Work Text:
Mike had been dating Tom for a few months now, and the man told him multiple times that he doesn't want pet names. At first, Mike had been careful around him (yet couldn't help but call him meine blume when he's around with friends and Tommy isn't around to hear him call his flower). But him, out of all people? He really couldn't help it. He doesn’t mean to start doing it.
It just… sort of happens.
They’re in a Discord call long past when either of them should be awake. Their timezones make it different. Mike is editing his video while Tommy is halfway through a rant about something (definitely about his podcast), probably unjust, probably loud, and definitely exaggerated, when his mic cuts out. Mike immediately perches, bringing his attention back to his main screen when he realizes.
“Hello? Hello?” Tommy’s voice glitches back in, Mike totally did not flinch, absolutely not. “Mike, can you hear me? This stupid—”
“I can hear you, liebling.”
Silence. A dangerous kind. The one where you can hear a pin drop or how fast your own heartbeat is. Mike shouldn't be this nervous, but his heart was beating fast. Tommy has been weirdly quiet. Have I said something wrong?
“…What did you just call me?” Tommy asks, suspicious.
Mike freezes. He hadn’t even realized he said it out loud, he immediately cursed to himself, thankful that the mic didn't catch him cursing out God (ot whoever is listening to him from above) for giving him this curse of whatever. “Nothing,” he lies, far too quickly. He feels bad for lying but he's in a risky situation.
“You said something. Sounded like— like a Pokémon or some shit.” Mike exhales through his nose, a laugh escaping his mouth and smiling despite himself. Is he really gonna sacrifice himself? Yes. Does he feel guilty? Yes. Will he do it again next time? Oh yeah, absolutely. With no regrets because it's Tom Simons of all people. “It means ‘darling’... in German.” Tommy makes a noise like he’s been personally offended by the concept of affection.
“Well don’t,” he says. “Don’t call me that. That’s weird.”
“Alright,” Mike replies easily.
And he lasts about two days before saying it again.
Tommy is sick.
Not dramatically sick, no tragic Victorian fainting, but sick enough to be unbearably whiny. Mike should be used to it by now, but unfortunately Micheal Wichtiger’s german genes couldn't handle this unfortunate British dude being this whiny. The blonde is already wrapped in three blankets, yet still complaining about the room temperature, the tea, the world, and existence (no specifics, just existence).
“You made the tea wrong,” Tom grumbles.
“Ich habe mich genau an ihre anweisungen gehalten.”
“You did it wrong emotionally.”
Mike laughs, softer than usual as he rolls his eyes. “Drink it, schatz. It will help.”
Tommy pauses mid-sip, almost choking before realizing he's in a fatal position. “You’ve done it again.” He says as he finally drops the tea cup on the coffee table with this pout on his face. And Mike's heart definitely did not melt at the sight of it. Nope, absolutely not. He just wished he could trap this boy in his arms, without giving a single shit if he gets sick or not. Mike raises his eyebrow, “Done what?”
“That thing. The weird German thing.”
Mike pretends to think. “Ah. It means ‘treasure.’” Tommy snorts, “I am not your treasure.”
“You are very demanding for someone who cannot even stand up right now.”
“Shut up,” Tommy mutters, but he drinks the tea anyway. He gently puts it down on the coffee table before Mike grabs it and puts it into the sink. Later, when he’s half-asleep, he mumbles, “Don’t make it too sweet next time.”
Mike hears the unspoken thank you.
They meet in person (and not the first time, certainly not the last time) at a convention. It’s chaos. Crowds, cameras, noise—but somehow, when Mike finally spots Tommy, everything narrows. Tommy looks exactly the same yet completely different at the same time.
“Oi!” Tommy waves him over. “You’re taller than me. That’s annoying.”
“And you are louder,” Mike replies.
Tommy grins.
There’s a moment, brief and almost fragile, where neither of them knew what to do in that moment. Maybe a handshake could work? A hug? Or a friendly-fire insult? Tommy solves it by punching Mike lightly in the arm, “Good to see you, mate.” Mike shakes his head, smiling. “Come here.” He pulls him into a hug anyway. Tommy stiffens for half a second, then melts into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Later when Tom decides to run around, Mike immediately grabs his wrist in a gentle way, but still stern enough for Tommy to actually stop. “Careful,” Mike murmurs. “You will get lost in the crowd, engel.” Tommy pulls back. “Right. That’s definitely new.”
“It means ‘angel.’”
Tommy squints at him. “You’re getting worse.”
Mike laughs, curses him and wraps his arm around Tommy's shoulder as they walk around the convention. And Tommy? He doesn’t step away.
It’s raining where Mike is while it's bright and the sun is blinding where Tommy is. They’re on video call, Tommy squinting into the light, Mike wrapped in a hoodie. “Look at this,” Tommy says, flipping the camera to show the sky. “Perfect weather. You’re missing out.”
Mike rolls his eyes, “I am not jealous.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Tommy flips the camera back, grinning. “Say it. Say you wish you were here.” Mike studies him for a moment. The messy hair where he could immediately tell that the blonde dude has just woken up, the sunlight catching in his blue eyes, making them look like the ocean, and the way he looks like he belongs exactly where he is.
“You look like sonnenschein,” he smiles.
Tommy blinks. “That one sounds long. I don’t trust it.”
“It means ‘sunshine.’”
Tommy huffs a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it incorrect?”
Tommy hesitates. “No,” he admits.
The grin that follows is softer than usual. Less sharp. And then came a laugh which made Mike’s shoulders drop in relief. “Still weird, though.”
“Of course.”
It slips out at the worst possible time. They’re arguing. Not seriously, not dangerously, but enough that voices are raised and words come faster than thoughts.
“You never listen!” Tommy snaps, his pout dropping almost immediately when Mike accidentally yelled at him without noticing. “I am listening, you are just—”
“No, you’re not, you’re just waiting to be right—”
Mike immediately cuts him off, “Mein herz, I am trying—” The words hang there. Too heavy. Too real. And Tommy goes quiet. The old grandfather clock in the corner of the living room suddenly starts ticking loudly between the silence and how fast Mike's heartbeat was.
“What does that one mean?” he asks, much more carefully.
Mike hesitates. He could lie. He should lie, there are two options right now. But he doesn’t. His shoulders drop, hoping that his heart would calm down if he tells the truth.
“It means… ‘my heart.’”
Silence stretches. Tommy exhales slowly. “That’s—”
“Too much,” Mike finishes. “Yes. I know.”
Another pause.
“No,” Tommy says finally. “Just… unexpected.” The argument doesn’t really continue after that. And Mike's heart stops beating, going back to its original pace. Some things shift, quietly, without either of them naming it. Mike goes outside their apartment, only to come back with a bouquet in his hand and apologizing to him. Tom forgives him and they sleep in the same bed that night.
When Mike woke up first, Tommy was still asleep in his arms.
It takes Tommy a while.
Maybe it took weeks, maybe months, of pretending that he doesn’t think about it. Of ignoring the way those words settle somewhere under Tommy’s skin. He'd been learning German for a while now, only because he wanted to impress Mike and Hugo when he finally came back to Germany. Mike knew this, but not the whole truth when he finally started learning about the German endearments.
Then one day, casually they’re back on a call, talking about nothing important. Mike’s explaining something, patient as always when Tommy had called him because he accidentally burnt the food he was cooking (while the fire alarm was setting off in the background).
Tommy then immediately interrupts when the fire alarm finally stops, “Alright, alright, I get it,” he says. Then came the unexpected,
“Thanks, süßer.”
And Mike goes completely still. The pronunciation was accurate. It wasn't butchered. Just like how he'd expected from him. “Das hast du gesagt,” he manages, forgetting how to breathe.
“Yeah, well, but your language was aggressive so,” Tommy shoots back, shrugging while humbling himself like he always does. “Too many consonants.” A beat.
Then, softer, “Did it count?” Mike smiles, something warm and unmistakable in it. He gently laughed, “It counted.”
Tommy huffs. “Good. Don’t get used to it.”
“I already am.”
“Shut up.” But he’s smiling too.