Work Text:
Jeremy is eight years old. He reads aloud, his voice soft, pushing and pulling at the words as they tumble out of his mouth. It's past his bedtime, but really, bedtime is more of a suggestion than anything, and he can't go to sleep just yet. He is busy with carefully balancing a flashlight between his head and his shoulder, one hand marking his progress through the book, the other carding through soft, dark hair. Michael's nested in his usual blanket burrito, head pillowed in Jeremy's lap as he sits criss-cross applesauce on top of his comforter. Michael still worms his way into snuggling before he falls asleep one way or another. Tonight is no exception.
Even in his light pajamas his skin feels icky, and Michael’s not helping, the space heater that he is. (The summer air is heavy and warm, but warm to Jeremy is nothing to someone with dragon blood.) He's not about to wake the other boy up, though, not when he looks so peaceful, snoring lightly. Jeremy can also hear a very gentle rumble coming from deep within Michael’s chest, and it's honestly so adorable that he wouldn't even mind melting if it meant hearing that forever.
He's been told that he gives people good dreams, if he talks to someone while they're sleeping. Michael deserves nothing but good things, so Jeremy’s taken up reading to his best friend whenever they have one of these sleepovers. Jeremy can't count how many nights he's stayed up just to do this for Michael, not that it bothers him. Sleep is for the weak, and for people who don't have magic voices. His dad says he's a night owl anyway, and Jeremy believes he's onto something; the world is like a different place completely when the sun goes down.
It's nice, Jeremy thinks, because it's quiet and the light is soft and it just feels right. There are things that Jeremy notices that he can't quite put into words, not yet at least, like the music in his head that isn't like anything he's ever heard, the way something like mist curls in his mind, ancient and sleepy, and the taste of salt that lingers on his tongue.
His dad just chuckles and ruffles his hair and calls him cute whenever he tries to explain what he's feeling, tells him that he's got quite an imagination. Tita, on the other hand, smiles warmly, knowingly, and tells him that he's special in his own way, not quite like Michael, but still just as magical. And he almost believes her, except. Well.
He's just Jeremy Heere. He's eight years old, he can't say his s’s quite right, and he has to use an inhaler sometimes. He's really nothing super duper special, especially when he considers the purring boy in his lap, thrumming with an energy that seems foreign and powerful. Jeremy’s awfully lucky that Michael loves him just the way he is.
Jeremy clicks the flashlight off and sets the book on his nightstand, adjusting Michael carefully so that he's laying next to him and not on top of him. He falls asleep to the gentle crashing of waves and the pull of the tide in his chest.
oOo
Jeremy is eleven years old, and he's beginning to doubt himself and his place in the universe. Very big kid thoughts, comes with the middle school territory. Jeremy knows this. He also knows that he's pretty much a carbon copy of almost everyone in his second period class.
Four other kids have the exact same backpack as him, which is not only confusing, but makes the backpack seem a lot less cool than it did when he begged his dad to buy it for him. And his love of blue, his favorite color ever, is shared with just about every boy in the class, and a few girls too. Normally this wouldn't bother him, normally he would brush it off, but he's starting to get the feeling that maybe Michael is selling himself short by being friends with him.
Which. That sucks.
It's not like he's entirely boring, though, but he's found that the other kids don't like his talents very much. Jeremy doesn't try to hum along with the song wavering quietly in the air anymore, and he tries his best to ignore that floaty feeling just behind his ribs. But there are some things that he can't help.
Language arts is kinda his strong suit, he's been ahead of his grade for years thanks to his habit of reading Michael to sleep. In fact, one of his favorite things in the world is SSR, silent time to relax with a book. But middle school introduces a host of new problems, including popcorn reading.
Trying to follow along with twenty other kids’ reading speeds and styles is a nightmare (he always worries that he'll miss something and read his part wrong or stumble over his words), plus Jeremy always gets stuck with the longest paragraphs. One time in particular, though, he read enough to apparently knock some of the other students out cold.
He'd never done that before, and the teacher didn't believe it was his fault, but Jeremy was a blubbering wreck because he had messed up and done something bad. (Michael held his hand the rest of the day, even though he had been the first to fall asleep.)
(No one else would play with them at recess.)
Whenever he has to read now, he makes his voice go funny, No one seems to notice. His chest gets a little cold and it makes him feel weird, but he's fine so long as he focuses on what he's saying and not how he's saying it.
Apparently something sticks, because after a while he can't put Michael to sleep when he reads, which makes him kind of sad. Michael insists that Jeremy just laying next to him is enough to give him good dreams even though the stars aren't in his eyes and his voice doesn't tug at him anymore, but Jeremy thinks he's being nice about it.
oOo
Jeremy is thirteen years old, and he's screwed. He's been reading a bunch of articles online, to himself, in the darkness of secrecy and shame, and has come to the conclusion that no, having increasingly non-platonic thoughts about your best friend of nearly a decade is decidedly not heteronormative. It isn't like a crush, it can't be; he's been kinda crushing on Christine Caligula from afar this year, a fact he's neglected to tell Michael because he isn't sure if he's ready for the storm of teasing that would surely haunt him for years. But, like, this is some serious shit. He loves Michael Mell. Deeply, truly.
Like, so much so that Jeremy can't even imagine a future without Michael, which is like. Not terrible, but. Jeremy? And Michael? Together, forever, like some Hallmark movie bullshit? Just. So unrealistic.
Jeremy's surprised Michael hadn't gotten tired of him already, dropped him for something cooler, better, newer. Michael can hold his breath underwater for like, a solid twenty minutes. Jeremy can't hold his breath for two without triggering an asthma attack. So. Lame.
Basically, life's giving him the biggest middle finger, because not only does he love his best friend in a way that may sorta totally kinda be gay, he knows in his heart that Michael is better than him in every conceivable way, and that, even platonically, there's absolutely no way Jeremy means as much to Michael as Michael means to Jeremy.
He stubbornly ignores the way his chest goes suddenly and painfully cold, like a vapor condensed into sharp shards of ice whenever he thinks like that. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything. This becomes his mantra for almost everything he sees and hears that he'd rather not think about, now including the special smile that Michael reserves only for him, the way Michael nuzzles his head under Jeremy’s chin, and the long nights they spend pressed against each other in comfortable silence. It doesn't mean anything.
Jeremy is just Jeremy. He’ll never be anything more, anything less. And Michael, well. Michael is everything. Michael deserves everything. And Jeremy… he's nothing in comparison to that.
oOo
Jeremy is sixteen years old, and the words aking buwan, aking dagat ring in his brain, press against his skull. A bone-deep ache blooms in his chest as he tosses and turns in his bed, the sensation reminding him of his childhood and how he used to hear the sea in his head.
There you are, someone whispers tenderly, reverently, into the still silence of the dimly lit room, too-sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight filtering through the curtains, I've been looking for you.
He doesn't know what it all means, not really. For him. For them. He doesn't even know if Michael remembers the exchange. He hadn't said anything at least, and Jeremy isn't exactly eager to bring it up, to smash through his carefully cultivated walls of it's not gonna happen and it doesn't mean anything.
He's half tempted to ask his dad, for advice, for some explanation, but as he cracks open his eyes and resigns himself to another sleepless night he thinks better of it. He'd have to dodge some uncomfortable questions about his feelings for Michael and, honestly, pass. Surely his dad would've told him if he was anything other than human, because, well, what else can he be?
Aking buwan, aking dagat, sure, but Michael was probably delirious and in some kind of bakunawa haze that had to do with the moon being out of sight. So then, that raises the question, why won't Jeremy’s stupid, lovesick brain leave it well enough alone? It didn't mean anything. Jeremy is what he is and Michael is Michael, even after manifesting. He's still goofy and geeky and absolutely lovable in every single way, even if sometimes he nibbles too hard on Jeremy’s shoulder or smacks him with his wings or sticks his tongue out looking like a complete and utter fool.
He screws his eyes shut tight and takes a shuddery breath, and he swears a gentle breeze caresses his face for a fraction of a second even though his window is closed and the AC is on low.
He's nothing special, just Jeremy Heere, painfully normal, boring to the nth degree. Michael can do so much better than some geeky kid in suburban New Jersey with a penchant for making kids pass out in English class and spraining his ankle doing half-assed parkour. One day, Michael will realize what a waste of space Jeremy is, will spread his wings and fly away and find someone worth his time.
The thought catches Jeremy like an undertow, dragging him down into chilly, unforgiving brine. It chokes him, drowns him, but he's used to ignoring the taste of salt on his tongue, and the feel of seawater in his lungs.
oOo
Jeremy is… sick of his own shit.
They're in Michael's backyard on a toasty afternoon, and Michael, in all his bakunawa glory, is blissfully stomach-down in the kiddie pool, wings stretched out on either side of him. The light breeze ruffles their hair, and makes Michael’s wings tremble like sails as it passes. It's quiet, they aren't talking- they don't need to- but Jeremy, stupid, selfish Jeremy, can't appreciate the peaceful moment because his whole heart (and something older) is telling him that it's not enough.
He's being pulled in, pulled under, by all of these overwhelming feelings, by whatever’s decided to hitch a ride in his mind and it's killing him.
Jeremy doesn't belong with someone so extraordinary. For all of his oddness he is still only human, he knows that for certain. His blood is not magic; he has no great and powerful heritage.
I'm not enough, he parries back to the long-forgotten song within him, and this is my body, not yours. It finally relents, sending him crashing back towards the shore of safety, but not without the reminder: I chose you and so did he.
The lawn chair under him protests as he settles deeper into it, the metal burning his back a little. A pithy distraction, but enough for Jeremy to tear his eyes away from the beautiful boy in front of him. He can relearn how to be content knowing Michael is his Player 1, his best friend, the boy with the dragon blood who somehow has kept him around for this long. He sighs, deeply, and the feeling is echoed tenfold by the elemental force pulsing in the back of his mind.
Michael doesn't notice. (Michael never has to notice how much Jeremy cares about him, how's he's fallen entirely head over heels for everything he is.)
And Jeremy can pretend that he doesn't feel the moon in his heart, and the sea in his chest, cursing him to love the dragon in Michael’s soul.