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There was a solid knock on the door. Jeremy wanted to ignore it, drown it out and go back to sleep, but he sucked in a deep breath and tugged at his hair.
“Yeah, come in,”
Mr. Heere walked into the room, settling into the chair next to the door. “Hey, kid,”
Jeremy refused to meet his father’s eye, staring at his black bedsheets intently. Your sheets are childish. No wonder you’ve never gotten laid. No wonder you never will. “Hi.”
“How have you been?”
At that, Jeremy snorted. “I’ve been great. You know, having my brain messed with on my own account, being in the hospital for a week, losing my sole friend in the blink of an eye. Completely fine.” He started off his monologue sarcastically, not noticing (or for that matter, caring) when he heard his tone grow bitterer.
His father had never been good with words, choosing only to nod and crease his brow in concern. “Um, about that. You should call Michael.”
It didn’t come as a shock, really. He knew he should. But it had been almost a week and a half, and they hadn’t spoken. (Not mentioning how before that, the first time they’d really interacted in two months was at the play, when Michael saved his life. Or how before that, he’d left him, his anxiety ridden friend, in a bathroom at a party after calling him a loser.) “Yeah.”
“He came by the hospital when you were asleep.”
Jeremy snapped to attention. “What?”
“The first day, actually. He came and sat by you for a bit.”
“W-what did he say?”
“I don’t know. I left. He looked like he needed some time to be alone with you. When I came back, though, he was gone. I haven’t seen him since then.”
Jeremy didn’t expect this news to sting as badly as it did. He couldn’t even imagine Michael coming to visit him after all this time. After all he did. He didn’t have a clue as to why he ever would.
Optic nerve blocking on.
“Oh.”
“I think you should call him.”
“I know.” Jeremy’s voice was quiet, meek. You don’t want to be a pushover. If you can be broken by me, you can be broken by anyone. A phantom shock shivered up his spine and he curled his fingers into the palm of his hand.
Jeremy’s father broke the silence abruptly. “I have work, kid. I won’t be back until 8. You’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. There’s some leftover lasagna in the fridge, if you want that.”
He could only nod, to keep the ever increasing lump in his throat from bubbling over and wrecking him.
“Be good, kid,” And the door was opening and he was gone.
Jeremy’s gaze fell to rest on his phone sitting at the edge of his bed. The sleek black case (the one he bought after he was Squipped. Michael had bought him a holographic one with red, block lettering that spelled out “player one”. Jeremy had thrown it away) almost glimmered in the light filtering through the windows. With shaking hands, he grabbed it, scrolling through his contacts until he found Michael’s.
(It physically pained him to see the name “pLaYer tWo” written there in alternating caps. He’d never bothered to change the name. It wasn’t like it was necessary. Why change the name of someone you’re already extracting from your life?)
He breathed in deeply and dialed the number.
Michael picked up on the third ring. “Hi.”
A dull throbbing started in the base of Jeremy’s throat. “Hey.”
“So, I see you got your phone back.”
“U-um, yeah. Just now, before my dad left.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you doing?” And wasn’t that the question of the day?
“I’m okay, I guess. I was discharged yesterday.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Yeah.” (Wow. Good attempt at conversation, dude. Way to contribute.)
“Why’d you call, Jeremy?”
He felt like the wind had been knocked out of his chest at the question. “U-um, I-I mean. . .”
“Whatever. I’ll just--”
“Wait, no!” He paused, thoughts jumbling and pulsing and trying to force their way out of his mouth. “Could you, um, come over?”
It was silent on the other end for a moment, and Jeremy thought Michael hadn’t heard him. (Or maybe he was choosing to ignore him. That was the more likely option.)
“You want me to come over.” It was a statement, more than a question. Jeremy’s stomach twisted and turned and he curled his fingers once, twice, three times.
“Y-yeah.” Your stammering’s a chore.
Michael’s voice was quiet when he finally responded. “Okay. Sure. Be there in a few.”
“O-okay,” And then there was the sharp click of the ended call and Jeremy was alone again, staring at his blank phone screen before climbing out of bed to get dressed.
~ • ~
Fifteen minutes later, Michael texted him.
pLaYeR tWo: hey i’m outside
Jeremy frowned for a second. Why didn’t he use the key?
And then the memory came rushing back to him in High Definition.
(Move the key, Jeremy.
“Why? I mean, we’re still friends. If he comes over and I can’t get to the door in time, then like--”
To upgrade, you need to move forward. Michael is dragging you down. Do you want Christine, Jeremy?
“I mean, yes, but I don’t understand why in order to get Christine I have to block out Michael.”
To move up the social class of your high school, you need to let go of this dead weight. Moving the key would be a sign. It would let him know that you don’t need him anymore. Move the key, Jeremy.
“O-okay, I guess so.” )
pLaYeR tWo: dude
imheere: sorry, i’m coming down in a second
(What if he. . . .? Maybe he tried. . . ?) Jeremy shoved those thoughts down for the time being and rushed down the stairs to the door. Michael was standing there, wearing a soft blue hoodie and black shorts, headphones dangling from around his neck.
“Hey,”
“Sure took you long enough,” Michael snorted. Jeremy let a flash of a nervous smile flit across his face as he opened the door wider.
Tension curled around the two, suffocating them as Jeremy rocked back on his heels. “So. . . um, do you want a drink or something?”
Michael refused to meet his eye, focusing on the stairwell behind him. “Nah, I already ate.”
“Oh. Do you, uh, want to come upstairs?”
Michael shrugged. “I guess.”
That’s how they’d ended up on the floor of Jeremy’s bedroom: Michael toying with the drawstrings of his hoodie, Jeremy wracking his brain for something to say.
“What happened to your old hoodie?”
“The red one? Oh. Um, it reminded me too much of you, so I got a new one. The other one is just kind of. . . sitting in the back of my closet.”
(“Michael, close your fucking eyes.”
“Du-u-de,” Michael whined, obliging reluctantly and pouting. Jeremy had to resist laughing.
“Okay, hold out your hands.”
“My god, remind me how old we are?” He grumbled, pout softening as he felt the box in his hands.
“Open it!”
“Really? Wow! What a concept.” Michael shot back, grinning anyway as he pulled the box open, revealing a bright red hoodie with a small rainbow pin on the front. “Oh my god.”
“Do you like--” Jeremy started to ask, but the wind was knocked out of him and he fell back on the beanbag chair, arms full on a beaming Michael Mell.
“Jere, oh my god, thank you,” Michael pulled back and hovered over him, smiling softly, a faint blush dusted on his cheeks.
Jeremy felt his face heat up at the sight and cleared his throat, smiling back. “Oof. You’re welcome.”)
“I’m so, so sorry. For-for everything I did to you.” Michael’s fingers stilled for a second, but he stopped and scoffed. “For hurting you, and-and leaving you and making you feel like I-I hated you--”
“Was it even worth it?”
Jeremy opened his mouth to answer, but Michael continued uninhibited.
“You’d always talk about wanting to be popular. About dreaming of fitting in, of being accepted. Sometimes it would get to me, but you would promise. You would promise that I was your ‘favorite person’ and that you would never leave me, but you did! You did, without ever looking back. And. . . I don’t know. Maybe I was stupid to think that twelve years of friendship meant anything. You always seemed so. . . desperate to move forward anyway.”
Jeremy was torn between reaching out to the boy in front of him or standing up and walking away. “Michael. . .”
“And it was so easy for you. To just leave me like that. I just wanted to-to help you! I was excited for you! I put on a brave face and thought, ‘we’ll get through this together,’ but we didn’t. And it hurt , Jeremy, it hurt so bad to know that the one person I could rely on dropped me in an instant to be cool.”
Jeremy’s throat constricted at the sight of Michael, staring at the floor with tears streaming down his cheeks and landing silently in his hoodie. “I. . .” And he was going to apologize, again, but that wouldn’t have solved anything. “. . .I moved the key.”
Michael laughed, a humorless sound. “I know. I tried staging an intervention once, but um. The key was gone, and your dad wasn’t home and I knew you wouldn’t let me in so I just left.”
The silence in the air was deafening. (It was so loud, it hurt.)
“And then at Jake’s party? You wouldn’t even let me help you there. The one time that I’d finally gotten to see you after two months! And you left! Again! I was trying to help you. Was it worth it?”
“No. None of it was. I was just so caught up in being popular that I. . . left you.”
“I thought I was your player two,” Michael said quietly, and Jeremy’s heart shattered in pieces. He shuffled closer, stretching out his hand until his fingers were almost grazing Michael’s knee.
“Can I, um, hug you?” Michael looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow that said really? “I-I know it doesn’t fix anything but--”
“Oh. A hug would be. . . okay.” Jeremy opened his arms and Michael reluctantly wound his around Jeremy’s waist, pressing his face to his shoulder. Jeremy drew his fingers gently up and down the other’s back in what he hoped was a reassurance. (A silent apology, spoken in gestures, not words.)
“Are we going to be okay?”
“I hope so.”