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Tango, first and foremost, is a planner. Before starting any new project, he always makes sure to have the details sorted out. He likes having a template that he can adhere to and build off of. He likes knowing what he’s getting into. Sure, sometimes that means that the planning phases of his projects stretch over weeks or even months before the first blocks are placed, but it’s well worth the time and effort it takes. There’s nothing Tango hates more than feeling unprepared.
Which is— well, exactly how he’s feeling now, to put it lightly.
The moment Tango steps through the portal and onto the crowded walkways of the noisy, colorful world that is home to MCC, he feels on edge.
Joining the bustling crowd heading towards the main building, he finds himself questioning for what must be the millionth time this week why he’d allowed himself to be talked into this. He could be on Hermitcraft right now, working on the factory, or restocking Two Tek Delay, or finally installing Bdubs’ mailbox, or— honestly, he’d even prefer manually mining cobblestone over this. If he’d just stood his ground, not acquiesced to the wheedling of Impulse, Skizz, and even Etho… but then his friends would have been disappointed, and he honestly hadn’t been able to find it in himself to let them down.
Not that he wasn’t going to let them down anyway— the minuscule amount of training they’d managed to squeeze in earlier in the week had clearly shown him to be the team’s weakest link.
Tango is wrenched from his thoughts by a passerby narrowly avoiding bumping into him. He realizes that he’s almost reached the entrance to the main building. It’s a tall, garishly decorated concrete building, painted in a variety of vibrant colors. By the time he manages to make his way inside, he realizes that the interior of the building is almost as crowded as outside had been.
He’s pretty confidant this is where Impulse had told them to meet, but he has no idea how he’s going to spot any of his friends in the sea of people milling around the large room.
Walking further into the central section of the building, Tango scans the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Impulse’s bright yellow Mohawk or Etho’s shock of white hair.
Unable to see any sign of his friends in the throng of people, Tango feels frustration start to bubble up. Couldn’t Impulse have picked a better spot for them to meet? Somewhere that wasn’t absolutely swarmed with people and obnoxiously loud?
Trying to tamp down his rising irritation, Tango forces himself to take a deep breath and reassess. He has his comm. He can just message Impulse and confirm that this is where he’d wanted them to meet. Maybe he’s just the first of his team to arrive. They’ll all find each other without too much difficulty. It’ll be fine.
Tango is already fumbling for his comm when it occurs to him that he should probably move out of the way of everyone else trying to navigate through the crowded space before he messages Impulse.
He manages to squeeze past a group of people and make his way over to stand near a wall, out of the way of foot traffic.
Tango quickly types out a message to Impulse and sends it. Except— it doesn’t actually send. That dreaded little exclamation mark pops up beside the message, and Tango realizes with a sinking feeling that his comm does not have service.
He tries restarting it and attempts, without success, to resend the message. He tries a third time, not really because he thinks it will work but because he doesn’t know what else to do at this point. It bounces back again, the little exclamation mark taunting him.
Tango feels prickly heat begin to spread down the back of his neck. He forces his gaze away from his comm and back towards the crowd, trying futilely to catch a glimpse of one of his teammates. He takes several measured breaths, willing himself to calm down. He knows his frustration is mostly irrational, that it’s probably just because he’s stressed and has been since he stepped through the portal… or maybe since he’d agreed to participate in MCC to begin with, if he’s being honest.
It’s fine, he tells himself. This is not a big deal. It’s going to be fine. There’s plenty of time left before the competition starts. They’ll find each other. It’s fine.
Still, Tango can’t quite silence the little voice in his head that suggests that maybe he’d misremembered the meeting spot that Impulse had told them. Maybe he’s in the wrong place, and they’re all waiting for him to show up, but since he can’t message them and has no idea where they could be in the sprawling mess of buildings and mini-games, he’s not going to be able to find them, and he’s going to miss the start of the competition, and Impulse and Skizz and Etho are all going to think he’s an idiot, and he’ll have somehow managed to screw it all up for them before the tournament’s even started, and—
The air is suddenly thick and humid around him, and Tango starts to feel hot all over.
He should’ve taken more time to prepare, actually memorized the layout of the place, double-checked the rendezvous spot with Impulse, made sure he knew which game they were starting off with, and how to get there, and— gods, he’s really, really not prepared for this. Even if he succeeds in meeting up with his teammates, will he be able to remember the rules to all the different games? It all seems to bleed together in his mind and he can’t identify what goes with what. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be out of whatever game they start with in the first two seconds, just like during yesterday’s Rocket Spleef practice— the other players will probably think he hasn’t even made an effort to learn the games— Impulse, Skizz and Etho will probably be embarrassed, even though they’ll pretend not to be for Tango’s sake, reassuring him that nobody actually expects their team to be good— but there’s a big difference between ‘not good’ and ‘ridiculously, humiliatingly, idiotically bad,’ and Tango knows it.
The pit of nervousness that’s been sitting in Tango’s stomach for the last week starts to crystallize into something more like nausea.
His eyes dart towards the building’s entrance, a part of him desperately wanting to turn around and go back out the door, away from the crowds and the noise and the expectations he’s not going to be able to meet— to get back to the portal, and just… leave.
Rationally, he knows that’s not an option, that he’s too far into this to flake out now, but he can’t help but wish that he was out of this situation, back on Hermitcraft and back in his comfort zone.
Tango closes his eyes and tries to block out everything— the noise, the people, the suffocating thickness of the air. He knows that he needs to calm down, even as he feels his inner flame flaring with anxiety and his hair starting to spark.
He’s never been great at concealing his emotions; it’s pretty hard to appear impassive when your hair literally catches on fire if you get too worked up.
It occurs to Tango that the only thing more humiliating than being absolutely, utterly terrible at all of the games would be losing his cool before the event has even started, in a public space, surrounded by so, so many people.
Among all of the ways Tango had worried about embarrassing himself during MCC, this specific scenario had never occurred to him. But hey, he’s nothing if not inventive.
He knows he needs to calm down. It’s all he can think about… but there’s a small part of him that whispers that he’s already too far gone— a part of him that knows that when it gets this bad, there’s no coming back from it. There’s just the horrifying inevitability of the impending, very public breakdown looming close on the horizon, and Tango can’t breathe for the weight of it.
He swallows hard against a sudden surge of nausea. Ohh. He’s really starting to feel sick now. He notices distantly that his hands are shaking.
Embarrassment washes over him, hot and prickly. Why is he letting this freak him out so much? Why can’t he be calm and collected like Impulse and Etho, or lighthearted and positive like Skizz? Instead, he’s standing with his back pressed against the wall in an overcrowded room, unable to find his teammates, struggling to keep himself from completely losing it.
There’s so many people around, and they can see him, can probably see his shaking and the sparks flying off him if they glance his way, can see how pathetic he looks right now, and that makes it all the worse, makes it even more impossible for Tango to drag himself back from the brink of… whatever this is.
It’s when he starts feeling lightheaded that Tango realizes he really needs to get out of this room, out of the crowd, outside where he can breathe before the situation spirals completely out of control, but by the time he’s come to this realization his vision is starting to tunnel and he feels rooted to the spot, his body locked in place. He can’t move.
His pulse is rushing in his ears and it’s too fast and he can’t catch his breath. The sounds around him muffle and distort like he’s underwater. He’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up.
Tango honestly can’t think of anything more humiliating than puking all over his own shoes in front of a bunch of strangers because he couldn’t handle the pressure of competing in a few mini-games, but apparently that’s what’s going to happen to him because he’s still frozen in place and he can taste that familiar bitterness seeping over his tongue now and he knows it’s only a matter of time before—
“Tango! Hey buddy! I was just looking for y—” Skizz’s blurry face suddenly appears in his peripheral vision, his usually cheerful expression quickly melting into one of concern.
“Woah, Top, are you okay? You look—”
“Skizz,” Tango chokes, interrupting him. He tries to force his eyes to focus on his friend. “I—” He has to stop to swallow thickly against the sour saliva pooling in his mouth. “Can you—” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say and can’t seem to get enough breath to speak even if he did. It’s hard to think. He wonders if he’s going to pass out.
Miraculously, Skizz seems to understand what Tango had been trying to say, or else is just reacting to the fact that he probably looks distinctly not okay right now. Either way, Skizz is suddenly grabbing Tango by the wrist and pulling him away from his spot by the wall and through the crowd, and all Tango can do is follow, the room spinning sickeningly around him as he tries his best not to fall over.
Skizz’ search for his teammates ends abruptly when he catches sight of a very recognizable head of bright blonde hair across the room. Skizz makes his way over, “excuse me-ing” his way through the crowd with as much courtesy as he can, relieved to see that he’s not the first of his group to arrive. He’s partway through uttering a greeting when he suddenly stops short.
As soon as Skizz gets a good look at Tango’s face, he knows something is wrong.
Within the span of a few seconds, he notices several things. His friend’s usually sunny complexion is alarmingly pale, copper-colored freckles standing out against the milky hue of his skin. He’s also sweating. Skizz isn’t sure he’s ever seen Tango sweat before, but there’s definitely perspiration beading along his hairline right now, and his hair is sparking.
The most concerning thing of all is that when Tango meets his gaze, there is unmistakable panic in his red eyes.
Feeling mildly panicked himself, Skizz starts to ask what’s wrong, but is quickly interrupted.
“Skizz,” his friend gasps, breathless.
“I—” He pauses and swallows heavily. “Can you—” Tango breaks off, red eyes darting away from Skizz towards the exit, frantic and unfocused.
Mind racing and stomach twisting with worry, Skizz understands the unspoken plea.
Grabbing his friend by the wrist, Skizz starts pulling him towards the door, pushing past people much less courteously than he’d done previously, the urgency of the situation (though he doesn’t understand exactly what kind of situation it is) not lost on him.
They make it through the entranceway and back onto the sun-drenched walkway where there are still crowds of people milling around.
“Almost there, buddy. C‘mon, this way. Okay, there we go,” Skizz encourages quietly as he leads Tango around the side of the building. It’s a decision based more on instinct than any actual knowledge of the map, but Skizz is relieved to see that this area is much less populated and out of view of most of the foot traffic.
As soon as they’ve left the path and crossed onto the grass, Tango pulls his wrist from Skizz’ hold with sudden, surprising force and stumbles a few feet away, bracing a shaking hand against the concrete wall.
Skizz hovers nervously, unsure whether to give his friend privacy or try to help.
He watches Tango breathe unsteadily for several seconds, eyes squeezed shut, and then lurch forward to dry-heave. Skizz’ stomach rolls sympathetically and he decides privacy is probably the best option, at least for the moment.
Turning away, Skizz makes a point of placing himself between Tango and the main path, blocking any potential passerby’s view of his friend. He flares his wings out a little bit.
A sense of relief washes over him when he finally hears Tango’s breathing start to even out. When he hears the rustling of movement behind him, he turns around.
Tango is sitting in the grass with his knees drawn up and his hands clutched in his hair.
Skizz makes his way over and sits down a few feet away, not wanting to crowd him. He can tell from the rise and fall of his friend’s shoulders that he’s breathing significantly more steadily than before. He can also see that he’s still shaking slightly. Tango’s face is partially obscured by his hands, but from what Skizz can see he’s still worryingly pale. His hair isn’t sparking anymore though, which Skizz considers to be a positive sign.
Skizz stays silent, listening to his friend’s breathing even out, trying to provide a comforting presence without being overwhelming.
Another few minutes pass in silence, and then Tango scrubs a hand across his face and sighs shakily.
“Sorry,” he says faintly. He sounds hoarse and drained. “I don’t know what… I don’t know why I—” He huffs in frustration and runs a still-shaking hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says again, still looking at the ground. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t look over at Skizz.
Concern pools in Skizz’s gut as he regards his friend. He’s pretty sure that he’s pieced the situation together. Guilt quickly starts to creep up.
“Don’t apologize, Top,” he says gently. “There’s nothing to… there’s nothing to apologize for, buddy.” After a beat, he continues. “What’s going on? Is it— are you sick, or…?” He’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that, but it feels like he should ask anyway. Maybe he’s just trying to give Tango an out.
Tango is silent for a second, then he shakes his head. He buries his face in his hands and makes a sound that falls somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Skizz freezes, wondering if he’s just made things worse. When Tango looks back up at Skizz, his eyes are visibly watery. Skizz’ heart aches.
“I’m not… it’s just—” Tango wipes at his eyes roughly and looks down at the grass again. “Ugh. This is— it’s so— stupid,” He makes a noise of frustration. Skizz doesn’t interrupt, just waits patiently, knowing his friend isn’t done talking.
“I’m— there’s nothing for me to be— and I know there’s no reason— I don’t know why I’m— ,” Tango continues incoherently. He exhales harshly, agitation clear in both his expression and the way his hair has started to spark again. “It’s just— I’m just— nervous,” he admits finally, voice rough with embarrassment. “And I— I know that’s stupid and I have no idea why I’m letting it get to me like this, I know it’s not that serious and I’m— I’m making a big deal out of nothing but I just… it all just hit me all at once and I couldn’t… I just… fuck,” his voice cracks. “This is so dumb.”
Skizz feels another painful pang of guilt. He’d known that Tango hadn’t wanted to participate in MCC. He’d known that he was nervous. Tango had outright told him that, and Skizz, along with Impulse and Etho, had still pressured him to join them. He swallows.
“It’s not dumb, Top, seriously. I’m— I’m sorry we pressured you into this. You told us you didn’t want to do it, and we still pushed you to join us. That was— we should’ve listened to you.”
Skizz ruffles his wings and sighs. “It’s not stupid for you to be nervous. This is— it’s a lot. It makes sense that you’re anxious, especially since this wasn’t something you wanted to do in the first place. I know you like to have everything talked through and planned out and I know we didn’t really have time to do that ahead of this, so I get it, buddy, I really do,” he pauses, trying to push past his guilt. He can’t exactly go back and undo his past actions, but maybe he can do something to help his friend now.
“I’m sorry for putting you in this situation, Top. If you want, I can make an excuse for you, say there’s something on Hermitcraft that needed your immediate attention— Impulse and Etho would understand, and nobody else would think anything of it. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It’s not worth you feeling like this, buddy.”
Tango looks up at him, his expression pinched, and then away, and Skizz can see him considering what’s been offered. Tango fidgets with the laces on one of his boots.
“But I shouldn’t feel like this,” he says eventually, irritation adding a hard edge to his voice. “I know that I shouldn’t. I know it’s irrational. It’s not your fault that I’m reacting like this, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m just— this is just— pathetic.”
The last few words are uttered with such vitriol that it takes Skizz a little bit by surprise. Only a little bit, though, because he’s certainly no stranger to Tango’s self-deprecating tendencies. That doesn’t mean he’s going to let it slide, though.
“Tango,” Skizz says with uncharacteristic seriousness, making a point of looking his friend in the eyes. “You’re too hard on yourself, man. Way too hard on yourself. I know I’ve told you that about a million times, but I’m gonna keep saying it ‘til you finally get it through that hard head of yours.” He pauses. “I’m not sure if you’ve realized this, buddy, but we didn’t ask you to do this with us because you’re a master of PVP, or S-tier at parkour, or even because you’re so notoriously cool under pressure,” Skizz shoots a wry grin at his friend. Tango bites his lip, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“Newsflash, buddy,” Skizz continues, “none of us are even remotely good at any of those things! None of us can PVP to save our lives, and all of us manage to be consistently sucky at all forms of parkour, if that wasn’t evident from yesterday’s practice sesh.” He huffs a laugh. “And trust me, Tango, you’re not the only one to ever get nervous before MCC. Impy was a mess before his first one.”
The Netherborn groans. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” he complains, but there’s no real bite behind it.
“No, seriously!” Skizz insists. “I practically had to hold his hand and walk him to the portal to make sure he didn’t turn around and chicken out. You can ask him about it. Or maybe don’t. That would probably get me in trouble.”
Tango snorts at that. Skizz can’t help
smiling too, mostly out of relief that Tango no longer looks so miserable, and also little bit because of the fact that he’s remembered something he can tease Impulse about later.
“But honestly, Top,” Skizz says earnestly. “We asked you to do this with us because we like you! We like doing things with you. Everything’s better when you’re involved. I know that’s like, cheesy or whatever, but it’s true, man!” Skizz pauses. “And if you don’t want to do this, that’s okay. All of us will understand, you know? But just— just know that we didn’t ask you to team with us because we had any expectations of you— we asked you because we love you, and we love doing things with you, and that’s just something you’re gonna have to accept.”
Tango tries to roll his eyes at that, but the effect is slightly ruined when he follows it up with an audible sniffle. Still, Skizz can see that his friend is almost smiling.
“So,” Skizz says, his tone slightly more serious. “Do you want me to message Impy and Etho and tell them something came up? Because I’m happy to, and I know they’ll be fine with it.”
Exhaling slowly, Tango shakes his head. “No,” he says, sounding much more like himself than he had a few minutes ago. “No, I actually think— I think I’ll be fine. I feel a lot better.”
“You sure?” Skizz presses. “I can tell them there was some big redstone emergency back home; required the immediate attention of Hermitcraft’s top redstone engineer and all that…”
Tango raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Good luck keeping Etho from going too, then” he deadpans.
“Oh,” says Skizz. He chuckles. “Okay, fair point, that’s a fair point. Well, maybe not that, then, but I can come up with something good. I’m very creative,” he adds cheerfully.
Tango shakes his head, actually smiling now. “Thanks but no thanks, Skizz. Your creativity will not be required at this time.” Tango runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it back from its mussed state into some semblance of neatness. “I really am feeling better.”
The sincerity with which he says it loosens the knot that’s been tight in Skizz’ chest ever since he’d first caught sight of Tango earlier, looking pale and panicked and decidedly un-Tango.
For a few moments, comfortable silence settles between them. Skizz takes out his comm to check the time, and is pleased to note that there’s still over a half hour before the event is scheduled to start. He goes to message Impulse, just to let him know where he and Tango are, but is interrupted by a very familiar voice.
“Hey! Skizz! Tango!” A slightly breathless-sounding Impulse is hurrying across the grass in their direction. Etho follows a few steps behind him, looking, as usual, much less harried.
“What are you guys doing out here? We’ve been trying to find you! Remember we were supposed to meet up inside the main building? I couldn’t even message either of you because my communicator didn’t have any service!” Impulse explains with a sigh, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. He looks a little perturbed.
Tango is getting to his feet, and Skizz follows suit. Before he can reply to Impulse, though, Skizz interjects. “I’m really sorry Impy. We lost track of time,” he explains. “I know we were supposed to meet up inside, it’s just that— well, I was having a little bit of pre-MCC jitters, thought I might feel better outside where it was less crowded. Good ol’ Tango was helping talk me through it.” Skizz slings an arm around Tango’s shoulder. Tango shoots him an inscrutable look the exact meaning of which Skizz decides he would rather leave a mystery.
Impulse looks surprised and slightly abashed. “Oh,” he says quickly, eyebrows knitted with concern. “Sorry, Skizz, I didn’t know you were— are you feeling okay now?”
“Yes, much better,” Skizz affirms, giving Impulse a thumbs up. “All jitter-free now and ready to get after it.”
Over Impulse’s shoulder, Etho is giving Skizz a slightly odd look. Skizz ignores him.
“Oh, good. I’m glad to hear that, buddy.” Impulse claps Skizz on the shoulder, smiling now. “What about you, Tango? All good?”
“All good,” Tango replies, and Skizz can’t help but smile because he actually sounds it. “Fully de-stressificated and ready to go play some mini-games really badly— and have fun doing it.”
Impulse laughs, and so does Etho, who mutters “same.”
“Sounds like we’re all on the same page, then,” says Impulse, grinning. Skizz can tell he’s excited and relieved now that they’re all together. “Let’s head inside, shall we?”
“Did you guys see that tier list someone made of all the teams?” Impulse asks as Tango and Skizz fall into step beside him.
“Well, they’d categorized everybody, you know. ‘S’, ‘A,’ ‘B’, and stuff, and next to our team, instead of putting a tier, they just wrote ‘yay!’” Impulse dissolves into giggles.
Tango cackles. “Why be S-tier when you can be yay-tier? I mean, c’mon, that’s gotta be objectively better.”
“It’s definitely objectively something,” chuckles Etho.
“Objectively a lot more fun and a lot less sweaty,” Skizz jokes. “Listen, I’d choose you guys over any of those S-tiers any day. I’m just glad get to do this with my homie buddies,” And maybe it’s sappy, but damned if it isn’t also objectively true.