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“Love, have you seen my-m-my—” Michael stumbled to a halt, mid-word and mid-stride, and gaped at the sight before him. Jeremy was straightening up, having just picked up his phone off of the floor. That wasn't what was sending a flood of excruciating heat across Michael’s face, though. Jeremy was wearing his riend’s enormous red sweatshirt, and holy shit. His fingers were curled over the cuffs, which he held against his chest. The hem reached his knees, and the sleeves, which were already big on Michael, were baggy to the point of being cartoonish.
While Michael was making futile attempts to reign in his incoherently screaming and combusting thoughts, Jeremy noticed him standing in the doorway. The smaller boy gave a tiny wave.
“Hey, Angie!” He chirped, smiling. When Michael failed to respond, Jeremy frowned and cocked his head slightly.
For Michael, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Some half-functioning part of his mind gave the order to clumsily slam the door shut, and trip over his feet in an attempt at vacating the scene.
So he just lay there, ears feeling like they were about to melt right off his head, brain barely keeping up, face pressed into the rough carpet, and glasses askew.
The door behind him opened a bit and Jeremy’s curious face appeared. He padded over to Michael Mess™ and crouched, his knees against his chest. Blinking owlishly, he reached out a sweaterpawed hand and gently prodded Michael’s cheek, which was an impressively vibrant shade of carmine.
“Mikey! A-anybody home?”
Michael wordlessly opened and closed his mouth, incapable of speech.
“Aaaaaa,” was the high-pitched eventual result of his valiant efforts to produce sound.
“Mikeyangelo...! Schönheit —”
“StAHHhAPpp,,,” Michael groaned, pounding his hands and feet against the floor. “You're gonna make me cry from blushing...”
“W-why are you—”
“M-m-my— Th-the— Y-y-you— Why do you torture me like this.”
“I— W-wh-wh— I d-d— What?!”
Rolling over onto his back, Michael took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then looked at the blurry Jeremy above him.
“You, Heere, are a specimen, you know that?”
“I—?! I’m, I-I-I, what??”
“...kiss me, you beautiful thing, you.”
Jeremy giggled, in that stupid, squeaky way that always made Michael feel like he'd gotten a sudden shot of some powerful drug, and leaned down to kiss his boy. Michael lifted a hand to twirl in Jeremy’s hair.
After ten seconds, they broke apart, but Jeremy kept his face close to Michael’s.
“Love,” Michael murmured.
“Y-yeah?” Jeremy replied, smiling softly.
“Why are you wearing my sweatshirt?”
Jeremy’s eyes widened slightly in understanding.
“O-oh! Uh... I w-was cold? A-and... It sm-smells l-like y-you?”
“Jeremy, it smells like my BO!” Michael laughed.
“Y-yeah, but it-it-it—” Jeremy sat up and hugged himself defensively. “It still smells like you!” He yelped indignantly.
“It is un. Fair. How cute you are.”
“But I’m y-yours, so you do-don't have an-nything to complain ab-about!”
“Touché. C’mere, you. Here, we can go to the mall today and buy you your own sweatshirt,” he said, standing and scooping Jeremy up in his arms.
“B-but it won't s-smell l-like you!”
“I can wash it so it smells like the fabric softener my moms buy?”
Jeremy puffed out his cheeks and pouted.
“F-fiiiine. But I g-get to wear yours until we buy me one!”
“Ugh. I can't say no to you, dammit.”
“Yaaay!!”
“Oof. Cute overload.”