles were reversed that Milan would be comforting you. With your favourite takeaway and a dance playlist to lift your spirits.
Right now, you’re just returning the favour.
You both stare at each other, and Milan makes the tiniest movement that has their hand brushing against yours.
You’re not sure if it’s the intimate and emotional situation you’re in, or something else, but the sudden feeling of electricity erupts against your skin. Not in a way that’s overbearing, but one that is delicate and tender. One that shouldn’t feel so exhilarating next to someone who’s your best friend.
You begin to wonder whether Milan has felt it too, or whether losing a tennis match had numbed them to such pleasurable feeling.
They open their mouth to speak, but no words come. But you see the look in their eyes.
Milan felt it.
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