Chapter Text
“Remember to be gentle with her, Jeremy.”
Eight-year-old Jeremy Heere has a cat named- very originally- Mittens. He pets the old, grumpy cat hard, running his small hands through her fading black fur while she sits and takes it- barely. “She likes it!” Jeremy protests. “Right, Mittens?”
Mittens just swishes her tail.
“Well, alright,” his father says, warm smile full of contentment and affection as he looks down at his son (and his cat). He places his hand on the scratchy white carpet and moves it quickly from side to side, and Mittens extracts herself from Jeremy’s grip to pounce on his slightly stubby fingers.
Jeremy grins. “Let me try!” he says, and mimics his father, sweeping the carpet in long, rapid motions. Mittens looks back and forth, trying to keep up with his hand, and wriggles the back of her body in anticipation. In a few moments, she strikes, managing to trap Jeremy’s hand with the help of her still-sharp eyesight. “Ow, hey!” Jeremy squeaks at the pain of the cat’s claws poking into his skin, but he’s laughing anyway.
And then the garage door begins to open.
Jeremy's father’s smile falters. “Oh. Looks like your mom’s back from the office.”
Jeremy nods wordlessly as he continues to play with Mittens.
“Uh… Jeremy, your mother had a bad day at work, so… make sure to be extra special nice to her, okay?” Jeremy's father says, and it sounds normal, but underneath, it’s a beg, a plea.
Jeremy’s hand stills on the floor and is promptly jumped upon by Mittens. “Oh. Okay,” he mumbles. Being extra special nice… isn’t his strong suit. Even when he tries to be pleasant, he always ends up snapping or being rude. Given his mother’s propensity for angry outbursts, which even his mild-mannered father manages to set off, they’re not a great combo, especially on days like these.
When the garage door closes again and his mother grunts a greeting to his father, who had gone to meet her, Jeremy calls out, “Hi, Mamma.” There’s no real response. He sits on the floor for a long moment, watching Mittens curl up into a ball and expose her soft white stomach, then picks her up in his slender arms and holds her tightly to his chest as he trudges down the basement stairs to go to his room. There’s little fanfare as he plops her on the bed and jumps on beside her. On his bedside table, partially read, is a short book- Fudge-a-Mania, by the eternal Judy Blume- and Jeremy picks it up, hoping to find some entertainment in it. He prefers video games to reading, but Blume is a good author, and he’ll take anything right now.
He’s good for about an hour, Mittens lying at the end of his bed as the occasional sound of a page turning mixes in with her purring, but soon enough, the shouting starts. Jeremy doesn’t really remember a time without shouting. It’s not fun, but he supposes it’s normal; isn’t every family like this? Parents fight all the time on sitcoms. As long as he has Mittens or a video game or a good novel, he’s fine, but then he’s turning the last page of the book, and he pauses, fingers stilling. The shouting- bordering on screaming now- fills the gaps in his unoccupied mind, and he presses his hands to his ears and tries to ignore it. It’s a guilty wish, but he longs to be deaf, just for a day, just for an hour.
Trying to block out the shouting isn’t working, so, unsure of what else to do, Jeremy wriggles over to the end of his bed and pets Mittens, running his hands roughly down her spine. He scratches her soft, fluffy stomach, sticking his hand under her loaf-like form, and she starts to growl lowly. Jeremy doesn’t take the hint, doesn’t want to, and then Mittens is clawing at him, kicking her back legs like a donkey against his prying hands and leaving red, irritated scratches on his pale skin. He hisses in pain, and Mittens hisses back in annoyance, then hops off his bed and runs out the door.
“...Dumb cat,” Jeremy grumbles as tears prick at his eyes.
The shouting upstairs continues.
“Yo, Jeremy, are we packing the Cheez-Its, the Fritos, or both?”
Nine years later, Jeremy leans against the side of his best friend’s car, clutching a letter written in familiar, somewhat sloppy handwriting. The sun is pleasantly warm, typical for June, but there’s a chill that settles beneath his skin. “...Bring the Cheez-Its,” he says after a moment of thought. “We can leave the Fritos for Dad.”
Michael nods, slips the box of crackers through the open car window onto the passenger’s seat, and tucks the bag of chips into the crook of his elbow. “Done deal. Did you get all your stuff in the car?”
Jeremy had packed lightly: six shirts, five pairs of pants, seven pairs of underwear (you never know what’s gonna happen), his laptop, his phone, chargers for each… and the letter.
Dear Jeremy.
He clenches it tighter in his fist. “Yeah,” he says, and Michael nods.
“Mmkay, gimme a sec to put these back and grab a couple water bottles, and then we can get going.” He tosses the keys to Jeremy, who catches the warm metal in his free hand after nearly dropping them a couple times. “You can let yourself in in the meantime.”
Jeremy does so, wordless, numb. I’m going to see her again. He turns the thought over and over again in his brain like he has been for the past 48 hours. I’m really going to see her again. It’d been five years since his mother walked out on him and his father, since she packed her bags and left in the early morning on a sunny March day. Why now? Why now would she contact him?
Dear Jeremy.
1803 Glenbrook Street, Nacogdoches, TX. 75961.
Dear Jeremy.
He props his feet up on the dash. Michael won’t mind the scuff marks; he’s said before that he likes the way it makes the car seem worn, vintage. It doesn’t, really, just makes it look a little dirty, but hey, if it makes him happy, then whatever.
Jeremy nearly shrieks in surprise when Michael opens the driver’s side door with a clunk and scoots into his seat behind the wheel. “Oh, shit, sorry,” Michael says, a note of guilt in his voice. He usually taps at Jeremy’s window to let him know he’s coming in, but he must be feeling odd today, too; things are slipping through the cracks.
Jeremy shrugs. “‘S okay.”
Michael is silent for a moment, not moving to grab his keys from the center console where Jeremy has left them. He glances up at Jeremy, then away, and sighs. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he reminds him, and Jeremy braces himself for the “You’ll be a total wuss if you don’t, though,” but it never comes.
It’s not like Jeremy wants to be doing this. He hadn’t really expected to see his mother again until maybe his wedding day- if it ever came- and even then, it was wishful thinking. No, wishful isn’t the right word. He doesn’t particularly want her in his life. He’s doing just fine without her, although his father certainly wasn’t at first. Jeremy just wishes the exit wound hadn’t been so grotesque.
God. This is really happening. He’s going on a road trip to see his mother.
Before Michael can voice his concerns about his silence, Jeremy says, “N-no, uh, it’s fine. I’ll live. I’ve got my best friend, after all.” He gives Michael a wobbly, unconvincing smile.
“...Right.” Michael leans over and rubs Jeremy’s upper arm gently, and Jeremy sighs at the touch. “You can do this.”
Jeremy’s smile solidifies a little. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “We can, um… we can go now, if you’re ready.”
Michael nods and grabs the keys from the cup holder. With a quick twist of his wrist, he turns on the car, and it springs to life beneath them. A spark of anxiety goes through Jeremy- this is the start of something enormous, truly- and, while it begins to slowly fizzle out as Michael pulls out of the Heeres’ driveway, it never really goes away.
For a long while, the two of them are wordless. The only sound is the car humming as it moves quickly along the blacktop and the tapping of Michael’s fingers on the steering wheel, a habit that he keeps up even when there’s no music playing. On that note- “Hey, Jeremy, you wanna… listen to anything? I downloaded a few episodes of that space podcast you like.”
Jeremy shrugs. “...I’m good,” he answers. He just needs some time alone with his thoughts. He raises his eyes to peer out the window, observing apathetically the trees passing by, leaves glimmering in the sun. He folds and unfolds the letter, creases it, tears at the edges. Never trust Jeremy with a piece of paper.
Dear Jeremy,
Please don’t throw this letter out right away. I’m sure you’ll want to, because of the way I abandoned you and your father, but please, hear me out.
I want to see you again. You’re my son, the only person that I really love, and I want to apologize for all these years of silence. I just needed some time away from you and your father, and from my job, and from New Jersey. But it’s been too long. I miss you. I don’t regret leaving your father, but it’s been hard living without you. I want you back in my life again.
If you would come visit me in Nacogdoches, it would mean the world to me. I understand if you don’t want to, but please think of me and how I feel. Either way, know that I love you, Jeremy.
Love,
Mom.
What a load of bullshit that is. Sure, Jeremy resents her for leaving, but that’s not the heart of the matter. It was everything that lead up to her leaving. Eighth grade is bad enough already- the kids are cruel, teachers fearmonger about the trials and tribulations of high school, and your identity and self-image are changing by the day- and she certainly didn’t need to make it any harder on him. But she did.
It’s probably selfish to think about it that way. After all, his father was the one who got the brunt of her fury; Jeremy only got in big fights with her once in a while, and much of that was the silent treatment anyway. Still, having a rocky home environment is right up there on Jeremy’s Top Ten Complaints About Middle School list. It sorta kinda really sucked.
Maybe that’s why he’s going: to give her a piece of his mind, to tell her off for making his life hell and for making his father afraid even though he rarely, if ever, did anything to warrant it. Jeremy almost hopes that’s why he’s going, because it’s better than the alternative: that he’s going because he loves and accepts her.
...Scary stuff.
Jeremy tears his eyes away from the window eventually, and it occurs to him that Michael is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, glancing at him every once in a while as his eyes flicker from the dashboard to the road and back again. “What is it? What?” Jeremy asks, annoyed beneath his numbness.
“You just look… absorbed in something, that’s all,” Michael answers, and shrugs, although Jeremy can tell he’s not as nonchalant as he seems. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Jeremy doesn’t respond at first. Should he tell him? Of course he should know, he’s his best friend, but… he’s not his therapist. It’s not like it’ll help. It’ll probably just be burdensome, because he himself is burdensome. Still, he answers, “I, um… I don’t think I like my mother.”
Michael blinks in mild surprise at the revelation. “Really? When she left, you ran to my house sobbing.”
That’s true. That day was a blur- he remembers waking up, asking his father why he looked so sad and where his mother went, because it was Sunday, after all, so she should be home, and then most of it bleeds into the deep recesses of his mind, and he can’t quite claw it up. But he remembers, too, Michael holding him in his arms, hugging him while he shook and sobbed and whined for his mother like an idiot baby. Michael, who had always been there; Michael, who always would be, like he promised that day.
“I guess that was just shock,” Jeremy says. “I wasn’t expecting it, is all.” By all accounts, though, he should have; their family was falling apart.
Michael nods. “Fair.”
With that, the ball is in Jeremy’s court again. “I mean… she made my life kinda shitty. She’s the reason I’m like this.”
Like this. Now, that wasn’t just in his head. No, it’d been going on since he was, what, fifteen? Sophomore year? That sounds about right. At first it could be explained by normal teenage stuff. High emotions, turbulent mood swings, being unsure of who you are and who you want to be- everyone experiences that during puberty. But normal kids didn’t show up to class with neat little cuts on their wrists, or stay awake beating themselves up and breaking down at the slightest mistake, or systematically drive away any new friends they managed to get with their constant need for validation. That was a Jeremy issue.
His therapist, who he’d been seeing since his mother left, had offered him ways to cope, but that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted answers. Google, what the fuck is wrong with me? Well, the Internet did have information for him, that’s for sure. He wasn’t sure if he could trust it, but it was a start.
Chronic feelings of emptiness? Check. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment? Check. Identity disturbance? Check. Recurrent self-mutilating behavior? Double check.
“I, um… I think I have borderline personality disorder,” Jeremy had said to his therapist one Friday afternoon.
His therapist hummed in acknowledgement. “What makes you say that??
“...Well, for one, I fit the DSM requirements,” Jeremy said flatly. “Is that not enough?”
“Typically, we don’t diagnose personality disorders in those younger than 18,” his therapist explained, “since the symptoms might just be normal hormonal responses.”
Jeremy sighed, frustrated, and flicked his eyes away. He’d never particularly liked his therapist, not that he’d ever bother to get a new one. Turning his gaze back, he pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a mess of razor-thin cuts scattered across his forearm. “Are these normal hormonal responses?”
That gave his therapist pause. “They can be,” he said eventually, “especially with your history of depression. Nothing you’ve shared with me so far indicates a probably cause of any personality disorder.”
And that was the end of that- until, of course, Jeremy had opened up about his childhood. Apparently being surrounded by screaming and having to walk on eggshells half the time counts as trauma. Who’da thunk? He didn’t even know it wasn’t normal, or at least close to normal. So now here he was, toting around a preemptive BPD diagnosis, because of his shitty, overreactive mother. Fantastic.
Back in the present, Michael says, “Ugh. See, man, I told you it wasn’t normal.”
If it were anyone else, the comment would’ve gotten under his skin, but Jeremy can and will acknowledge that Michael is just smart about these sorts of things. He almost thinks of him as something of a guardian angel. Almost. “Yeah,” he says quietly, unsure of what else to say.
Michael doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. Finally, he offers for a second time, “I can turn back. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“No, I… I want to,” Jeremy assures him. He’s not lying, really. Sure, he’s anxious, because it’s been five years and he doesn’t like the woman in the first place, but he wants to give her a piece of his mind, if nothing else. “...I think I want to tell her how I feel.”
Michael nods and moves a hand to rub Jeremy’s shoulder while he continues to steer with the other. “...Love ya, dude.” Jeremy looks up, eyes wide and face prickling at the affection, but before he can say anything in response, Michael asks, “Wanna get lunch?”
“It hasn’t even been that long since breakf-” Jeremy glances at the clock on the dashboard. “Wait, it’s 2:00 already?”
“Time flies when you’re angsting about your mom,” Michael says. “Now, how ‘bout it? There’s that little deli in D.C. that you liked.”
Jeremy chuckles, and there’s too much love to be platonic in his voice as he turns his head and asks, “What, you remember that? That was five years ago!”
“I’m your best friend; of course I remember these things. ...Ya dingus.”
Just because it’s like him to get emotional over absolutely nothing, a wave of fondness comes over Jeremy, knocking him sideways, and he wants to reach over and punch Michael in the arm or something to reestablish his manliness, but he’s driving, so all Jeremy can do is sit there and look at his profile as he hums and taps at the steering wheel to music only he can hear.
Jeremy is midway through his pastrami sandwich- up there in the quintessential rankings in the city, he’d read while looking up the address- when Michael asks, “Is there, like… something you wanna do on this road trip? I mean, this doesn’t have to be four solid days of weird car conversations and then five days of intense mom-bonding, or whatever. Like, what do you wanna do?”
Jeremy hadn’t really thought that through. He’d barely been able to think about anything but his mother for the past few days, which was an unwelcome change from barely thinking about her at all since the tenth-ish grade. He squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh… I dunno,” he answers. “What do you want to do?”
Michael worries his lip, considering Jeremy’s question as he holds his roast beef sandwich au jus in one hand. “Hell, I dunno. We’re going to be passing through the, uh, the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests tomorrow. We could go on a hike.”
Jeremy sticks his tongue out a little. “You know I don’t have the muscles for a hike, man. I’m a twig, as you so often like to point out.”
“Because it’s true!” Michael says, and makes an ‘okay’ sign with one hand. “See that hole? I could fit your whole arm through it, swear to God.”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, jerk.” Jeremy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “But, like, I can’t go up in the mountains and shit! My legs will give out. I have no muscle mass.”
“Hey, if you get tired, I’ll carry you.” Despite it having the tone of a joke, Michael’s words are oddly sincere. He gives Jeremy that big, charming smile of his- Jeremy’s tried to replicate it in the mirror; it looks unnatural on him- and continues, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. It’ll take your mind off of all the bullshit.”
Jeremy takes a bite of his pastrami sandwich and smiles through it. After he swallows, he says, “Yeah, if you keep good on your promise,” and holds his pinkie out.
Michael chuckles and wraps his pinkie around Jeremy’s. As he shakes it, he says, “Anything for you, bud.”
Dumbass. Jeremy lowers his head to hide his reddening cheeks, chiding himself for getting flustered over the slightest touch. “Thanks, man.”
“No prob, Bob,” Michael says. “Hey, I’m driving you out to bumfuck nowhere to see your shitty mom, you think carrying your skinny ass is any issue?”
“Okay, okay, that’s valid,” Jeremy replies. “Look, like I said, I’ll pay for gas, and I can pay for lunch if you wa-”
Michael blinks, and an almost panicked expression comes over his face for a split second. “Nooo! No, no, dude, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. Let me do this.”
Jeremy cocks his head in confusion, but dismisses the franticness, shrugging. “Alright, man. No skin off my back.”
Content, Michael relaxes, smiling as he rests his chin in one hand. “Good,” he says, simply, softly, kindly. It makes Jeremy feel tangled up inside, and he doesn’t appreciate that, thank you very much. Still, the knotting in his stomach almost feels good.
They don’t stick around in D.C. Back in middle school, spring break of their seventh grade year, their school had hosted a trip there- kind of expensive, but all four parents decided to spoil Jeremy and Michael and pay for it. Well, they’d had to pool their allowances for meals and souvenirs, but still, the lodging and bus ride were taken care of. The details aren’t important, though; the point is, Jeremy and Michael go ahead and skip the nation’s lovely capital. Michael had decided it was boring- he doesn’t really like museums- and Jeremy, of course, hates the crowds. They’re killer this time of year.
When they get back on the road again, Jeremy is surprised to find that some of the tension has been lifted from him. It’s amazing how much having lunch with his best friend/dumb gay crush can cheer him up; he’s done it every school day for the past thirteen and a half years, but he hadn’t really noticed the healing effect until today.
“You wanna listen to some music?” Michael asks, glancing expectantly toward Jeremy. “We’ll be in range for the radio stations around here for a little bit.”
Jeremy straps himself in, a click sounding as he secures his seat belt, and nods. “Yeah, man. Will you kill me if I ask for a Top 40s station?”
Michael rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face as he says, “Go look one up.”
Obediently, Jeremy takes out his phone to do a little research, and, within a couple of minutes, he’s tuned the radio to 99.5 WIHT. As Michael pulls away from the curb and starts to drive, Jeremy puts his chin in one hand and leans against the window, frowning at the stream of commercials. Eventually, though, a song starts up: “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You” by Black Kids. The light rock of it floods the car and brings a bright grin to Jeremy’s face; he straightens up and turns his head to look at Michael.
“D’you remember the first time we heard this song?” Michael asks, a bright smile on his face as he looks at Jeremy from out of the corner of his eye.
Jeremy doesn’t have a good memory- aside from every time he’s ever embarrassed himself, listed both alphabetically and by category- but he does remember that. It was before his mother left- probably the summer before the eighth grade, if he had to put a date to it. They were sitting in Michael’s basement, listening to the radio on his moms’ boombox, and, although they usually only listened to the stations with older songs- Jeremy had inherited his love of 80s hits from his mother, and Michael had a soft spot for 70s songs- they’d decided to change it to one of the various Top 40 stations. Jeremy had adored the song immediately; the words made him giddy- he was always crushing on someone or another, and songs about pining were too relatable not to love- and Michael could agree that it was a pretty good jam. “Better than all the other crap on the radio nowadays,” he’d said, and Jeremy had punched him lightly in the arm for sounding like an 80-year-old coot, or perhaps one of the hippies who smoked weed by the stairs at Middle Borough High, where they were doomed to spend their teenage years.
It was a warm memory. Some memories, Jeremy muses, are cold; the memory of running to Michael’s house that one March day, even in the midday warmth, was- hypothermic, even. Some are hot, like the warm tears and blood rising to his skin as he chokes back a sob at his mother’s shouting- free of it, he’s free of it now, it’s okay- and the time on his thirteenth birthday when he was roped into hiking and his muscles were cramped; he swears to this day that he almost died. But that midsummer day, sitting there in the basement with Michael… that was a warm memory.
He cherishes the warm ones.
“Yeah, man,” he answers finally. “That was a pretty good summer, huh?”
Michael nods. “Hey, it’s hard to have a bad summer. I mean, there’s no school; what else could you ask for?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” Jeremy says. “Gives you time for weird, life-changing road trips, or whatever this is supposed to be.”
“It’s life-changing if you want it to be.” Michael shrugs, as if they’re not talking about Jeremy’s fate. “There’s always something there if you try.”
Jeremy snorts. “I’m gonna hang out with you and chew out my deadbeat mom, how’s that gonna be life-changing?”
“I always like a challenge,” Michael says, and grins a cocky grin that sorta makes Jeremy feel things.
“You gonna change my life, Michael Mell?”
“You know it, Jeremy Heere,” Michael answers, and honest to God winks.
Jeremy hates how much he loves him.
They arrive at Charlottesville, VA, in good time, around 6 in the evening. Michael would have gone longer, since he likes to drive, but Jeremy reminded him that they’d booked a room at this specific motel on this specific night, and changing the schedule makes him anxious as hell, just like most other things in life.
While Michael talks to the lady sitting behind the front desk to get them checked into the room, Jeremy heads over to the vending machine on the other side of the lobby, taking a five dollar bill from his wallet: $1 for Cheetos for Michael and $1.25 for a bag of sour gummy worms for himself, which leaves enough for a Pepsi for them to share. They’d given up caring about germs approximately 10 minutes after they first met, and none of their parents bothered to nag them about it anymore.
After a few minutes and about a third of the gummy worms down, Michael approaches Jeremy and throws him his room key, which hits him square in the forehead before falling to the ground. “...Dude. Full hands,” Jeremy says flatly.
Michael gives a snort of laughter. “Yeah, but your face, though.”
Jeremy sticks his tongue out. “Fine, I’m not giving you your Cheetos, then. And the Pepsi is all mine.”
“Wait, the Cheetos are for me? Thanks, duder!”
“Not anymore,” Jeremy pouts, turning away from Michael. After a second, though, he tosses the small orange bag over his shoulder. “Nah, jokes.”
Michael catches it and kneels down to grab Jeremy’s room card, then drops the card over Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy manages to catch it despite the start it gives him, and, when he turns back around, Michael is grinning. “C’mon, man, let’s go. Netflix awaits.”
Jeremy beams back at him, and, clutching the can of Pepsi in one hand and his gummy worms and card in the other, follows Michael outside and up to their room on the second floor: 210. “Whatcha wanna watch?” he asks as Michael slides his card in and out of the lock and opens the door for him. “Did we ever finish Parks and Rec?”
Michael nods. “Yeah, a couple months ago, remember? How about, uh… John Mulaney’s New in Town? I always forget that’s on Netflix.”
Jeremy brightens up at that. “Oh, hell yeah,” he says, immediately delighted at the prospect. “C’mon, dude. Let’s get our stuff.”
In a few minutes, they’ve dragged their suitcases to their small, one-bed room- they’re kinda too broke to afford anything bigger, and neither of them have any particular complaints, since they’ve slept in the same bed plenty of times before- and Michael pulls his laptop from his own while Jeremy plops down on the scratchy sheets. On second thought- he tosses off his tee and jeans, which fall in a mess in the corner of the room, then wriggles beneath the seats.
After checking his email and social media- Jeremy can’t blame him on that one; he actually has quite a few online friends, and he hasn’t been able to talk to them all day- Michael sets up Netflix. He makes a move to scoot under the covers as well, but Jeremy stops him with a wave of his hand.
“Wait, no, take off your binder, Michael. It’s been over six hours,” he scolds, though he’s more worried than frustrated.
Michael rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine, dude, just-” Jeremy fixes him with the most disappointed stare he can muster. “...Okay, fine. Look away, or don’t, I guess.”
Jeremy doesn’t. Michael’s back looks pretty nice.
Michael pulls on a softer tee with some lyrics from a band Jeremy’s only vaguely heard of and a pair of fleece pajama pants- “How can you wear those in the summer?” “I’m stronger than you could ever imagine, Heere.”- and, after jokingly asking Jeremy for his approval, gets under the covers with him. “C’mon, get ready for some real comedy.”
“Hell, yeah,” Jeremy says, stretching his long, slender arms. “This? This is gay culture.”
“God, you are so right.”
And things are alright for a while. They laugh, they… don’t cry, there’s really no crying in this situation, they fall asleep. Well, Michael does, anyway; he must be exhausted from driving all day, after all. It’s kinda cute, in Jeremy’s honest opinion. Here he is, probably supposed to be having some weird coming-of-age experience as he goes to see his asshole mother, but he’s just sitting here getting gay over his best friend. It just happens, alright? He can’t always focus on his… his borderline-abusive mother all the time, because if he does, he’s going to go insane, if he hasn’t already, and, oh, it’s really quiet in this room, isn’t it? Because Michael doesn’t even fucking snore, and the video is over, and the only noise is his frantically beating heart, and suddenly everything feels so… big.
He’s so small.
What’s he even doing here? What does he get from seeing her? Knowing how weak he is, he’ll probably just break down when he sees her again, because oh, God, he forgot how damn scared of her he is, how he never wanted to say a dissenting word or ask her for anything, so how in the hell is he gonna go down there and give her a piece of his mind? Oh, Jeremy, you’re just going to say “I hate you for messing up my childhood” so easy like that? Yeah, likely story. God, that’s pathetic.
An angry, stinging tear slips from Jeremy’s eye, and he tries to blink it away, but it’s already falling to the blankets, and he curses himself for that damn weakness he was left with. He hates how it lies in the center of him like rot, how he’s always going to have these huge emotions that stab him like myriad daggers to the chest when he’s all alone, alone, alone. He hates the insecurity, the instability, the way that the instant he builds up his walls, desperately trying to keep himself safe from his own feelings, they crack and crumble, and- God. Why’s she here again? Why’s she doing this to him again? Why’s she trying to ruin his life again? Most important of all, why on Earth should he forgive her? But she’s going to be hurt if he doesn’t, and it’s not her fault, she was just depressed, and-
“Jeremy?”
Jeremy rubs his eyes with the side of his hand, hissing at how it stings and only brings more tears. With a flushed, red face, he turns to Michael, who he must have woken up with his dumbass pussy crying. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he grumbles, and glances down at his lap, too ashamed to meet his eyes. “I’m just being stupid. It’s nothing. S-sorry I woke you up…”
“You’re not stupid,” Michael assures him softly. “Why would you be stupid?”
“Because this whole thing is stupid,” Jeremy says, voice guttural and strangled by phlegm and tears. “I mean, isn’t this the stupidest thing? Christ!”
Michael lays a warm, gentle hand on Jeremy’s back, just between his bare shoulder blades. “It’s not. It’s complicated, but it’s not stupid.”
“Not stupid,” Jeremy says bleakly, an empty echo. “I don’t know. Fuck, man, I hate this, alright? I just want this to be over. I can’t take- I can’t take so many goddamn days of this. I can’t handle four days of death row leading up to- to seeing her- I don’t want to see her- I never want to see her again, I think I’d be just fine with that, except-” He chokes on his tears for a second and whimpers instead.
Michael presses further. “...Except what?”
“Except I love her,” Jeremy whispers.
Michael frowns, cocks his head. “...You just said you didn’t like her.”
“It’s- it’s different!” Jeremy says, frustration rising in his voice. “I don’t like her, but I love her- for God’s sake, Michael, she’s my mom! I mean, it’s not like she was all bad. She did nice things sometimes! She really did! Do you remember when she bought me that limited edition 3DS just because? I mean, I mean, I mean-” He takes a deep breath, nearly a gasp. “If she was a bad mom, she wouldn’t do that, right? I mean, that was almost $200!”
Michael rolls his eyes. “If we’re counting love by money, then I must not love you all that much, ‘cuz half the time, all I buy you is snacks.”
“You bought me that Pokémon game for my birthday.”
“Okay, that was one time. Sorry I’m broke, by the way. You wouldn’t believe how many employers run drug tests nowadays.”
Jeremy shrugs. “It’s no big. But, um, back to my mom?”
“Right! Right, sorry, I got sidetracked.” Michael’s hand moves to Jeremy’s hair, and he runs his fingers through the soft curls. “Look. Just because she’s done some nice things, doesn’t mean she didn’t totally screw you over.”
“But she only yelled so much because she was depressed,” Jeremy protests weakly.
“Yeah, and? So are you, dude, and you don’t yell at people for no reason.” Michael sighs. “Look, Jeremy. I know things are confusing. Just hang in there, alright? Remember what your therapist told you.”
Jeremy nods. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He sighs the air from his weary lungs, then takes a deep breath through his nose, focusing on its movement through his chest. After seven beats, he slowly exhales it, and, although he hates to admit it, it does help him calm down a little. Why is that? It’s just oxygen.
“Feeling better?” Michael asks, voice hushed, after a couple minutes, and Jeremy nods.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “for waking you up, and stuff.” What a nuisance.
Michael shakes his head. “Don’t worry. Remember when you woke me up in the middle of the night to ask me if I could go get you some Cheez-Its? I’m used to this stuff.”
Jeremy chuckles. “What? I like Cheez-Its.”
“I think I’d have to disown you if you didn’t.”
That gets a laugh out of Jeremy, a louder one, not so subdued. “Hey, thanks, Michael. ...For everything.”
With another shake of his head, Michael says, “You don’t need to thank me. I’m your best friend, remember?”
“...Yeah,” Jeremy says, still not convinced.
Michael’s brow furrows at Jeremy’s tone. “C’mere,” he says, and, before he can say anything, Jeremy is enveloped in a warm hug, getting tears on the sleeve of Michael’s dark red tee. Tenderly, so so tenderly, Michael rubs Jeremy’s back, and Jeremy nearly melts into the touch.
“You make it so damn hard not to love you,” he says, but not out loud.
Breaking down and crying has left him worn out beyond belief, and, when his thoughts have calmed down enough, Jeremy lies back down, trying to get warm again under the threadbare blanket. He can’t tell Michael how he really feels, not now, not yet, but he manages to whisper, “Michael, will you, uh…” Shit. No backing out now. “Will you, uh, hold me?”
Michael smiles, eyes half-lidded, and nods. “I gotcha, bud,” he says as he scoots a little closer, slinging an arm around Jeremy’s narrow shoulders and pulling him to his chest, and-
Oh, God, he’s kissing his forehead. This is too much, too much, far too much. Jeremy could cry all over again, but he doesn’t, just smiles and smiles like an idiot. He still feels like garbage… but maybe more like recyclables. You make me feel like recyclables, he longs to tell Michael. Wait. What the hell does that even mean?