#i liked the concept of whiskey realizing his feelings after tango is forcibly unable to talk

[backwardscapsmh]

as always, i was in my whiskeytango feels and decided to write something! they live in my mind rent free so enjoy! as always, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated! 🥰

oh, just to be near you // don't you know how good that feels? // these are all the things i should've said // did i miss my chance? is it too late to say?

- million words by the vamps

It’s quiet when Whiskey walks into the Haus after his last class of the day. And anyone who is familiar with the Samwell men’s hockey team knows that this is cause for concern. It may be quieter now that Ransom and Holster are gone, but it’s almost never this quiet. It’s eerie, and Whiskey doesn’t like it.

Last year, Bitty would be stress-baking in the kitchen, either muttering French flash cards or singing Beyoncé songs. Ollie and Wicks would be playing Super Smash Bros on the couch in the den, chirping and jostling each other. (Whiskey still thinks they’re together but no one besides Ford believed him when he brought it up). Dex usually stomped around, occasionally tinkering with machines around the Haus and affectionately arguing with Nursey. Chowder will aggressively watch Sharks games, sometimes angrily yelling at Devyn Dubnyk for his seeming inability to guard a goal.

But Bitty’s not here anymore, and neither are Ollie and Wicks. As far as Whiskey can tell, Dex and Nursey aren’t here at the moment (probably on a date that they don’t want the team to know that they’re on). Chowder’s absent as well, most likely in his senior programming class he despises.

The one voice he should hear but doesn’t is Tango’s. Tango’s almost always talking. He’ll ask about Dex’s tinkering and his occasional pie baking. He’ll talk to Chowder about the Sharks and how they’re doing during the season, occasionally asking about players. He’ll play video games with Hops. He’ll ask Bully about his motorcycle and his drawings. He’ll talk to anyone about anything, asking questions, pushing for explanations, and smiling when they get excited about the topic.

It’s strange to not hear him talk, not hear the cadence of Tango’s New Jersey tenor. The Haus doesn’t seem like the Haus without it. He should be here, he doesn’t have class and after Ollie and Wicks gave him their dibs (he’s one of the only ones able to tell them apart), he should be here. Worried, he shoots a quick text to Ford.

Me: Hey, where’s Tango? He’s not here.

Ford: he should be there resting

Ford: lost his voice, so he can’t talk

Ford: dex said that he’s making some soup when he gets home but maybe check in :)

Me: Okay, thanks.

Ford: no problem! see u soon

Well, that answers his question.

Not wanting to disturb Tango’s nap, he settles on the green couch that Bitty got cleaned as a graduation present from his parents. It’s not so disgusting now and Whiskey appreciates that he can type out his essay without worrying if that sticky stain on the cushion is just soda or some other concerning substance. It finally looks like you won’t get an STD after sitting on it for more than five minutes.

But for the newly clean environment, Whiskey can’t seem to get comfortable. He keeps feeling like something’s not right. There’s this feeling that won’t leave him alone: something, or someone, is missing.

And that’s when he realizes, he misses Tango. There’s no warm presence next to him. There’s no 6 feet of New Jersey native pressed up against the back of the couch, the arm of the chair, or the front of the couch, leaning against Whiskey’s knees. It’s quiet, and cold. It’s awful. He didn’t realize Tango took up this much space in his life.

Fuck.

In an attempt to distract himself, he wanders into the kitchen. He’s trying to ignore the newly realized feelings about his best friend, but in his mindless state, he ends up making a warm mug of lemon ginger tea. Even when he’s trying to not focus on Tango, he subconsciously focuses on him. There’s a metaphor in there, but Nursey is the English major, not him.

Carefully picking up the mug that someone ended up making once upon a time in a ceramics class for a required art credit, he starts the trek up the creaking stairs to the attic. With everyone out, or otherwise busy, it’s quiet. All Whiskey can hear is the creak of the stairs, his own breath, and an occasional mechanical whirring sound.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, the door is closed, which usually means “disturb with caution” so Whiskey tentatively knocks. He ends up quietly calling “Tango?” before remembering that Tango’s lost his voice and should be resting. So he slowly cracks the door, walking into Tango’s room.

“I brought you some tea,” he says, bringing it over to where Tango’s sitting on his bed.

To be completely honest, he looks terrible. He’s still wearing pajamas and is wrapped in about three different blankets, surrounded by a mountain of tissues. He looks paler than usual, his hair sticking up in different directions, no doubt from fitful sleep. His eyes are sad and glassy and his nose is red. He doesn’t look like Tango. He looks like a shell of himself.

“I thought it might help,” he continues, handing the mug over. Tango just nods his thanks.

It’s weird, not having Tango smile brightly at him and prattle on about whatever’s around them. He just looks sad, and Whiskey curses every time freshman year he wished Tango would just shut up. His freshman year self got his wish and it’s awful. He hates it.

And because Tango can’t talk, there’s just silence between them now. Whiskey’s not good with words. He doesn’t know how to make them come out right some of the time. So he just lets them swirl around inside him until they become too much to bear and they force their way out of his mouth.

But Tango isn’t like that. He’s loud, he’s bubbly, and he lets every word in his head come out when it wants. He talks about what he wants to talk about. He’s generous with his words, freely talking to anyone about anything. It’s breathtaking to be around him. He fills the world with ideas and thoughts, and Whiskey loves it.

Being around Tango feels like warmth and love. It feels like sitting on the bus together: Tango with his friendship bracelets and Whiskey with his homework that he gives up on doing when Tango ropes him into watching a movie with him. It feels like his Abuela’s cooking. It feels like sitting in the sun in the Quad, surrounded by friends. It feels like...Tango.

But it doesn’t feel like that right now. Tango’s quiet. So Whiskey takes a deep breath and starts talking.

He talks about his day. He talks about his confusion when he walked into the Haus and it was quiet and how he was scared someone died (Tango tries to laugh a little at that but ends up in a coughing fit). He talks about Arizona. He talks about the latest Capitals and Rangers game. He talks about classes. He talks about whatever he can think of because if he can make Tango feel as warm as he makes Whiskey feel, he’d say about a million more words.

But a million words still wouldn’t be enough to explain how much he loves him.