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The doorbell ring is so unexpected, Michael is sure he imagined it. In fact, auditory hallucinations are a side effect of sleep deprivation. He read an article on it last night instead of sleeping.
He twists the faucet handle off and wipes a wet hand on his jeans. He reaches into his back pocket and finds the volume buttons on his phone. The sound of Weezer over the speakers diminishes in volume from blaring to normal.
The reverb of the ring is still echoing throughout the house, so maybe he didn’t just imagine it. Michael gently places the dish he was washing back in the sink, dries his hands for real on a towel, and goes to check it out. He spots a figure on the other side of the tiny frosted glass window.
Michael’s relieved he’s not hearing things, but that’s quickly replaced by suspicion.
Michael tries to peek out of front window as inconspicuously as possible to make sure he’s not about to get axe murdered, and there on his front porch is Jeremy.
Michael’s not sure if that’s better or worse.
Michael ducks back. Jeremy definitely didn’t see him. There’s no way he could have from the angle. Maybe Michael can just pretend he’s not home? His Cruiser’s currently in the garage, after all, and his moms are at work, so the driveway is empty.
Michael turns around to go back to the kitchen, but stops.
He’s been avoiding Jeremy ever since he got out of the hospital a couple days back. Michael just doesn’t know where they stand. Yeah, he saved Jeremy from the Squip. Sure, he was glued to Jeremy’s hospital bedside until he woke up and every possible second after. But Hospital Jeremy was just so different from any other Jeremy that Michael knew. He was just so pale and pathetic looking in that gown and was actually looking at and speaking to Michael for the first time in so fucking long, and that was just such an amazing feeling. But now Hospital Jeremy is just regular Jeremy. And Michael doesn’t know who that is anymore.
He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out yet, either.
The doors bell rings again. Michael turns back around and watches Jeremy through the frosted glass. He’s moving to look in the front window. Michael jumps out of the way to stand safely out of sight, but in his panic, his socked feet slide a bit too much and he crashes hard into the shoe rack.
Michael catches himself, but not before making a racket. Jeremy’s figure outside the little window stops, and looks back at the door.
Shit.
Well, now he has to open the door.
Michael shakes his head and tries to steady his heart rate as he undoes the lock. Michael takes a breath and twists the doorknob, then pulls before he can persuade himself not to. Just like ripping off a bandaid. His eyes find Jeremy’s immediately.
Jeremy stares at Michael. Michael stares at Jeremy.
And Michael immediately notices three very wrong things with this picture.
First of all, he can’t remember the last time he saw Jeremy Heere standing on his porch like this, bouncing from foot to foot, waiting to be invited in. He’s not being dramatic or anything, he literally just can’t remember, because they haven’t used doorbells in years. Not since middle school. Maybe even grade school. And Michael realizes this as he stares at Jeremy.
And Michael knows Jeremy knows. And Michael knows Jeremy knows that he knows.
Second of all, Jeremy is wearing an Eminem shirt. And, oh, there is so much wrong with that, Michael doesn’t even know where to begin. Because he got rid of the Squips at Middleborough. Because he spoke to Jeremy in the hospital. And Jeremy was very Squip-free then. And Michael was under the impression that the Eminem thing was the Squip and not Jeremy. So then what the fuck was this?
And third of all, Michael.
Michael is so not ready for this. When he visited Jeremy in the hospital, he made sure he was ready. As in, he showered and dressed himself in his clean red hoodie and used concealer under his eyes and rehearsed what he wanted to say in the parking lot. Then, he practiced his Listening Face in the rearview mirror and thought extensively about what topics were and were not okay to bring up and was able to pace around in the waiting area if he still wasn’t quite ready, even then.
Because right now, Michael isn’t showered. His hair is sticking up with oils. The circles under his eyes look like smeared war paint. His socks aren’t matching and his shirt isn’t clean, not to mention he’s hot and kind of sweaty from this cleaning spree, so he’s wearing short sleeves and has no possible way of covering up all the new bracelets he had to get since before Jeremy stopped talking to him, and he hopes Jeremy doesn’t ask because he is especially not ready for that conversation.
And also, there is no conversation. And Michael doesn’t know how to start it. Michael blinks at Jeremy. He’s the one who came here after all.
Jeremy opens and closes his mouth, then opens it again with this staggering breath. “Hey.”
And wow. Yeah, Michael isn’t ready.
He needs to swallow and blink a few more times before he can speak. And even then, he just takes a step back into the living room and opens the door a little wider with this aborted gesture that Jeremy should come inside because it’s November (or is it December already?) and very not good weather for standing on the porch.
Jeremy gets this weird look on his face and steps inside. Michael steps between Jeremy and the door to shut it, and for the small moment Jeremy can’t see him, Michael lets the wave crash over him.
He’s so relieved, so thrilled to see Jeremy standing in his living room when he had convinced himself that this would never happen ever again. That pales in comparison to how overwhelmingly hurt and pissed off and angry he is. He’s also sad and upset and just wants to help, and confused because he doesn’t know what to do to help, and also scared. Really, really scared.
But most of all, he just wants everything to be okay again.
He looks square at the doorknob in his hands. Solid and cold and real, and breathes.
He turns around. Jeremy is looking around the living room.
Michael looks around the living room, too. He’s halfway through cleaning it, and Mom is always joking that when you clean, everything always get messier before it gets cleaner. And maybe there's some truth to that joke, because right now it’s definitely messier. The sound of Weezer is drifting in from the kitchen. Jeremy looks towards the noise.
“I’m cleaning,” Michael says carefully.
He doesn’t think he’s ever cared more about how he sounds than right now. He doesn’t want to sound too busy or annoyed, because now that Jeremy is here, Michael really doesn’t want him to leave, even though he was ready to pretend he wasn’t home not thirty seconds ago, and doesn’t that make perfect sense?
He hopes to sound light and casual. Because when nothing was wrong, that’s how they spoke to each other. And Michael really doesn’t want anything to be wrong anymore.
“Oh, I-I can leave if you’re busy,” Jeremy stammers out quickly, spinning on his heel, and oh shit, Michael said it wrong.
“No no,” Michael says, still standing between Jeremy and the door. “No, um. It’s fine. Uh. Kinda lonely cleaning, well, alone anyways." He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite get there.
Jeremy’s eyebrows pinch together.
Michael brushes past Jeremy and starts towards the kitchen. He hears the clunk of Jeremy removing his shoes with his toes behind him. Michael reaches the sink and grips the edges and squeezes his eyes shut. Everything is suddenly so off balance.
Whatever contentment he had from cleaning is gone. The floor feels slanted, his head hurts, and Goddamn he’s tired. And he doesn’t know what or how to feel. He feels everything, and nothing, all at once, and it doesn’t make any sense.
He runs his hands over his face and his fingers through his hair. He grips what he can of it and pulls. He takes another breath and opens his eyes.
He can’t believe he doesn’t know what to do right now.
What did they used to do, anyways?
Michael drops his hands and goes to the fridge just as Jeremy enters the kitchen.
“Do you want, uh,” Michael moves some leftovers out of the way and pretends he doesn’t see the extra bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red. “Orbitz or Vault?” Michael glances at Jeremy, but his eyes are so open and blue and jarring that Michael has to look back at the fridge. “There’s a few cherry Cokes left, too . . .”
Jeremy doesn’t say anything. Michael looks back at him. He’s just standing in his kitchen, looking at Michael with his mouth hanging open, eyebrows still pinched together.
“Jere?” Michael rubs his temple. Maybe he should take an aspirin.
“You hate cherry Coke,” Jeremy says.
Michael looks back into the fridge, but his eyes don’t land on anything. He just can’t quite take that expression on Jeremy’s face right now.
“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Uh, that’s why it’s still sitting in my fridge.”
Michael grabs one of them. It’s at the far back, sandwiched between a definitely-expired container of Soy milk and the wall. He holds it out to Jeremy as he grabs a Vault for himself, waiting for Jeremy to take it. Waiting for Jeremy to . . . Jesus Christ.
His nerves begin to fray and he drops his arm slightly with the weight of it. He shoots a look over his shoulder and snaps before he can stop himself. “Dude, do you want it or can I pour it down the sink now?”
Michael recoils. No, that's not what he meant to say, and fuck now Jeremy's going to leave because he sounded angry and—
But, Jeremy isn’t paying any attention. He’s staring hard at a point just past the can. Michael follows his gaze, and his heart falls to the basement. Michael jerks his arm away and sets the Coke on the table.
Jeremy’s noticed the new bracelets. He just had to. Michael can only pray and pray he doesn’t say anything. He’s not ready for this, at all. Not now, not ever.
He’s itching for a sleeve to pull down, but if he goes to get his hoodie, he’ll have acknowledged that he knows Jeremy was looking at his bracelets and that he doesn’t want Jeremy to do that, and then Jeremy will absolutely ask about them. And Michael thinks that’s about the worst thing that could happen right now.
Michael cracks the can open and takes a few gulps. It’s, surprisingly, not 100% flat. The texture is a good distraction.
Michael sets the half-empty can back on the counter with a soft clink.
Jeremy face is blank, but his breath is coming harder and faster as he looks and looks at Michael's bracelets. Michael needs to suppress a shudder as he crosses his arms behind his back. Jeremy's gaze lands on Michael’s face.
“Don’t,” Michael says as Jeremy opens his mouth. “Jere, just . . . Don’t.”
Some emotion creeps back into Jeremy’s expression. It looks an awful lot like guilt.
And Michael wants to say he hates that look, that he doesn’t want Jeremy to feel guilty, that it’s all Michael’s fault that he had to get new bracelets to cover his wrists, and had nothing to do with Jeremy, but Michael knows that’s a lie. And no matter how many times he tells himself he doesn’t want Jeremy to feel bad about it, there’s that one awful, twisted part of him that feels good because Jeremy looks like that.
And Michael hates that. Because that’s wrong, because it isn’t Jeremy’s fault. He thinks.
Michael shakes his head. Now is not the time to unpack all of that, so instead he brushes past Jeremy and turns the faucet on. “I’m just finishing dishes, then maybe you can help me . . . fix whatever’s going on in the living room.”
He hears the screech of a chair being pulled from the kitchen table behind him, and the definite thump of Jeremy sitting. Michael turns the volume on his music back up.
Michael can feel Jeremy’s stare on his back. He imagines it like a laser pointer. The red dot is right between his shoulder blades, or maybe on the back of his head. He wants to look over his shoulder and see if Jeremy really is staring at him, or if he’s just looking around the kitchen with that expression he had in the living room. Like he’s never seen it before.
Michael scrubs hard at a plate.
Wait, what if the Squip also blocked Michael’s house and stuff? What if Jeremy doesn’t remember what it looks like? Maybe that’s why he looked so confused?
But, no. No, that doesn’t make any sense. Jeremy didn’t forget Michael. Just blocked him. He definitely still remembers Michael, so that should carry over to his house, too. And everything else, right? So the Squip definitely isn’t telling Jeremy things anymore. Or blocking things. Michael sure hopes so, at least.
But Jeremy is wearing an Eminem shirt. Jeremy doesn’t like Eminem.
Michael looks hard at the bubbles sliding down Ma’s favorite mug before he rinses them away.
God, where does Michael even start with this stuff?
Michael turns the mug over and nestles it on the drying rack, between the multitude of other plates and mugs he carried out of the basement that morning. He twists the faucet handle off.
Michael shakes his dripping hands out over the sink, enjoying the clatter of the beads and metal of his bracelets. He always thought they sounded like maracas. He picks up a rag from the counter and turns around. Jeremy's face is neutral save for that tension in his forehead, and he's looking at Michael's bracelets again.
Michael dries his hands, then holds the towel around his forearms for a couple seconds to dry the bracelets, like he always does and like Jeremy has seen him do countless times. He’s not going to start acting differently just because Jeremy has.
He flicks the towel over the edge of the sink, enjoying the clatter on his wrist.
Michael catches Jeremy’s eye. Jeremy looks like he really wants to say something.
“Living room?” Michael offers lightly. Jeremy stands up instead.
Small mercies.
Michael grabs the garbage can and drags it to the living room, then finds a broom and feather duster. He turns the speakers in the kitchen off, and the old set in the living room on. He connects his phone to the bluetooth and listens to the familiar beeps that tell him it's connected.
Michael’s eyes keep flicking to Jeremy the whole time, and each time Jeremy is looking at him. Michael is trying to figure out why he’s looking at him like that. With that stupid crease between his brow and his lips slightly parted, looking for the world like Michael might just disappear at any moment.
For all Michael knows, he could. To Jeremy. He doesn’t know how the whole Squip deactivation thing works, after all.
Michael clears his throat and the thought and puts his entire playlist on shuffle, then gets to work.
He looks around the space.
“Do you wanna sweep?” Michael offers, shoving the broom towards Jeremy. Jeremy wraps his hand around the handle in this oddly specific way, flourishing a little, so each finger lands on the handle one after the other. It throws Michael off as he watches it, mesmerized. “I’ll, er, clean the shelves," he mumbles.
The DVDs. He’ll start with the DVDs.
Ween plays over the the speakers. Michael is only kind of listening as he pulls all of the DVD’s off and onto the floor. He can hear Jeremy sweeping behind him.
Why do his moms have so many DVDs? Michael looks at cover after cover. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen any of these on. He sets the ones he doesn’t really recognize in one pile. He’ll see if he can donate them to the resale shop or whatever later. He has another pile for his own DVDs from when he was younger that he knows will never get touched again. Those he can definitely donate.
Radiohead is next. Michael barely notices as he dusts the shelf off, throwing away random wrappers and receipts that have found their way into the crevices.
Michael pretends he can't feel Jeremy's glances as he replaces all of the keep-DVDs. Then, he takes all of the photo frames and certificates for stupid stuff in grade school and whatnot down and starts dusting and cleaning those shelves, too.
Jeremy bangs the dust pan against the garbage can behind him.
Michael shakes his head, trying to clear the noise.
At one time, Jeremy’s house felt just as much home to Michael as his own. Cleaning was just something he did there sometimes. He knew where everything went. Jeremy would be in the shower and Michael would do the dishes. Jeremy would be busy with homework and Michael would organize his dresser.
And it went both ways. Jeremy would tidy up and put things away where they belonged and help Michael with laundry.
And Michael never even noticed. He never noticed how normal it felt to put groceries away at the Heere household, or how natural it was for him to get out of the shower to find Jeremy picking up around the basement. Until it wasn’t normal anymore.
And now something they did before without thinking takes so much thought that it hurts.
Michael’s chest feels heavy again and throat thick as he takes another frame down, but pauses. He looks at it.
It’s him and Jeremy in two ill-fitting caps and gowns, standing in front of a million folding chairs in a stuffy gymnasium. Middle school graduation.
Jeremy has this slight smile, like whoever took the picture was forcing it out of him. It doesn't matter, though, because Michael's smiling enough for both of them. They’re holding up their diplomas, and Michael has an arm thrown over Jeremy’s shoulders. Michael is holding his diploma upside down.
“What are you . . .” Jeremy appears next to him. “Oh.”
Michael glances at him. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels it fade.
“We were so stupid,” Michael says. He means to be off-handed, but it comes out with this unexpected weight. “Remember I thought that the diploma thing would be funny. God.”
“I mean, it’s still pretty funny,” Jeremy remarks, and Michael’s fingers slip.
He fumbles quickly and catches the picture before it hits the floor and looks back at Jeremy. Because for a split second there he actually sounded like Jeremy.
Not like the Squip, or like Hospital Jeremy. Like Jeremy.
“What?” Jeremy says, freaked.
“You just,” Michael takes a step back and blinks some more. “Jeremy.”
Jeremy just looks at him. And, God, Michael needs to know.
“You didn’t come here to help me clean,” he says. Jeremy gets this pained look on his face and Michael needs to look away. He turns around to place the photo frame back where it belongs. No matter how much Michael wants to pretend everything is fine, wants to just continue where they left off, it’s still bothering him that Jeremy is just here when he hasn’t been just there in so long.
Michael turns back around. Jeremy is opening and closing his hand on the broom handle, in that stupid flourishy way, staring at the spot. He’s processing.
Michael waits.
“Yeah—No. I, uh,” Jeremy shakes his head. “I-I really wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”
It ends in this off pitch, and Michael can guess what word is next. “But?” He offers, trying so hard to keep his voice light, so free of what's building in his chest.
“But,” Jeremy starts blinking rapidly at the handle, and a muscle in his cheek twitches and Michael doesn’t know what to do because he knows what comes next. His eyes start stinging. “I-I don’t know. I don’t know how t-to-to tell you.” Jeremy looks at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to tell you that I’m sorry, Michael,” he says much too quickly and strained and oh fuck.
"Michael—" Jeremy breaks. His face crumples and he takes a staggering breath. “Michael, I’m so sorry.”
The broom handle hits the floor with a resounding bang that goes right through Michael, and Jeremy is crying, and Michael doesn’t know what to do because now he’s crying, too.
Jeremy notices and muffles the sobs that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats and repeats.
Michael starts moving towards Jeremy to comfort him or hug him or touch him or something, but freezes. It’s wrong, and the feeling hits him hard. For the first time Michael can remember, the thought of doing that is just so wrong.
And Jeremy watches Michael stop, and Michael is so glad Jeremy muffles the sound that escapes him next.
“Jeremy, I, it’s—” Michael falters. He wants to say it’s okay, it’s his instinctive response, but it doesn’t come out, because he knows the truth of how he feels and he just can’t do it. He looks away and shakes his head, but the tears only come harder.
Michael gives himself ten good seconds. Then he coughs and wipes his eyes hard and breathes and breathes again until the cry threat level is down to code yellow. By the time that happens, Jeremy is less hysterical, sniffling a few feet away, looking absolutely terrified.
The static in the air is so electric, but it feels more like electrocution. Michael’s chest is aching and his heart is racing.
Michael doesn’t know what to do.
Michael coughs into his elbow. He needed that apology. He needed it so badly that he couldn’t sleep over it and found distractions to stop thinking about it, cleaning sprees being of the more productive variety.
But now that he’s gotten it, Michael doesn’t know what to do, and Michael’s been thinking of, agonizing over, this moment of Jeremy’s apology, ever since that night on Halloween. He ran the scenario over in his head so many times and thought of how he would react, how he could react. And he thought those words would just fix everything. That they’d be okay now and go to the basement and play video games and it’d be back to normal. It’d be okay, again.
Michael just wants to be okay again.
He forgot how bad he is with this kind of thing. With apologies and thanks yous and compliments and the like, where he’s expected to respond in a specific way, and if he doesn’t respond in the correct way, he’s a disappointment. And he never knows how to respond. And usually it’s wrong.
Michael’s mouth is hanging open, he closes it and shakes his head. He can’t figure out what to do. It’s like he’s glitching out.
Michael runs his fingers through his hair, which makes it stick up worse, so he stops. He glances at Jeremy, who’s watching him closely.
“Michael,” Jeremy takes a step away from him. “I fucked up.”
Michael swallows, trying to relax his tense and sore throat as he nods and nods, because he just can't pretend anymore.
Jeremy makes this suppressed sound in the back of his throat and falls on the couch, leaning forward over his knees. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, staring so hard at the coffee table he must be trying to bore a hole in it.
Michael can only imagine what’s running through that head of his. What he wants to say, or can’t bring himself to say, or is scared to say because he doesn’t know how Michael will respond. To be fair, Michael doesn’t know, either. But knowing Jeremy, that is, if Michael still does, he’s probably tearing himself apart in there. Jeremy could do that better than anyone Michael's ever met.
In the end, Jeremy just buries his face in his hands.
Michael can't look at that, so he walks away to the kitchen and finds Jeremy’s cherry Coke on the table. He grabs his Vault from the counter and stares at it. He needs more time.
Michael steals a moment to lean against the refrigerator. He closes his eyes and listens to the thunk of his head falling against the smooth surface. He lifts his head and lets it fall again. Michael is trying to clear it, but it's all too much. He gives up and just breathes, focusing on the cool cans in his hand and the solid object he's leaning on. He presses the can of Vault onto his forehead and let's the cold condensation relieve some of the pain there. Michael takes one more breath, pulls himself together the best he can, and walks back into the living room. Jeremy is still wallowing when he returns.
Michael sits down gingerly, perched on the edge of the couch beside Jeremy. Jeremy lifts his head. Michael hands Jeremy the can. Jeremy takes it without a second glance this time.
Jeremy takes small sips, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the aluminum. Michael watches him rock back and forth, ever so slightly. He wonders if the Squip tried to fix that, then pushes the awful thought back.
There was nothing to fix in the first place.
“Better?” He asks Jeremy after a few moments. The music switches back to Weezer.
Jeremy shakes his head at the table as if to clear it—or quiet it, maybe—then looks to Michael. Michael feels Jeremy’s eyes crawl all over him, and he tries to sit still.
Jeremy's eyes are meticulous and unforgiving, like they're taking in every detail of Michael to store away forever. They find the creases in his shirt and the redness of his cheeks. The mess of his hair and the chipped polish falling away from his nails. The dirty socks and faded jeans and glasses that don't quite sit perfectly, and the circles beneath his eyes and chapped lips. And every bracelet, every memory, every imperfection and minute detail. It's hard to sit still then, but Michael tries. That's all he can do.
Finally, Jeremy’s eyes find Michael’s, and yeah. Michael sees what Mom says about cleaning.
Michael looks away and stands up. They need to get back to work.