Work Text:
june second
(the lake, where michael is far from home)
10:29pm
When Michael has one foot out the door, he runs.
He bounds across the cracked asphalt, the shoe pads of his footwear scraping against the rough concrete. The rushing wind of tonight clogging tone-deaf ears, caressing tawny smooth skin, and tangling itself into mahogany hair. Above held the inky terrestrial, enigmatic speckles of the night dotting what supposed to be pitch black. Michael almost smiles, the reluctant tug from the corner of his lips tempting.
His hands were pulled away from his white jacket's pockets, carding his fingers in his crumpled mop of hair gently while the other stayed beside. A couple miles away from home, Michael estimated, his legs growing drowsy from the running.
He had nowhere to go.
Pause.
Perhaps he didn't think this through too well.
He found himself stuck, far from home in the middle of the night, vulnerable enough for anyone to catch. Michael catches his breath, subconsciously tracing his finger over the worn-out paint of a nearby, outgrown structure.
It wasn't until long before hazel eyes locked with electric blue, voice catching in his throat.
The figure was tall and lanky, at least half a head higher than Michael was, but with his slumped posture Michael didn't move himself to think of the stranger as a threat just yet.
"What are you doing out here alone?"
Their voice was impossibly soft, an octave so much higher than his.
It felt difficult to see; to get a closer look at the mystery person's features until they had taken a step closer. A mop of abundant curls sat on their head, freckles flourishing their cheeks, their nose, their ears, neck, and everything else beyond and in between.
Their skin was pale, abnormal patches of stark white, much like a Dalmatian's black spots, lay upon their skin with no pattern to follow.
In hand, they held a potted succulent.
The clay pot was covered with stickers and doodles; it was heart-warming. Like seeing a puppy roll on its back for more belly rubs. It's fucking adorable, and it unfortunately makes all of Michael's insides want to explode, and the problem here is that that's exactly the problem.
"I could ask you the same." Michael replied, nodding his head toward the stranger. It was the best response he could have thought of as of right now, internally cringing when he couldn't have come up with something better.
It's too cliché, Michael thinks. Too overused. But that doesn't stop him from saying it anyway.
He's fled from his home and met a stranger who, for some reason, is out this late at night. Michael has a reason, but he doesn't know the stranger's.
His thoughts cloud over his head.
Michael thinks about home, his bedroom, the crafted terrarium he was so proud of that sat on the shelves near his bed; his comfortable mattress and PACMAN duvet. Maybe he shouldn't have run so far away with nothing but his unfit self.
There wasn't really a good reason.
Michael just felt he should run. Be free, away from the arguments and boredom and yelling and fear—it sounded so good. So perfect, so impossible.
He was dumb enough to not bring his little jar of coins so he could at least pay to stay in some shitty cheap inn for the night. Michael mentally laughs at his dumbassery, a grimace almost making its way to his face.
The wave of a hand in front of his face and the sound of shuffling feet are what snaps him back to physical reality. He had almost forgotten someone was with him right now, stuck somewhere in New Jersey by a lake Michael doesn't know the name of.
Another shuffle of feet is what he hears before the stranger speaks again, cutting through the thick silence.
"Why aren't you at home?"
It's another question, and Michael dismisses it with a lazy wave and the shrug of his shoulders.
"Running away," he says plainly—like it's perfectly normal to flee miles away from the only available shelter you're able to reside in. "But it doesn't matter. I'm going back anyway. Anyone with a brain knows I can't survive like this." He brings his arms up, chuckling.
When Michael chuckles, it comes out raspy and tired and worn down and sad. It's not a normal chuckle, a happy chuckle; an amused chuckle. It's melancholic and it brings the night's already-chilly temperature below zero.
The stranger purses their lips, silent.
Staying true to his word, Michael turns on his shoe's worn-out heel and begins his trip back.
june third
(michael's roof, where he self-reflects)
6:44pm
When tomorrow comes and today passes, Michael's legs ache.
It's late evening, almost until the sun sets, and he knows this because the sky looks like a pretty summer orange and candy pink whisked together in a bowl with pillow-white clouds. He reaches out, lazily tracing the different, unique shapes the clouds form with a finger.
There's cut-off circles, weird round-edged rectangles, and loop-de-loops that don't reach the other end. He knows this because the sun to his left is behind the small trees his neighborhood had, and the air is getting cooler.
(Michael's surprised he hasn't slipped off of the slanted roof, but he tells himself to enjoy it while it lasts.)
There's a small glimpse of someone down below, and Michael finds his eyes landing on familiar bespectacled blue. He almost forgets the telescope he had in hand, remembering only when he lets it go before haphazardly swiping it back into his grip before it even begins rolling.
He inhales sharply, closing his eyes momentarily to sigh loudly.
Michael's focus is back to the person below, still staring at him.
The boy on the roof can see the boy below smiling: laughing behind the white-splotched hand over his mouth.
He sees how their chest heaves non-rhythmically, how the corners of their eyes crinkle, how the freckles on their cheeks and patches of white on their skin look more prominent under their reddened face.
Normally, Michael would be frustrated.
Instead he feels his face grow hot with embarrassment and face split into a stupid-wide grin.
He finds out that the stranger from yesterday's smile and laugh are contagious. Michael doesn't know how to stop beaming even when his cheekbones begin to hurt. God, he's laughing now, too, and his heart aches. Fuck. He doesn't even know the idiot's name yet.
Michael realizes that they're holding another potted succulent, the stickers on the clay pot so much different from last time.
Eventually, the stranger from yesterday leaves with a wave, and Michael waves back in hopes to meet them again.
june fourth
(the lake, where michael skips rocks)
5:07am
When Michael wakes up, he remembers the lake.
The lake isn't too deep, but it isn't much shallow either.
The space isn't the largest, but it isn't the smallest.
The water isn't the clearest, but it isn't the murkiest.
It's not important, nor did it interest Michael in any way. What Michael does find mesmerizing is how the water reflects the light and the trees and everything else that surrounds it: the rocks, the birds that fly by, the clouds that drift slowly.
It's a natural mirror. Maybe not the mirror you would hope for, but it's sitting there just in case.
It's therapeutic, Michael says to himself in his head, though he'd choose his house roof over the lake any day.
There's nothing wrong with sitting on the dock by the lake, Michael just hasn't adapted to the area yet. Plus, his roof's a great place to watch the stars — uncomfortable, maybe, but that could change with the help of a few blankets. Here, he feels closer to the stars; closer to space and peace and quiet, and it's almost perfect.
Almost impossible.
Which is what would bring him to the present: hand dipped into the cool water. He drags it, swaying it back and forth across the lake, watching how the clear, luminescent rings of water drift away like sound waves. Occasionally, he would attempt to skip pebbles, failing more than enough times to have him quit altogether.
Michael frowns. "Sad. I can't even skip rocks properly..."
"Well, I don't know you that well—" Michael hears from behind— "or at all, really. But there's a possibility you might find success at something other than... skipping rocks?"
He listens to the crumbling footsteps the mystery man creates, craning his neck to watch grainy pebbles being stepped on mercilessly from the murky bottoms of pure black converse.
Michael can't help but snort. "Yeah? Keep dreaming, dude. The closest I'll get to "actual" success is completing Super Mario Bros. U without collecting a single coin."
He's smiling, teeth on display and dimples digging into his cheeks. But like his chuckle when they first met, it's not happy. It doesn't mean what a smile is assumed to stand for.
It's not bright, it's not shining, and whatever truth he had behind his pearly white teeth was hidden for far too long. He's trapped. He's trapped his soul somewhere and he doesn't know how to let it out, let it free, let it go.
It's stuck and the only way to let it release is with help, help because the smile he wears is so wide but his eyes show something so different.
Unbeknownst to Michael, the stranger wants to help,
So they stay.
They talk, Michael replies, they ask, Michael answers, they joke, Michael smiles, but they remember it means something else. And Michael wonders why they chose to stay, wonders if they'll grow tired and bored of him and not come back, wonders if his eyes will meet electric blue for the fifth time tomorrow. He wonders, wonders, wonders, and that's all he ever does even after the stranger from yesterday's yesterday leaves.
It's getting dark. Michael attempts to skip a rock, and finally, the rock skips.
june fifth
(michael's rooftop, where he thinks)
4:09pm
When Michael thinks, he thinks about the boy with messy curls.
The boy's hair bounces when they walk, when they move, when they laugh, and when he speaks with his hands. It bounces, or hops, or jumps when he holds the pot in his hands and lifts it high in the air or bends to place it down.
The boy always carries a pot.
Maybe he had errands everyday. Maybe he takes care of a flower shop. But Michael doesn't know, so he won't make assumptions.
He'll find out soon enough, or perhaps even not at all.
But he doesn't think about it.
He thinks about the boy.
Each pot's plant is different: it's fully grown, it's just sprouted, or it's making its way to bloom fully.
Maybe he has a garden, Michael tries. But there's no one and nothing in his mind to confirm his well-educated guess.
The boy has pale skin with even paler splotches that appear randomly on his skin. It's not a pattern, like polka dots or stripes or duplicated paint splatters. It's just... there. Michael is sure he's heard of it before—seen it before—but his mind's in the gutter and he's unable to place what it might be.
He doesn't see the boy for the fifth time today, and Michael tells himself that it doesn't bother him. They don't know each other's names—they don't know anything about each other.
There's nothing more to think about him, and there's nothing to be sad for.
But Michael know's he's lying, because inside his stomach there's a pit where everything feels wrong and itchy and weird. It rises and rises, and it boils and burns.
If he feels his chest tighten, he pays no mind to it.
Tomorrow. He won't see the boy with bouncy curly hair and pale skin with even paler splotches who always carries a pot. Not today.
Tomorrow.
The thought falls flat.
june sixth
(michael's windowsill by his bed, where he doesn't know)
7:50am
When today passes and tomorrow is here, Michael can't focus.
His ears are ringing, but the sound isn't unpleasant.
Michael wishes he had something to distract him from everything that weren't just the stars, moon, and night sky, because he could only find them when the sun turns in for the morning.
He doesn't want to wait anymore, leaning his elbow against the window's plastic frame, even despite the fact the smooth edge digs painfully into his skin. And like his chest tightening from yesterday, he doesn't acknowledge it, and he doesn't ask questions.
He doesn't ask.
He refuses to think about it because Michael's scared of knowing. He's scared that he won't be the same anymore and scared of what he needs to change; scared if what he needs to change is everything. What if he can't do anything? What if he can't fix it?
Michael doesn't want to know.
The boy doesn't go by again, and what's inside Michael's head begins spinning, swirling, making circles, and it makes him dizzy. Tired. And he doesn't know why, and he wants it to stay that way.
When his mind stops whirling, he still doesn't know why and it stays that way.
He doesn't see the boy for the fifth time again, but his mind is set on tomorrow. He said today, but he was wrong. Tomorrow again. Tomorrow.
"Tomorrow," Michael whispers, and the wind carries his voice. He drifts.
june seventh
(michael's bed, where he sulks)
1:12am
When Michael stays up, he talks to the air and feels his lungs deflate.
He wants to know, he wants to think, he wants to know. The outside universe Michael long admired can't help anymore.
june eleventh
(the woods by the lake, where michael is lost)
3:01am
When five days pass with Michael not knowing, Michael runs on the sixth.
When he runs, he trips, he slips on wet grass, and his right cheek and knees are consequently bruised. They sting and hurt like god know's how painful, but it's said enough before to know what Michael does about it. He doesn't bother, keeping it there to infect and worsen, but he doesn't think about that because his mind is on other things.
Other things.
His mind goes blank and there's nothing to think about anymore.
He feels himself slip away from reality, just for the next coming moments, to enjoy the dwindling feeling of peace from the gradual calamity of today. Of tomorrow. Of the dreadful experiences that awaits him from ahead.
Later, Michael's breaths become shallow and his eyelids are weighing him down; they're not cooperating and they're threatening to close, to make him sleep whilst he leans against the tree in the middle of where he is lost. There's the unmistakable tighten in his chest and restriction of his lungs that introduces itself into Michael again.
He's become unstable.
There's the harsh but dangerously low whispers of unapologetic apologies and flickering visuals of intentional accidents eating his glass heart, words that hurt in bold. Knitted brows and eyes rimmed with wet tears is how Michael reacts, accompanied by nails digging into the sides of his head like his life depended on it. Like letting go will lead to the finality of his existence. Like letting go will be the last thing he'll ever do before falling.
So he keeps his hands there, allowing the pain to eventually become numb.
june eleventh
(the woods by the lake, but only an hour has passed)
4:01am
Inside Michael's ears, it's ringing too loudly and he's focusing on the irritating sound rather than the upcoming footsteps just ahead of him.
It was only until the faint sound of the stranger's voice that made Michael lift his head to see the voice's source. He didn't know what he was expecting, although he wasn't all that surprised to see the familiar, yet unknown face once again. Some white spots seems to have expanded, one gradually making its way to surround the pale boy's left eye completely (it currently painted the sides of his eye).
The nails dug into his skull softened in its harsh grip, the feeling lingering; stinging. He lets his hands fall limp to his sides.
"Hi, stranger. 'M busy being a whiny bitch. What brings you 'round these parts?" It comes out harsh and ill-tempered, but Michael doesn't do anything to reassure the other he wanted him there. There wasn't any use in lying if all it would do is contribute to the storm inside his head.
Michael's decision goes wistful, however, when the corner of his eye catches the stranger's flinch. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His throat is clogged, like a tissue's been shoved into his esophagus. It takes away his ability to breathe properly; his ability to speak and apologize and voice out what he very much desperately wants— needs —to.
The stranger shakes their head, an unreadable expression upon his face. His hair bounces when he tilts his head, bounced when he shook it.
Michael wants to get up and run.
He doesn't.
"What are you doing out here?" The latter knows well to not ask "are you okay" when clearly, they aren't okay at all. They're visibly struggling and asking such a question would waste time. He could get a harsh response or a straight-up lie, and neither would benefit the two at all in any way.
"I'm fine" appears to be the most common response, even if the person clearly is the exact opposite.
Everything about where they are, what they're doing, and how they're acting gives it away. The problem is nobody speaks up. Nobody tries to help.
Nobody's willing to not give up on them because we're all so lazy. So, so lazy.
Michael stays silent.
The boy with messy curls sits himself next to the distraught Michael, holding out his arms as invitation.
Michael accepts, grasping tightly at the pale figure's clothing. It's soft, it's blue, and the flowers he wore as a crown tickled the top of Michael's head. Michael tells himself not to cry, and it works only for so long until the other runs their hands through his hair, breath humming a calming tune and lips parted to whisper soft reassurances.
He's safe. He feels safe, and Michael knows that he is.
And that's how the night ends.
june twelfth
(then abandoned park outside of town)
8:40am
Michael still doesn't know the stranger's name, and the stranger doesn't know his.
It stayed that way up until after yesterday, which is now. At eight in the morning. Last night they've agreed to meet up there for no particular reason—the two just knew that they should and that they wanted to.
Finally discuss about idiotic things and introduce each other. The wait for each others' identities was far too long for not just Michael, but the latter, too.
Michael finds this out when they talk.
Which is now.
"You know, I've been waiting for this moment ever since I found your dumb ass at the lake." They spoke, fingers brushing against the tree's gnarled roots gently.
Michael blinks owlishly, craning his neck and sending the shorter boy a half-hearted shrug. "Really?"
The boy looks at him, a smile playing on his lips. "'Course. Why wouldn't I, after all that?"
And Michael blinks at him, dumbfounded as the other scoffs. "We've seen each other almost all the time afterward. It was like fate, or some weird... universal shit like that. It's like we're two stupid people who were meant to meet since day one."
Silence. Then the chirp of a bird from somewhere above the trees. So, to break it, he speaks.
"Michael." He says almost soundlessly.
"Jeremy." The no-longer-that-much-of-a-stranger says back, smile growing.
They talk; they walk; they hit each other playfully; they rant and ramble and it goes on and on and on.
Much sooner than Michael wanted, the day ends and the sun's saying goodbye, and Jeremy—his name is Jeremy—heads off the opposite direction of where Michael's going with a wave.
Jeremy. A small smile makes its way to Michael's lips. It's genuine; it's not like the barely convincing ones before. He's happy.
"Jeremy."
His voice drifts, fades away as the wind carries the sound waves away, and Michael feels okay again.