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Michael’s had to do a lot of compartmentalization over the past year. For example: he needs to think of Jeremy as the sweet, warm guy he’s been friends with for all those years, and to do that, he needs to narrow that emotional trauma down to that specific shirt, that specific bathroom, that specific insult. Shove it down, put it in a back drawer, whatever. He can’t let it bother him.
An even more unnatural example is how he’s apparently friends with Rich Goranski now- a.k.a., the reason he’s got his big honkin’ disability. Yeah, technically, Rich didn’t start the hearing loss- he was already genetically predisposed- but he’s the one who kicked him directly into partially deaf territory, where he was now. Making loud noises in people's ears constantly only makes their hearing loss worse- who knew?
Michael’s thoughts linger on that now as he strums his guitar, sighing as the individual sounds blur together. His aids aren’t working as well as they should be this morning; maybe one of them is running low on batteries, but he doesn’t have the resources to replace them the instant the sound goes screwy. Instead, he picks up his cell phone and types out a message to Jeremy.
i know i bitch about this every other day but like. it is so fucking hard being a partially deaf musician
As he waits for Jeremy to respond, Michael plucks halfheartedly at the strings of his guitar, feeling out a tune that he'd written the other day but still hadn't quite memorized.
): I'm sorry man. That sucks. But you're still my favorite musician!
yeah, thanks duder. still hate it tho. come over?
Omw!
The only sorta cool thing about being partially deaf is that he got to pick out his own hearing aids. To match his inner goth self- goths like red, too, he'll have you know- he got black ones, sleek and shiny. It's yet another thing to get bullied for, alongside his open gayness and his general goofiness. He's safe now that he's got the most popular students in school on his side, but that doesn't undo the ages of bullying and all that shit.
It takes Jeremy ten minutes to arrive, five of those presumably from having to get dressed- it's 10 A.M. on a Saturday, which means that he was probably still in his boxers. He knocks on Michael's door before coming in, and Michael doesn't look up from his guitar when he says, “Come in.” His voice lacks the usual warmth; something about today is wearing on him, but at least he knows what's been bringing him down.
As Michael unslings his guitar from his shoulder and puts it on the ground, Jeremy sits down next to him on his bed, hands rested delicately on his thighs. “...So,” he says, “are you alright?”
The words become fuzzy to Michael's hell ears, thanks to the aids, and he replies, “Huh?”
Jeremy, a chronic quiet talker, clears his throat. “Oh. Sorry.” Then, louder than the first time: “Are you alright?”
“Uh, yeah. I'm fine,” Michael says, but he isn't- not exactly. He's chill, it's whatever, it just pisses him off a little. “Can I vent to you for just a second?”
“Of course you can,” Jeremy says. “I vent to you all the time. Go for it.”
Michael takes a deep breath. “Okay, so… I know he's your friend, and he's my friend, too, but it's just sorta hard living like this thanks to what Rich did to me.”
“What Rich- oh.” Jeremy is silent for a moment before he says, “I don't think he even knows it's his fault.”
“That just makes it worse.” Michael sighs and glances away, suddenly wishing he hadn't put his guitar down. “I know I never say this, but just this once, I wish I was normal.”
“That's so weird to hear from you. I sorta hate it.”
“Well, you can't blame me,” Michael says. “I just want to be able to make music like a normal person, and participate in class discussions, and not have to, I dunno, deal with all…” He gestures to the side of his head. “...This.”
Jeremy places an ever-hesitant palm on Michael’s back, just between his shoulder blades, and keeps it there without rubbing- just an anchor. “I get it, dude. I mean, I don’t get it get it, but… it must be hard.”
“It is. And most days I can deal with it, like, it’s fine, whatever, I’m used to it, but I can’t be cheery about this all the time, y’know?” Michael sighs, leans back into Jeremy’s touch. “I hate you seeing me like this, though.”
Jeremy rolls his eyes, though it’s not sardonic. “You’ve seen me at my worst, man, I can handle you at your sad-about-your-disability.”
“Thanks, man.” Michael yearns to lean his head on Jeremy’s shoulder, but the aid would get in the way; he can’t do things the way he used to. Instead, he wraps an arm around Jeremy’s skinny shoulders and pulls him closer. This is enough- it’ll have to be. “Do you think I’m overreacting?” he asks. “Like, it’s not that bad. It could be worse.”
“What? Of course you’re not overreacting,” Jeremy says. “Anything could be worse. That doesn’t mean it’s not bad.”
“Right.” Michael already knew that, really; it’s the same thing he’s told Jeremy a thousand times, but today, he just isn’t getting through to himself. It’s a different kind of bad day than usual- typically, his bad days consist of him being too distracting in class, getting yelled at, pretending to go to the bathroom so he can get some peace and quiet, getting pushed against a locker on the way there, etc. etc. Still, he’ll try to roll with the punches.
“Be real with me, here,” Jeremy says. “Do you like Rich?”
“I… like him,” Michael answers. “It’s just hard when I know that he and his cronies messed me up like this. I’ll talk to him next time I see him, I guess. See if I can’t get an apology out of him.”
“He’s gotten better,” Jeremy says. “Like, a lot. I’m sure you will.”
“Good. That’s a start. And… I guess I’ll save up for better hearing aids. Do you know how expensive these little fucks are?” Michael uses his free hand to tap gently at one of the aids, although it’s on the side that Jeremy can’t see, so there’s no real point.
“I wouldn’t think they’re cheap,” Jeremy says. “I’ll help, if you want. We could crowdfund it.”
“Nah, I’ve got it.”
There’s silence for a few minutes- although there’s some feedback from Michael’s hearing aids; he makes a vaguely embarrassing mental note to have at it with a Q-Tip later- before Jeremy asks, “Can I listen to you play?”
“I dunno, man. I sound like shit right now,” Michael answers. “My batteries are low. The sounds are getting all… funky.”
“I don’t care. I still wanna hear.”
Michael shrugs, letting his arm fall away from Jeremy’s shoulders so he can pick up his guitar. “Suit yourself.”
Jeremy smiles for the first time since he arrived and says, “Did you start writing a new song?”
“Yeah, actually,” Michael says, “and I was thinking- for this one, did you want to do the vocals? We haven’t collabed in a while.”
Jeremy perks up even further at that. “Dude, of course I want to! Do you have a sheet with the lyrics?”
“Yeah, it’s over here…”
Sometimes, being like this is almost okay. He’s got Jeremy, he’s got his moms, he’s got his dog (who graciously barks loud enough for him to hear); he can deal with some blurred sounds and getting teased. He’s still a damn good musician, whether his disability likes it or not.
When Michael retrieves the lyrics from his nightstand after Jeremy goes home, there’s a note scrawled on the back of the paper: love ya, you cool pd bastard <3
Yeah, things are definitely okay.