Work Text:
Jeremy's number is 11.
But in reality it's simply two ones.
One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
Two lonely numbers pressed together like they're trying to keep each other company, shoulder to shoulder on the back of his jersey, a matched set of solitude.
One and One. Basically Two.
Two can be as bad as one.
It's the loneliest number since the number one.
Sometimes he feels more like number two than eleven.
Second son.
Second choice.
A potential second heir his stepfather never wanted and his mother doesn't know how to love.
The jersey says 11.
But in the mirror he sees two Jeremies: one who smiles and one who puts on the smile because it's easier to put on a mask than showing what he really feels.
One and one and neither of them know how to ask for help.
"No" is the saddest experience you'll ever know
Sometimes it came as the sound of an engine revving. Tires on asphalt. A door pulled shut with just enough care to be deliberate.
But at least a car didn't come with expectations. Not like Jeremy, who had been stupid and hopeful and already halfway in love.
"Yes" is the saddest experience you'll ever know
And then there were the yeses.
Yes was easier.
Yes came with a hand on his hip at a party, with someone laughing too close to his mouth, with a stranger looking at him like he was beautiful and easy and exactly the thing a person would want.
Yes followed him home.
Yes kissed him against doors.
Yes said his name like it meant something until morning proved it didn't.
Yes to his mouth.
Yes to his hands.
Yes to his bed.
But that was the thing nobody told you about yes: sometimes it was just no wearing better clothes.
Yes always meant No in the long run.
No to breakfast.
No to staying.
No to getting to know what his face looked like when he wasn't hiding.
So no matter if yes or no, in the end Jeremy always ended up back at one.
'Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
One body in the sheets.
One toothbrush by the sink.
One phone with no new messages.
One boy staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that being wanted for a few hours was close enough to being chosen.
One is the loneliest number.
One is the loneliest number.
One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do.
Jeremy tried to find comfort in the drugs.
That was all it was supposed to be.
A way to take the ache in his chest and turn the volume down until he could breathe around it.
A single pale stripe on the table, thin and straight and solitary.
One lonely little thing, waiting to disappear.
Maybe it didn't want to be the only one. Maybe it needed something beside it — something close enough to touch, something that could make it look less abandoned.
So Jeremy gave it a friend.
One. One.
Now it looked like him. Two lines that each looked like a one.
Eleven.
A fake number, really. Just two ones standing shoulder to shoulder, hoping no one looked closely enough to see the space between them.
Jeremy stared until his vision blurred.
His number.
His joke.
Just Jeremy.