Chapter Text
“Be gentle with her, now, Jerry.”
Jeremy is five years old. He's petting his old, grumpy cat hard, running his small hands through her fading black fur while she sits and takes it- barely. “She likes it!” the boy protests, pouting a little. “Right, Mittens?”
Mittens just swishes her tail.
“Well, alright,” Mr. Heere says, a content, affectionate smile on his face as he looks at his son (and his cat). He places his hand on the white, scratchy carpet and moves it quickly from side to side, and Mittens extracts herself from Jeremy's grip as she pounces on his slightly stubby fingers.
Jeremy grins. “Let me try!” he says, and mimics his father, sweeping the carpet in long, rapid motions. Mittens looks quickly back and forth, a little confused, and wriggles the back end of her body in anticipation. Eventually, she strikes, managing to trap Jeremy's hand with the help of her still-sharp eyesight. “Ow, hey!” Jeremy squeaks at the feeling of the tips of the cat's claws poking into his hand, but he's laughing anyway.
And then the garage door begins to open.
Mr. Heere’s smile falters. “Oh. Sounds like your mom's back from the office.”
Jeremy nods wordlessly as he continues to play with Mittens.
“Uh… Jeremy, your mother had a bad day today, so… make sure to be extra special nice to her, okay?” Mr. Heere says, and it sounds almost normal, but underneath, it's a beg, a plea.
Jeremy's hand stills on the floor. Mittens pounces again. “Oh. Okay,” he says softly. Being extra special nice… isn't his strong suit. Even when he tries to be pleasant, he always ends up snapping or being rude. Combined with his mother's sensitivity to anger, which even his mild-mannered father manages to set off somehow, it's not a great scenario, especially on days like these.
When the garage door closes again and his mother grumbles a greeting to his father, who had gone to meet her, Jeremy calls, “Hi, Momma.” There's no real response. He sits there on the floor for a long moment, watching Mittens curl into ball and expose her soft white stomach, then picks her up in his slender arms and holds her to his chest as he trudges down the basement stairs to go to his room. There's little fanfare as he plops her on the bed and jumps on beside her. On his bedside table, partially read, is a short book- Fudge-a-Mania, by the eternal Judy Blume- and Jeremy picks it up, hoping to find some entertainment in it. He prefers video games to reading, but Judy Blume is a pretty funny author, and it's nice to imagine having siblings… even though the siblings in these books are less than desirable.
He's good for an hour, Mittens laying at the end of his bed as the occasional sound of a turning page mixes in with her purring, but soon enough, the shouting starts. Jeremy doesn't really remember a time without shouting. It feels… normal, almost. Bad, but normal. As long as he has something, as long as he has Mittens or a Pokémon game or a nice book, he's okay, but then he's turning the last page of the book and he pauses, fingers stilling. The shouting- bordering on screaming now- fills the gaps in his unoccupied mind, and he wants to press his hands to his ears and ignore it. He wants to be deaf, just for a day, just for an hour.
Not knowing what else to do, Jeremy wriggles over to the end of his bed and pets Mittens, running his hands roughly down her spine. He scratches her soft, fluffy stomach, sticking his hand underneath her loaf-like form, and she starts to growl lowly. Jeremy doesn't take the hint, doesn't want to, and then Mittens is clawing at him, kicking her back legs like a donkey against his prying hands and leaving red, irritated scratches on his pale skin. He hisses in pain, and Mittens hisses back in annoyance, then hops off his bed and runs out the door.
It hits him, then, how alone he is.
“...Stupid Mittens,” Jeremy grumbles as tears prick at his eyes.
The screaming upstairs continues.
“Yo, Jer, we packin’ the Cheez-Its, the Fritos, or both?”
Jeremy is seventeen years old. He's leaning against the side of his best friend's PT Cruiser, clutching a letter written in familiar, slightly sloppy handwriting. The sun is pleasantly warm, but there's a chill that settles beneath his skin. “...Bring the Cheez-Its,” he answers after a moment of thought. “We can leave the Fritos for Dad.”
Michael nods, slips the box of crackers through the open car window into the passenger's seat, and tucks the bag of chips in the crook of his elbow. “Done deal. Did you get all your stuff in the car?”
Jeremy had packed lightly. Six shirts, five pairs of pants, seven pairs of underwear (you never know what's gonna happen), his laptop, and a charger.
And the letter.
Dear Jeremiah.
He clenches it tighter in his fist.
“Yeah,” he says, and Michael nods.
“Mmkay, gimme a sec to put these back and grab a couple water bottles and we can get going.” He tosses the keys to Jeremy, who catches the warm metal in his free hand after nearly dropping it a couple times. “You can let yourself in in the meantime,” Michael says before going back inside.
Jeremy does so, wordless, numb. I'm going to see her again, he thinks, as he's thought so many times over the past 48 hours. I'm really going to meet her again. It's been four years since his mother walked out on him, since she packed her bags and left in the early morning on a sunny March day. Why now? Why now would she contact him?
Dear Jeremiah.
6984 Sadler Street, Nacogdoches, TX. 75961.
Dear Jeremiah.
He props his feet up on the dash. Michael won't mind the scuff marks- he's said before that he likes how it makes it look worn, vintage. It doesn't really, just makes it a little dirty, but hey, if it makes him happy, then whatever.
Jeremy nearly shrieks in surprise when Michael opens the driver's side door with a clunk and scoots into his seat behind the wheel. “Oh, shit, sorry,” Michael says, looking a bit guilty. He usually taps at Jeremy’s window to let him know he’s coming in, but they’re both feeling a little odd today, it seems; things slip through the cracks.
Jeremy shrugs. “‘S okay.”
Michael is silent for a moment, not moving to grab his keys from the center console. He looks up at Jeremy, then away, and sighs quietly. "You don't have to do this, you know," he reminds him, and Jeremy waits for the '’Course, I'll mock you forever if you don't', but it never comes.
It's true that something like this is sort of his worst nightmare. For starters, he hates the idea of a road trip. Once you get in a car accident and take an airbag to the face and have your hearing completely fucked up, being in a car for more than half an hour at a time feels like a death sentence. But, as chronic unluckiness would have it, Jeremy's also afraid of flying, and it's pretty expensive to buy four tickets, because of course Michael's gotta come with. Emotional support and all. He's sure as hell not going alone, and his father, naturally, wasn't invited. So, a road trip it is.
And his mother... well. Jeremy hadn't really expected to see her again until maybe his wedding day- if it ever came- and even then, it was wishful thinking. No, wishful isn't the right word- it wasn't exactly that he wished she would be in his life more. He's doing alright without her, although his father certainly isn't- or, at least, he wasn’t for a while. He just wishes the exit wound wasn't so grotesque.
God. This is really happening. He's going on a road trip(!) to see his mother(!!!!).
Jeremy blinks, realizing he hasn't responded to Michael's offer of retreat. "No, uh, it's fine," he replies. "I'll live. I've got my best friend, after all." He gives Michael a wobbly, unconvincing smile.
"...Right," Michael says. He reaches over and rubs Jeremy's upper arm gently, and Jeremy sighs at the touch. "You can do this."
Jeremy's smile solidifies a little. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “We can, uh… go now, if you're ready.”
Michael nods and grabs his keys from the cup holder where Jeremy had left them. With a quick twist of his wrist, he turns on the car, and it springs to life beneath Jeremy. As always, a spark of anxiety goes through him, but it starts to slowly fizzle out as Michael pulls out of the Heeres’ driveway.
For a long while, the two of them are nigh wordless. The only sound is the car humming as it moves quickly along the pavement and the tapping of Michael’s fingers on the steering wheel, a habit that he keeps up even when there’s no music playing. On that note- “Hey Jer, you wanna… listen to anything? I, uh, downloaded some StarTalk Radio if you have the spoons to listen to a podcast.”
Jeremy shrugs. “...I’m good,” he answers. He just needs some time with his thoughts. He raises his eyes to look out the window, watching the trees pass by, newly green after months of being barren. He folds and unfolds the letter with two fingers, creases it, tears at the edges. Never trust Jeremy with a piece of paper.
Dear Jeremiah,
Please don’t throw this letter out right away. I’m sure you’ll want to, because of the way I abandoned you and your father, and he won full custody anyway… but please hear me out.
I want to see you again. You’re my son, the only person that I really love, and I want to apologize for all these years of silence. I just needed some time away from you and your father, and my job, and New Jersey. But it’s been too long.
If you would come to my home here in Nacogdoches, it would mean the world to me. I understand if you don’t want to, but please think of me and how I feel. Either way, know that I love you, Jeremy.
Love,
Mom.
What a load of bullshit that was. Sure, Jeremy resented her for leaving, but that wasn’t the heart of the matter. It was everything that lead up to her leaving. Eighth grade is bad enough already- the kids are cruel, the teachers fearmonger about the trials and tribulations of high school, your identity and self-image are changing by the day- and she certainly didn’t need to make it harder for him. But she did.
It was probably selfish to think about it that way. After all, his father was the one who got the brunt of her anger; he only got in big fights with her once in a while, and much of that was the silent treatment anyway. Still, having a rocky home environment is right up there on Jeremy’s Top Complains About Middle School list. It really sorta kinda fucking sucked.
Maybe that’s why he’s going- to give her a piece of his mind, to tell her off for making his life hell and for making his father afraid even though he rarely, if ever, did anything to warrant it. He almost hopes that’s why he’s going.
But maybe he’s going because he accepts her. Because he loves her.
...Scary stuff.
Jeremy looks away from the window eventually and notices Michael looking at him out of the corner of his eye, glancing at him every once in a while as his eyes flicker from the dashboard to the road and back again. “What? What is it?” he asks, a little annoyed.
“You just look… absorbed in something, is all,” Michael answers, and shrugs, though Jeremy knows he’s not as nonchalant as he seems. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Jeremy doesn't respond at first. Should he tell him? Of course he should know, he's his best friend, but… he's not his therapist. It's not like it'll help. It'll probably just be burdensome (because, after all, he is burdensome). Still, he finally answers, “I, uh. I don't think I like my mother.”
Michael blinks, mildly surprised. “Really? When she left, you ran to my house sobbing.”
That's true. That day was a blur- he remembers waking up, asking his father why he looked so sad and where his mother went, because it was Sunday, after all, so she should be home, and then it bleeds into the deep recesses of his mind and he can't quite claw it up. But he remembers, too, Michael holding him in his arms, hugging him while he shook and sobbed and whined for his mother like a fucking baby. Michael, who had always been there; Michael, who always would be, like he'd promised him that day.
“I guess that was just shock,” Jeremy says. “I wasn’t expecting it, is all.”
Michael nods. “Fair.”
With that, the ball is in Jeremy's court again. “I mean… she made my life kinda shitty. She's the reason I’m like this.”
Like this. Now, that wasn’t just in his head. No, it'd been going on since he was what, fifteen? Sophomore year? That sounds about right. At first it could be explained by normal teenage stuff. High emotions, turbulent mood swings, being unsure of who you are and who you want to be- everyone experiences that during puberty. But other kids didn't show up to class with neat little cuts on their wrists, or stay awake beating themselves up and breaking the fuck down because they were terrified of being alone, or systematically drive away any new friends they managed to get with their constant need for validation. That was a Jeremy issue.
His therapist, who he'd been seeing since his mother left, had offered ways to cope, but that wasn't enough for him. He wanted answers. Google, what the fuck is wrong with me? Well, the internet did have information on it, that's for sure. He wasn't sure if he could trust it, but it was something.
Chronic feelings of emptiness? Check. Recurrent self-mutilating behavior? Check. Identity disturbance? Check. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment? Double check.
“I think I have, um… oh. Borderline personality disorder,” he'd said hesitantly to his therapist one Saturday morning.
His therapist hummed in acknowledgement. “What makes you say that?”
“...Well, for one, I fit all the DSM requirements,” Jeremy’d said flatly. “Is that not enough?”
“Typically, we don't diagnose personality disorders in those younger than 18,” his therapist said. “Since these might just be normal hormonal responses.”
Jeremy frowned. He'd never particularly liked his therapist, not that he'd ever bother to get a new one. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the cuts that scatter across his skin. “Are these normal hormonal responses?” he demanded.
That gave his therapist pause. “They can be,” he said eventually. “Especially with your history of depression. But, given that you've experienced no trauma-”
Jeremy tapped his ear, careful not to mess up his hearing aids.
“...By which I mean emotional or psychological childhood trauma. Because of that, nothing you've shared with me so far indicates a possible cause of any personality disorder.”
And that was the end of that. Until, of course, Jeremy had opened up about his childhood. Apparently that was trauma. He didn't even know it wasn't normal, or at least close to normal.
So now here he was, with a preemptive BPD diagnosis, because of his shitty overreactive mother. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Back in the present, Michael says, “Ugh. See, man, I told you it wasn't normal.”
If it were anyone else, that comment would've gotten under his skin, but Jeremy can and will acknowledge that Michael is just smart about these sorts of things. He almost thinks of him as something like a guardian angel. Almost.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, not really sure what else to say.
Michael doesn't speak again for another couple minutes. Finally, he offers again, “I can turn back. You don't have to go if you don't want to.”
“No, no, I… I want to,” Jeremy assures him. He's not lying, not really. Sure, he's anxious, because it's been four fucking years and he doesn't like the woman in the first place, but he wants to give her a piece of his mind if nothing else. “...I think I want to tell her how I feel.”
Michael nods, moves a hand to rub Jeremy's shoulder while he continues to steer with the other. “...Love ya, dude.” Jeremy looks up, eyes wide and face prickling at the affection, but before he can say anything, Michael asks, “Wanna get lunch?”
“It hasn't even been that long since breakf-” Jeremy glances at the clock on the dashboard. “Wait, it's 2 in the afternoon already?”
Michael shrugs. “Time flies when you're angsting about your mom. Now, how ‘bout it? There's that little deli in D.C. that you liked.”
Jeremy chuckles, and there's stars in his eyes- metaphorically, of course- when he looks up at Michael. “What, you remembered that? That was five years ago!”
“Jeremy,” Michael says, voice sounding oddly serious, “I'm your best friend, of course I remember these things.” He pauses. “...Ya dingus.”
Because it's just like him to get emotional over absolutely nothing, a wave of fondness comes over Jeremy, knocking him sideways, and he wants to reach over and punch Michael in the arm or something to reestablish his manliness or something, but he's driving, so all Jeremy can do is sit there and look at that his profile as he hums and taps at the wheel to music only he can hear.
Man, he loves this guy.
Jeremy is midway through his pastrami sandwich- up there in the quintessential rankings in this city, he'd read while looking up the address for Michael- when Michael asks, “Is there, like… something you wanna do on this road trip? I mean, this doesn’t have to be four solid days of, like, weird car conversations and then five days of intense mom-bonding or whatever and then four more days of weird car conversations. Like, what do you wanna... do?"
Jeremy hadn't really thought about it. He'd barely been able to think about anything but his mother for the past few days, which was an unwelcome change from barely thinking about her at all for a good couple of years. He squirms uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh... I dunno," he answers. "What do you wanna do?"
Michael worries his lip, considering Jeremy's question as he holds his roast beef sandwich au jus in one hand. "Hell, I dunno. I mean, we're gonna be passing through the, uh, the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests tomorrow. We could go on a hike."
Jeremy sticks his tongue out a little. "You know I don't have the muscles for a hike, man. I'm a twig, as you so often like to point out."
"Because it's true!" Michael says, and makes an 'okay' sign with one hand. "See that hole? I could fit your whole arm through it, swear to God."
"Yeah, yeah, rub it in, jerk," Jeremy says, and leans over to flick Michael's forehead. "But, like, I can't go up in the mountains and shit! My legs will give out. I have no muscle mass, not to mention the balance issues." He sticks out his leg and points to the scrape on his knee he’d gotten while walking to the car that morning.
"Hey, if you get tired or trip or something, I'll carry you." Michael sounds oddly sincere for words that read like a joke. He gives Jeremy that big, charming smile of his- Jeremy's tried to replicate it in the mirror; it looks unnatural on him- and continues, "C'mon, it'll be fun. It'll take your mind off all that bullshit."
Jeremy takes a bite from his pastrami sandwich and smiles through it. After he swallows, he says, "Yeah, if ya keep good on your promise." He holds his free pinkie out.
Michael chuckles and wraps his pinkie around Jeremy's. As he shakes it, he says, "Anything for you, bud."
Jeremy snickers and lowers his head as his cheeks grow pink. Dumbass . "Thanks, man."
"No prob, bob," Michael says. "Hey, I'm driving you out to bumfuck nowhere to see your shitty mom, you think carrying your skinny ass is any issue?"
"Okay, okay, that's valid," Jeremy says. "Look, like I said, I'll pay for gas, and I can pay for lunch if you w-"
Michael blinks, and an almost panicked look comes over his face for a split second. "Nooo! No, no, dude, I'll pay for it, don't worry. Let me do this."
Jeremy looks at him with a confused expression, then dismisses it, shrugging. "Alright, man, no skin off my back," he says.
Content, Michael relaxes, smiling as he rests his chin in one hand. "Good," he says simply, softly, kindly. It makes Jeremy feel weird, and he doesn't fucking appreciate that much. ...But it's kinda nice anyway.
Kinda really nice.
Huh. how 'bout that.
They don't stick around in DC. Back in middle school, spring break of seventh grade year, there was a trip there- kind of expensive, but all four of their parents decided to spoil them and pay for it. Well, they'd had to pool their allowances for meals and souvenirs, but still, the lodging and bus ride were taken care of. Whatever, the details aren't important. Point being, Jeremy and Michael go ahead and skip the country's lovely capital. Michael had decided it was boring- he doesn't really like museums- and Jeremy, of course, hates the crowds. They're killer in the summer.
When they get back on the road again, Jeremy's surprised to find that he feels a lot better. It's amazing how much having lunch with your best friend-slash-dumb gay crush lifts your spirits; he's done it every school day for the past thirteen years, but he hadn't really noticed the healing effect until today. Michael's just like that, he supposes; his good vibes rub off on you.
"You wanna listen to some music?" Michael asks as they get back in the car, looking expectantly at Jeremy. "I brought a few mix CDs."
Jeremy straps himself in, a click sounding as he secures his seat belt, and nods. "Yeah, man, whatcha got?"
It seems like Michael's always got a new mix CD- or a new Spotify playlist, or a new mixtape to listen to on that vintage Walkman he bought himself for his sixteenth birthday- and it's always a little exciting to see what he's got in store. Michael opens the car's built-in CD holder and takes out a nondescript CD in a clear case, labelled only with "Vibin'". He looks up at Jeremy, shakes it, then inserts it into the CD player, which accepts it with a quiet whirring noise. "I figured you might need some calm-down songs, y'know? Stuff to chill out and vibe to." He presses the power button on the player and turns up the volume, and a bright guitar tune starts to play, soon joined by drums and keyboard.
A bright smile lights up Jeremy's face as he recognizes the song as I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You by Black Kids. "Aw, dude, you know me too well," he says, turning his smile to Michael.
Michael puts the car in drive and peels away from the side of the road where he'd parked. "Yeah, Jer, believe it or not, I read the texts you send me, and, like... know what songs feel good after, what, four years?" He reaches out, careful to drive steady, and ruffles Jeremy's hair. "Go on, dude. Relax."
Jeremy would be a little hesitant about doing what he could only describe as 'vibing' in front of anyone else- well, except maybe his dad- but he feels safe around Michael. He scoots his seat up a little and sets his hand over the speaker at the side of the dashboard. As soon as he touches the speaker, it feels like a weight is lifted off his shoulders. Part of it is psychological, he knows, but he can physically feel the music in him; it's as if he's reaching out and touching the beat, like the guitars are strumming in his chest and not in some studio in California or whatever. Jeremy lets his eyes fall shut, and his grin turns to a gentle smile, absolutely blissed.
It's one of the few things that have given him peace since the accident. He can't hear music as well as he used to, given that his ears are all... fucky, but he can feel it clear as day. It's funny- Jeremy never used to appreciate the beat of songs enough; he was more of a lyric guy, sometimes (embarrassingly enough) moved to tears when he was feeling vulnerable and they were really, really just fucking good. He still does, which he'd rather die than admit (because yes, sue him, he still has problems with toxic masculinity, but he doesn't need to be called gay more than he already is, and so what if he likes guys? It's nobody's business) but what really gets him nowadays is the pounding of the drums, the thrum of the movement of the song that becomes so much stronger when he lets himself touch the music. It's... special.
When he cracks an eye open and glances at Michael, he finds him smiling, tapping at the steering wheel to the beat of the song. For the first time that day, things seem a little normal. Jeremy can almost imagine that he's not on a four-day road trip to see his shitty estranged mother and that he's just on a short little ride with his best friend and some great tunes. It's alright. It's definitely, probably, maybe gonna be alright.
"D'you remember the first time we heard this song?" Michael asks, midway through the last chorus.
Jeremy doesn't have a good memory (aside from every time he's ever embarrassed himself, listed both alphabetically and by category), but he does remember that. It was before the accident, probably the summer before the 8th grade, if he had to put a date to it. They were sitting in Michael's basement, listening to the radio on his moms' boombox, and, although they usually listened to the stations with older songs- Jeremy's always been a fan of 80s hits, and Michael has a soft spot for the 70s- they'd decided to change it to one of the various top 40 stations. Jeremy had adored it immediately; the words made him giddy- he was always crushing on someone or another, and songs about pining were too relatable to not love- and Michael could agree that it was a pretty good jam. "Better than all the other crap on the radio nowadays," were his exact words, and Jeremy had punched him lightly in the arm for sounding like an 80 year old coot or perhaps one of the hippies who smoked weed by the stairs at the high school at which they were doomed to spend their teenage years.
It was a warm memory. Some memories, Jeremy muses, are cold. The memory of running to Michael's house that one March day, even in the midday warmth, was cold. Hypothermic, even. Some are hot, like the hot tears and the blood rising to his skin as he chokes back sobs at his mother's shouting- free of it, he's free of it now, it's okay- and the time on his thirteenth birthday when he was roped into hiking and his muscles were cramped and he swears to this day that he almost died. But that midsummer day, sitting there in the basement with Michael... that was a warm memory.
He cherished the warm ones.
"Yeah, man," he answers finally. "That was a pretty good summer, huh?"
Michael nods. "Hey, it's pretty hard to have a bad summer. I mean, it's summer. No school, what more could you ask for?"
"No car crashes," Jeremy says, and, when Michael gives him a mixed sympathetic and apologetic look, continues, "Okay, for real, I'll stop being a downer. Summer's pretty great. Gives ya time for weird life-changing road trips, or whatever this is supposed to be."
"It's life-changing if you want it to be." Michael shrugs. "There's always something there if you try."
Jeremy snorts. "I'm gonna hang out with you and chew out my deadbeat mom, how's this gonna be life-changing?"
"I always like a challenge," Michael says, and grins a cocky grin that makes Jeremy sorta kinda feel things.
"You gonna change my life, Michael Mell?" he asks.
"You know it, Jeremy Heere," Michael answers, and honest to God winks.
Jeremy hates how much he loves him.
They arrive at Charlottesville in good time, around 6 in the evening. Michael would have gone longer, since he loves to drive, but Jeremy had to remind him that they had booked a room at this specific motel at this specific night, and plus, changing the schedule makes him anxious as hell, because why not? So many other things do already.
While Michael talks to the lady sitting behind the front desk to get them checked into the hotel, Jeremy grabs his wallet from his back pocket and feeds a $5 bill to the vending machine on the other side of the lobby. $1 for Cheetos for Michael, $1.25 for a bag of sour gummy worms for himself, and that leaves enough for a Pepsi for them to share. They'd given up caring about germs approximately 10 minutes after they met, and none of their parents bothered to nag them about it anymore.
After a few minutes and about a third of the gummy worms down, Michael approaches and tosses him a key card for their room, which hits him square in the forehead before falling to the ground. "...Dude. Full hands," Jeremy says flatly.
Michael gives a snort of laughter. "Yeah, but your face, though."
Jeremy sticks his tongue out. "Fine, I'm not giving you the Cheetos, then. And the Pepsi is all mine."
"Wait, the Cheetos are for me?" Michael asks, and smiles. "Aw, thanks, duder!"
"Not anymore." Jeremy pouts, turning away from Michael. After a second, though, he tosses the small orange bag over his shoulder. "Nah, jokes."
Michael catches it and kneels down to pick up Jeremy's key card, then drops the card over Jeremy's shoulder. He catches it despite the start it gives him, and when he turns back around, Michael is grinning. "C'mon, man, let's go. Netflix awaits."
Jeremy beams back at him, and, clutching the can of Pepsi with one hand and the gummy worms and card in the other, follows Michael outside and upstairs to their room on the second floor: 210. He manages not to trip on the narrow stairway up to the second floor of rooms, which is a blessing. "Whatcha wanna watch?" he asks as Michael slides the card in and out of the lock and opens the door for him. "Did we ever finish Parks and Rec?"
Michael nods. "Yeah, a couple months ago, remember? Decent end, but I'm sad to see it go. How about, uh... John Mulaney's New in Town? I just found out that's on Netflix, because I'm behind the curve as always."
Jeremy brightens up at that. "Oh, hell yeah," he says, immediately excited at the prospect. "C'mon, duder, let's grab our stuff."
In a few minutes, they've dragged their suitcases into their small, one-bed room- again, they're kinda broke, and neither of them have any particular complaints since they've slept in the same bed countless times before- and Michael is pulling his laptop from his own while Jeremy plops down on the scratchy sheets. On second thought- he tosses off his tee and jeans, and they fall into a mess in the corner of the room, then wriggles underneath the sheets. It's not like he's planning on going on a run later or anything.
Eventually, Michael's set up Netflix (as always, he checks his email and social media first, because, although nobody at school would really expect it, he has a fairly large amount of internet friends, and he hasn't been able to talk to them all day, so Jeremy can understand), and he makes a move to scoot under the covers as well, but Jeremy stops him with a wave of his hand.
"Wait, no, take off your binder, duder. It's been over six hours," he says, scolding him just a little bit.
Michael rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine, dude, just-" Jeremy fixes him with the most disappointed look he can muster. "...Okay, fine. Look away, or don't, I guess."
Jeremy doesn't. Don't drag him for it.
Michael's back looks quite nice.
Michael pulls a softer tee with some lyrics from a band Jeremy's probably only vaguely heard of and a pair of fleece pajama pants- "Dude, how can you wear those in the summer?" "I'm stronger than you could ever imagine, Heere."- and, after jokingly asking Jeremy for his approval, gets under the covers with him. "C'mere, get ready for some real comedy."
"Hell yeah," Jeremy says, stretching his long, slender arms. "This? This is gay culture."
"God, you are so right," Michael says, and beams. "I love this shit."
And things are alright for a while. They laugh, they... don't cry, there's really no crying in this situation, they fall asleep. Well, Michael does, anyway; he must be exhausted from driving all day, after all. It's sorta cute. Here he is, probably supposed to have some weird, like, coming of age experience as he goes to see his fucking mother, that asshole, but he's just sitting here getting gay over his best friend. It just happens sometimes, alright? He can't focus on his fucking... fucking borderline-abusive mother all the time because if he does he's going to go fucking insane, and, oh, it's really quiet in this room, isn't it? Because Michael doesn't even fucking snore, and the video is over, and suddenly everything just feels so... big.
He's so small.
What's he even doing here?
What does he get from seeing her? God, knowing how weak he is, he'll just break down when he sees her again, because oh my God, he forgot how fucking scared of her he is, how he never wanted to say a dissenting word or ask her for anything, so how in the hell is he going to go up there and give her a piece of her mind? Oh, Jeremy, you're just going to say "I hate you for messing up my childhood" so easy like that? Yeah, likely fucking story.
God, that's pathetic.
An angry, stinging tear slips from Jeremy's eye, and he tries to blink it away, but it's already falling to the blankets, and he curses himself for that damn weakness that he was left with. He hates how it lies in the center of him like rot, how he's always going to have these huge emotions that stab him like myriad daggers to the chest when he's all alone, alone, alone. He hates the insecurity, the instability, the way that the instant he builds up his walls, desperately trying to keep himself safe from his own feelings, they crack and crumble, and- God. Why's she here again? Why's she doing this to him again? Why's she trying to ruin his life again? Why on Earth should he forgive her, but she's going to be hurt if he doesn't, and it's not her fault, she was just depressed, and-
"Jeremy?"
Jeremy rubs his eyes with the side of his hand, hissing at how it makes them sting and only bring more tears. Whatever. With a flushed red face, he looks at Michael, who he must have woken up with his dumbass pussy crying. "Shit, I'm sorry," he grumbles, and glances down, too ashamed to meet his eyes. "I'm just being stupid. It's nothing. S-sorry I woke you up..."
"You're not stupid," Michael assures him softly. "Why- why would you be stupid?"
"Because this whole thing is stupid," Jeremy says, voice guttural and choked with phlegm and tears. "I mean, isn't this just the stupidest fucking thing? Christ!"
Michael lays a warm, gentle hand on Jeremy's back, just between his shoulder blades. "It's not. It's complicated, but it's not stupid."
"Not stupid," Jeremy says, an empty echo. "I don't know. Fuck, man. I hate this, alright? I just want this to be over. I can't take- I can't take so many goddamn days of this. I can't handle four days of death row leading up to- to seeing her- I don't want to see her- I never want to see her again, I think I'd be just fine with that, except-" He chokes on his tears for a second, and whimpers instead.
Michael presses further. “...Except?”
"Except I love her," Jeremy whispers.
Michael frowns, cocks his head. "...You just said that you didn't like her."
"It's- it's different!" Jeremy exclaims, frustrated. "I don't like her, but I love her- for Christ's sake, Michael, she's my mom! I mean, it's not like she was all bad. She did nice things sometimes! She really did! Do you remember when she bought me that limited edition Pikachu 3DS just because? I mean, I mean, I mean-" he takes a deep breath, nearly a gasp. "If she was a bad mom, she wouldn't do that, right? That was almost $200!"
Michael rolls his eyes. "If we're counting love by money, then I don't love you all that much, 'cuz half the time all I buy you is snacks."
"You bought me Omega Ruby for my birthday," Jeremy reminds him.
Michael rolls his eyes. "Okay, that was one time. Sorry I'm broke, by the way. You wouldn't believe how many employers run drug tests nowadays."
Jeremy shrugs. "It's no big. But, uh, back to my mom?"
"Right! Right, sorry, I got sidetracked." Michael's hand travels to Jeremy's hair, running his fingers through the soft curls. "Look. Just because she's done some nice things, doesn't mean she didn't, like, totally fuck you over."
"But she only yelled so much because she was depressed," Jeremy protests weakly.
"Yeah, and? So are you, dude, and you don't yell at people for no reason." Michael sighs. "Look, Jer. I know things are confusing. Just hang in there, alright? Remember what your therapist told you."
Jeremy nods. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He sighs the air from his weary lungs, then takes a deep breath through his nose, feeling it move through his chest. After seven seconds, he exhales it slowly, and, although he hates to admit it, it does make him feel a lot better. Why is that? It's just oxygen.
"Feeling better?" Michael asks after a couple minutes, voice hushed, and Jeremy nods.
"'m sorry," he mumbles. "For waking you up, and stuff." What a nuisance.
Michael frowns. "Don't worry. I mean, remember when you woke me up in the middle of the night to ask me to go get you some Cheez-Its? I'm used to this stuff."
Jeremy chuckles a little at that. "What? I like Cheez-Its."
Michael scoffs. "I think I'd have to disown you if you didn't."
That gets a laugh out of Jeremy, a louder one, not so subdued. "Hey, thanks, Mike. ...For everything."
Michael shakes his head. "You don't need to thank me. I'm your best friend, remember?"
"...Yeah," Jeremy says, still not convinced.
Michael frowns slightly at Jeremy's tone. "C'mere," he says, and before Jeremy can say anything, he's enveloped him in a warm hug, getting tears on the sleeve of Michael's dark red pajama top. Tenderly, so so tenderly, he rubs Jeremy's back, and Jeremy practically melts into the touch.
“You make it so damn hard not to love you,” he says, except he doesn't say it.
Breaking down and crying has left him worn out beyond belief, and, when his thoughts have calmed down enough, Jeremy lays back down, trying to get warm again underneath the threadbare blanket. He can't say what he feels, not now, not yet, but he manages to whisper, "Michael? Will you, uh..." Shit. No backing out now. "Will you, uh, hold me?"
Michael smiles, eyes half-lidded, and nods. "I gotcha, buddy," he says as he scoots a little closer, slinging an arm around Jeremy's narrow shoulders and pulling him to his chest.
And, oh God, he's kissing his forehead.
Oh, God, this is too much.
Jeremy could cry all over again, but he doesn't, he smiles and smiles and smiles like an idiot. He still feels a little like garbage... but maybe more like recyclables. You make me feel like recyclables, he thinks at Michael. Wait. What the hell does that even mean?