Chapter Text
Jeremiah Heere lay curled up on his bed, moaning with pain, 100% miserable. Due to circumstances completely out of his control, he found himself home sick from school, an ice pack on his abdomen and a cold, damp towel on his head. A trash can sat near his bed as a convenient vomit receptacle, and a pack of saltines sat untouched beside the glass of water on his nightstand, where the vintage '80s-era digital clock read 3:46. Dust swirled in the shaft of sunlight from the window, which was cracked open to let in some fresh air.
It wasn't like this hadn't happened before. It's just that this was the first time it had kept him away from school for more than one day in a row. Usually, he would just stuff himself with Dramamine and Ibuprofen and numbly plow his way through the school day. Because it would be a complete and utter disaster if someone connected the dots. He never thought he'd survive if someone saw the pattern... If someone noticed that his absences came on a monthly basis.
It had been two years since his menarche, and his premenstrual symptoms had not stabilized or lessened as promised. He was constantly terrified that someone would notice, that—god forbid—Michael would get suspicious.
The doorbell rang. Probably just UPS or something... They'll just leave it on the porch.
Two more rings, in quick succession. Jeremy's father had gone to work, so he was home alone. There was no way he was standing up without immediately throwing up. Just gonna have to come back later. Sorry, whoever you are. But I don't think you want me to answer the door right now...
His phone buzzed repeatedly on his nightstand. He groaned, reaching up to grab it, and squinted at the screen. Michael.
"W'sup?" His voice came out as a quiet croak.
"Jesus, dude. You sound terrible. Wanna let me in?"
Jeremy almost retched. FUCK!
"N-no?"
"Tch." Jeremy could practically see Michael rolling his eyes. "Guess I gotta let myself in, then. Seeya in a sec," he said, and hung up, cutting off Jeremy's ardent protests.
He quickly looked around his room. Used pads... All in the lidded trash can. Pad packaging... Shit. In the open trash. He cast around wildly for a solution, and just as he heard Michael's footsteps pounding up the stairs, he had an idea. He pulled the towel off his head and threw it into the open trash so it covered the papers from the pads.
Knock knock.
"Yo, dude, you decent in there?"
Jeremy gave a miserable grunt of confirmation, and Michael opened the door.
"Jesus christ, man. You look like absolute ass."
"Th-thanks."
Michael gave a pity laugh, and pulled Jeremy's desk chair near to the side of the bed. He sat down.
"So, what's up? You got a bug?"
Think fast, Heere.
"Y-yeah. Not c-contagious anym-more, but..." He gestured weakly to the vomit can beside him.
"That blows, bro... Here, hang on," he said, picking up and unzipping his backpack. "I got your classwork, but I also got... THIS!" He pulled something out of the bag and held it up triumphantly. It took Jeremy a moment to focus on it, but when he did, his eyes widened to saucers.
"Dude. W-where did you—!?"
"My guy at Spencer's said he was helping clean out his brother's attic, and did I want this box of old junk he found, so of course I said yes! And what did I find at the bottom of the box but APOCALYPSE OF THE DAMNED 2: CIRCLES OF HELL!!!??!?"
"H-HOLY SHIT, D-DUDE!! That is s-so awesome!!" He suddenly remembered something and wilted slightly. "We c-can't play it right n-now, though. If I l-look at a screen for m-more than a few s-seconds, I'll probably v-vomit..."
"It's cool, dude. We still have to finish the first one anyways, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Yo, don't look like that. It's not your fault you're sick. Public school, amirite?"
Jeremy gave a nervous titter and desperately grasped for a change of subject.
"S-so what'd I miss in our c-classes?"
"One sec," Michael said, diving back into his backpack. He pulled out a sheaf of paper. "Review, review, review... Uh, we watched a documentary about the Battle of Shiloh in US History... Not much, really," he concluded.
"Good. I d-don't think I can handle having to c-catch up."
"Yeah, you don't look like you can." Michael stared at him thoughtfully for a few moments. "You've gotten sick really often since, like, freshman year."
Shit.
"You didn't used to get sick this easily, right?"
Fuckfuckfuck.
"It seems like you come down with a stomach bug, like... Once a month?"
FuCK!?! SHIT
"Pff, what, you got PMS or something?"
SHIIIIIT SHITSHIT
"Bro, say something. You're freakin' me out a little here, Jere."
"S-sorry. You just—" He cut himself off before he got into even deeper quicksand. "S-sorry."
"Hey, it's okay. Just wondering."
"Okay."
"Oh, hey, I also brought an audiobook," Michael added offhandedly. He looked around, pulling a box from his backpack. "CD player is...?"
"On the dresser."
"Ah." He stood and walked over to the device, pulled out the first folder of CDs, and extracted disc one from its place. Setting it into the player and clicking the lid shut, he pressed play and sat back down. A vaguely familiar harpsichord and flute melody started up, overlaid by a British man's voice, and Jeremy smiled weakly.
"Harry Potter? Which one?"
"Goblet of Fire," Michael answered, grinning. "Basically have this one memorized by now." He fell silent, leaning back in the chair, and let Jim Dale's voice wash over them.
"Chapter One: The Riddle House. The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it 'the Riddle house,' even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there..."
.•∴✬•☆•✬∴•.
It was about 5 in the evening. Michael had gone downstairs to grab a glass to pour his Crystal Pepsi into. While he was in the kitchen, the front door opened.
"Oh, Michael! Evening, son."
"Hello, Mr. Heere."
The balding man placed a plastic bag down on the kitchen table and rummaged around in it. He pulled out two bottles of pills and a small cardboard box.
"Could you bring these up to Jeremy for me, please? Tell him I thought I'd pick up the evening primrose oil while I was at the drugstore getting the Dramamine and Ibuprofen... It should do him some good. He should take two of them daily."
"Of course," Michael said, taking the bottles and box in his hands. He carried those items and his glass back upstairs.
"Hey, Mike," Jeremy said, yawning.
"Oh, you're up," Michael observed, smiling at his friend and unloading the contents of his arms onto the nightstand. "Good. Your dad just got home; he brought you some drugs."
"Drugs. Awesome."
"He said to tell you he just thought he'd pick up the evening primrose oil while he was at the drugstore, and that it should do you some good. And that you should take two daily."
"Oh, yeah, he mentioned that the other day... Thanks, bro."
"'Course. So, what's the flower oil for?"
Fuuuuhuhuhuhuhuuuck.
Jeremy felt his face and neck turning uncomfortably hot.
"Uh... Stuff?"
Michael frowned, a trace of worry visible in his eyes.
"You okay? Something I should know about...?"
"It's fine, I'm just—" Biologically female!? Yeah, it's not like I can just say that. Oh, yeah, by the way, sorry we've been friends for over a decade and it just SLIPPED MY MIND to tell you, but I'm not what you think I am! "...um."
"Um?"
"Aauuuhhhmmmm....???"
"Pfffbbbbb... So, what is it?"
He sat up slowly, so as not to upset his delicate stomach, and continued clutching the ice pack to the space below his bellybutton. He winced at the aching muscles in his lower back. Was this it? Was now the moment? Was today the day he finally admit his lie? No. It's not a lie. I AM male. I am a trans guy. Have I ever straight-up told him that I'm physically male...? No, I don't think so... That means I've never lied to him about my gender. So then, why does it feel like I've been lying to him for the past twelve years?
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spoke.
"P-PMS. It's for PMS."
"Oh, so I got it right, did I?" Michael laughed. "Okay, but seriously. What's going on?"
Jeremy took another deep breath and gulped.
"S-seriously. It's p-PMS."
Michael looked at him skeptically. He still doesn't believe me... Fine, then, go look for yourself. Jeremy pointed to the lidded trash can, where he disposed of his used pads. Michael looked at him cautiously, then leaned over to lift the lid. Jeremy had to suppress a wave of bile rising up in his throat at the smell of blood. Fist over his pursed lips, he looked down at the bed and away from Michael.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, once he had a handle on his nausea.
"What for? It's not your fault you were born with the wrong parts."
Before he knew what was happening, Jeremy was sobbing into Michael's sweatshirt.
"S-s-sorry," he hiccuped, sniffling. "I always g-get r-really emotional... When p-PMS hits..."
"'Sokay, it's okay, man," Michael murmured, gently patting his friend's back. "You don't gotta apologize."
"Th-thanks," he sniffled, pulling away and wiping his eyes.
Michael paused, then hesitantly spoke.
"Is there anything... I can do? Or..."
Jeremy thought for a moment, reaching for the box of Dramamine on the nightstand, then grinned.
"Well," he said, popping a pink tablet out of its packaging, "you could stay and p-play Apocalypse of the D-Damned with me once the Dramamine s-starts working..."
"Hell yeah! Sounds like a plan, man!"