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It's two in the morning when Michael wakes up. He's groggy, tries to close his eyes again, but he's kept awake by the aggressive pounding of a heart that isn't his droning in his ear. He lifts his head up slowly, his vision of the dark room blurred and the pounding distant.
Then, he hears a whimper, unmistakably Jeremy.
"Miah?" Michael mumbles out, grabbing his glasses off the bedside table. "Hey, what's…"
He looks at Jeremy with glasses on; his eyes are closed, still asleep. Another whine escapes him, and its accompanied by his arm writhing, twisting like something's burned him. The shift reveals the jagged lightning-shaped scar still present on his right wrist, and Michael bites down on the inside of his cheek. Jeremy lets out another loud whimper. His eyes are darting back and forth underneath his eyelids, his brows narrowed in pain, his breaths shallow and unsteady.
"Shit," Michael mutters out. He nudges Jeremy's shoulder. "Jeremy, wake up."
There's no response; Michael nudges him harder, repeating, "Jeremy, c'mon."
But still, nothing. He's out. Michael's shaking, his features tighten. Desperate, he grabs Jeremy's shoulders, tightly.
He shakes him, pleading, "Miah, c'mon. Wake up—fucking—Please wake up."
And Jeremy's eyes shoot open. But that's the only thing that changes.
Michael gives a pre-emptive sigh of relief, thanking God that Jeremy's awake. He goes to take his hands off Jeremy's shoulders, but right as he starts the motion—
"Don't move me!" Jeremy yells out. "Don't—Don't FUCKING move me!" He pushes Michael, hard enough to knock him off the bed, and bolts up, standing against the wall.
Michael manages to catch himself, avoiding crashing down on the floor. He stands himself up and looks across the bed at Jeremy, who's staring at him like he's a ghost.
"Miah, hey," Michael whispers to him, approaching cautiously, circling around the bed. "Its okay. I'm right here. You're okay."
He reaches Jeremy, who's backed himself into the corner of the room, pinned against the two perpendicular walls. Michael puts his arms out, reaching out to Jeremy for a hug. For a moment, he almost looks like he'll accept it, but things don't shake out that way.
Michael's fingertips graze his arm, and Jeremy scrambles back over the bed, to the other side of the room.
He stammers out, "You're not—Don't touch me. You're not real." And the absolute certainty in his voice shakes Michael to the core.
Michael breathes out, dumbfounded, "'Not real.'" That's new. There's a lot to unpack there. But there's no time to sort out all of Jeremy's emotional baggage right now. What's important is that Jeremy thinks he's dreaming. That's fine. Michael can work with that.
Michael opens his mouth to speak, but Jeremy cuts him off immediately.
"Don’t. Don't start." He's angry, but there's fear underlying his shaky voice. A lot of it. "What—What're you gonna do this time?"
Jeremy eyes Michael expectantly, and Michael starts, "Jeremy, look, this isn't—"
"Don't talk." Jeremy rubs at his scarred wrist. "Just—Just get it over with. Like—Like, are you gonna kill me? Or—"
"What?"
"—are your eyes gonna start glowing? That's always a fun one, right? Are you gonna—I dunno—fucking explode or something?" He stops talking, breaths picking up even more.
Michael takes a wary step forward. "Miah, you've gotta listen to me." He keeps his voice low and calm. As much as he wants to run up and hold Jeremy in his arms and tell him everything's gonna be okay and have a nice mutual cry, he knows he just can't this time. Not now. It won't fix anything. "You're—"
Jeremy cuts him off again, rambling. "I know. I'm terrible. I make you wanna kill yourself. I'm ruining your life with all my bullshit. I should just die. I know."
He's holding his wrist tightly, now. Michael can see his fingernails digging into the flesh. There are tears running down his face; he doesn't bother wiping them away.
"There," he croaks out, eyes pointed at the floor. "I'm a f—I'm a fucking wreck, you win." He closes his eyes, takes a few seconds before opening them again. What he sees seems to just upset him more. "Just let me wake up. I'm done."
"Jeremy…" Michael breathes out.
He flinches when he speaks, but doesn't even spare Michael a glance. "I just wanna wake up." His eyes are clenched shut, he rakes his nails up and down his forearm. "Wake up," he orders himself. "Wake up. Wake up, you stupid—"
He winces at something – The SQUIP, Michael assumes – before dropping onto the floor, curled up in the fetal position with his back against the wall, sobbing.
Michael just watches, unsure of what to do. He's never had to deal with anything this bad before – especially not on two hours of sleep. But he can't just sit back and let Jeremy go through this – what if he starts trying to hurt himself again? He thinks this is just a SQUIP-induced nightmare, who knows the lengths he'll go to try and wake up. The thought hurts Michael more than he could explain.
He takes a moment before going to his minifridge, careful not to take his eyes off of Jeremy for more than a few seconds at a time. He pulls out an old plastic water bottle filled with red liquid, "Emergency Use" written on it in black Sharpie. This isn't what Michael had thought the emergency would be, but he's a bit glad he's wrong. This isn't a good moment by any sense of the word, but at least Jeremy is still himself.
Kicking the fridge shut, he goes back over to Jeremy and sits down about a foot away. Hesitantly, he leans over and nudges Jeremy's shoulder.
He whispers, "Hey, Miah. Could you look at me for a sec?"
Jeremy tenses, shakes his head. Wrong choice of words, apparently.
"Okay," Michael says. "You don't have to look at me. But here." He lightly touches the cold bottle to Jeremy's hand, and he reels back, head shooting up.
When his eyes land on the bottle, he breathes out, "O—Oh?" He reaches out to take it, but stops just short, eyes turning to Michael. "It's not…" He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at it, sighing and slumping against the wall.
Michael sets the bottle down, and sits himself with his legs tucked underneath him. Jeremy barely takes a seconds before flopping over, head on Michael's lap. Michael tenderly runs his fingers through his hair, and Jeremy melts at the touch.
"You're real," Jeremy sighs out. He sits up slowly, moving closer to Michael, turning to face him. He collapses into his chest, clutching him like a lifeline. "Y—You're real." His voice cracks on the last word, and Michael feels tears seeping through his shirt.
Tears prick at Michael's own eyes, and he lets them fall. He holds Jeremy in his arms, stroking the back of his scalp, whispering, "This is real, Miah. Everything's gonna be okay."