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"Why the hell did you do it?"
Even though the voice is quiet, a whisper of something familiar, Jeremy feels their chest seize at the words. They'd left a note before It, not really seeing a reason to say anything more to faces they'd soon forget. There's no comfort or wisdom to give from a ghost being called back to the grave.
But now they're here, a steady rhythm of beeping cutting through the fog wrapping their mind enough to know it's there but not to register where they are.
"I just- Why didn't you talk to me?"
It's hard to think with the unrelenting beeping and as the world beyond their closed eyes gets brighter, the more it seems to light up annoyance in their chest. And while the noise won't stop, they start to feel an inkling of anger and confusion stirring deep.
Why couldn't you just let me go? they want to scream. All I ever do is ruin things!
"I just wanted you to talk to me..."
A hitch of breath as if the person speaking is trying to stop crying.
Oh, Michael, their brain supplies. It feels like their heart stops as the pieces fit together; Michael, their best friend, their boyfriend, here crying over them when he shouldn't be. Jeremy doesn't deserve it, the cheater they were. Even if it wasn't really them, not completely.
"Please, Jere, talk to me."
Pain pierces through their skull, a groan falling out of their mouth as the bright white of the room exacerbates the ache. their eyes pry open to a shout of their name from Michael. Seconds, or maybe minutes or hours later, white coats swarm them, pulling away red comfort for a flimsy sterile attempt to recreate it.
The doctor asks them questions, asks if they remember anything.
Jeremy lies, says not completely.
It feels like days before she tells them about the stitches and how they're on a psychiatric hold; no leaving. then she's gone as quick as she'd come, taking that poor excuse of comfort with her.
"Jere?"
Tired eyes move to brown, hesitance clear over everything. Jeremy knows him enough to know he's only moments from breaking. They hate how they're the reason.
"Michael, I..." Now, it seems, the words have left.
"Can you at least tell me why?"
Jeremy's mouth feels dry, a million things unspoken on the tip of their tongue, but the only thing that comes out is a feeble, "I knew you'd be fine."
Emotions shift, brows furrow, and Michael gets closer. "Fine? What the fuck makes you think I'd be fine if you killed yourself?" His voice ends in a hysterical low-volume yell, almost sounding like he can't believe what he's saying. "News flash! I'm not fucking- !" This one ends with a frustrated sound as he pushes his glasses up, rubbing his face.
And there's the guilt, a quiet thing growing louder the longer Jeremy watches him.
"I can't do this."
Something in their stomach drops, but Michael doesn't leave, only sits heavily in the plastic chair beside the bed.
"I'm sorry." Jeremy's voice is a whisper, small and weak like a baby kitten. they'd curl up more if they could, but they don't want to disturb the stitches and the IV in their hand.
It feels bittersweet that Jeremy knows Michael's next words, "You don't need to apologize."
"I feel like I have to," they mutter in response. They look away from him, lying back on the bed, but they startle when Michael's warm hand takes their cold one. Michael always had run hot no matter what, Jeremy the opposite.
"I know what you're thinking, and I don't hate you." Jeremy still doesn't chance looking, even with the reassurance.
They could only see.