Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm drunk on a Tuesday night.

I stumble into the hallway and down the stairs, nearly tripping, like, eight times. I reassure the walls that I'm okay and that I'm sorry for running into them. The odd thing is, I'm so drunk that they forgive me.

I reach the door, unsure of who I'm expecting to be there. Maybe my stepbrother, or my stepmom. Maybe she got locked out by accident. My foggy mind is filled with certain possibilities, all realistic and having to do with my family. Nobody else. My hand rests on the doorknob and I struggle to turn it for a second. "How the fuck do you—oh, there it goes."

I open the door, and my mind takes a moment to process. I look forward and I see a familiar face. The fact that I was just thinking about him and now he's here seems to mess with my head even more.

"...Michael?"

"Yo." The boy says, making an awkward peace sign.

The voice is Michael's, but just a little bit raspy. It's a voice I've missed so badly. Michael doesn't look like Michael. Like, yeah, he's still got tan skin and those little beauty marks and freckles of his and all his limbs are attached and everything. He just looks like he's aged...a lot. He might even look more like an adult than I do. He's still got the baby face, though. I just hope that he's still Michael, despite how scary he looks right now.

His hoodie and his clothes are all black, and his hair is shoved into a beanie. Well, most of it. Some messy curls are sticking out from underneath, and they look soft. I kind of want to touch his hair, but I stop myself. His glasses are missing, which makes it easier to see the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looks like hell, but in the hottest way ever.

Wait...

Oh no, he's hot.

In all honesty, I was going to pull him into a hug the next time I saw him and never let go. I've spent so much time missing him and he's finally back. I was going to tell him about how much he's missed (when he really didn't miss much at all). But instead of following through with that great reunion I planned at the last second, I just stand here with a dumb look on my face and go:

"Uh—Guh—Wha?"

"No time to explain," He wipes his nose with his sleeve. "Are you just gonna stand there like an idiot or are you gonna let me in?"

I don't remember Michael being this mean.

It scares me, so I let him in. I stumble as I close the door behind me and try to show Michael to the living room, since that's what I usually do when we have a guest, except this time I'm a lot more panicky and I'm drunk. I must look like a baby deer trying to take its first steps. I hear Michael laugh behind me, and I turn around to see why.

"Jesus Christ, you're a trainwreck." He says with a cocky grin.

"Like you're any better." I shoot back, thanks to the lack of filter my big mouth has when I'm intoxicated. I quickly realize what I said and clap my hand over my mouth. I should have not said that. How do I know? Because of the death stare Michael's giving me with those dark, piercing eyes.

A moment passes by, then that smirk reappears on his face. He doesn't seem completely pissed at me. "You have a point."

Michael reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, making my eyes widen. He's eighteen. I know that drinking alcohol at our age is illegal too, so I can't say much, but... they're cigarettes. They kill people, something that weed can't really do. I'd rather him continue smoking weed instead of cancer sticks.

He opens the pack and pulls a cigarette out, closing it just as quickly as he opened it. He digs around his pocket for something and pulls a lighter out. I quickly realize that he's about to start smoking in my house.

"Yo, what the fuck?" I blurt out. Michael merely rolls his eyes.

He lights the end of the cigarette and takes a long drag after a moment. He looks at me. "Stress reliever, Heere. It's a stress reliever."

"Mike, my parents are gonna get pissed—"

"Mike? Really?" He scoffs, blowing smoke into the air. I cringe. "You treat me so much like a child, it's insane."

"Would you prefer Mikey? Or Micha?"

"How about you don't refer to me at all, Heere?" Michael tells me. He's already getting on my last nerve. I have a first name for a reason: so you don't wear out the last one.

"Fuck you." I spit.

"I'm uninterested in that offer," He says. It takes me a moment, then I get super embarrassed and a little angry. I don't blame him for being uninterested, though. Michael looks around the living room, exhaling smoke. "Your house looks different. A lot different."

"It's because I have a new mom."

"Hey, now we both have a mom." I know he says this to try to piss me off, you know, because my real mom left when I was nine, but it hardly fazes me.

"You have two." I hold up three fingers. Michael pushes two of my fingers down with his one hand, I watch as he does it, and leaves the index finger up.

"Had. I had two," He mutters, removing his hand from mine. My eyes widen at what he says. The look I give him must be one that begs for explanation. "They broke up. Nice things never last."

I start to feel guilty. Things really have changed, and not just for me.

Michael adjusts his beanie and licks his lips a little, something I used to notice too often. He drags on his cigarette again, which makes me nervous. He blows the chemical-filled smoke into the air and seems to be content. I'm careful not to inhale any of that.

"I... I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"I came out."

I'm pretty sure that if I were sober, I'd still be confused as to how a kid coming out to his gay parents could cause them to split up. I knew that Michael was questioning, he'd even told me himself, but I guess I wasn't around when he finally knew what he liked. If I was around, would I have been the first person he told? Would I have been surprised? I had a crush on him, after all, so I probably would've been happy that I had a greater chance at being with him. Maybe it would've been a surprise. But it doesn't seem like a surprise now.

"You're giving me the look," Michael growls, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Let me guess, you're gonna call me a fag too? Just like the rest of the kids our age?"

"...Why would I do that?" I ask, voice quiet.

"Because everyone in this dumb town is an asshole," He flops down onto the couch. I take a seat on the arm of the couch. "I'm an asshole. My parents are assholes. The police officer who gave me a ticket for my sucky parallel parking job is an asshole. You're all assholes!"

He's got a point, but I hate being considered an asshole.

"I wouldn't call you a f..." I trail off. I never actually came out to Michael, so he might think I'm straight. If he does, and if I said it, I know it'd piss him off.

"You gonna finish that sentence, Heere?" He snarls.

I sigh. "No. Sorry."

"Still apologizing," He complains. I'm a little hurt. I can't not apologize. "Dumbass."

"I know," I say, watching as Michael stares at the succulent on the table. He puts his cigarette out in the dirt and leaves the cigarette butt there, plain for anyone to see. He seems proud of his work. I feel the opposite way about it. Heidi is going to kill me when she finds out.

For the first time in a few minutes, Michael's eyes meet mine. They look a lot less black, now that we're in better lighting. The bags under his eyes are still there, and they're not fading away any time soon. Just from this eye contact, I get a warm, tingly feeling in my stomach.

And that's when Michael looks away.

Chapter Text

Right when we expect it the least, the door opens. Light pours into my room. Michael stops; I stop. We glance at each other for a moment, and when we make eye contact, we immediately look away.

"Is that a girl?"

Michael's trying to hold back his laughter now.

"Hey, Dad," I say with plenty of fake enthusiasm in my voice, "do you mind knocking?"

"Oh, that's a boy," he realizes. "On a school night?"

Cue the secondhand embarrassment.

"Yes, Dad, I have a boy over on a school night. Go away."

"Alright. I'll leave you two alone," he says, "but I want this door to stay open."

"We aren't going to fuck! Go away!"

Oh god. Did I just say that? Yes, I did. The room is so awkwardly silent now, and my face is so flushed. I'm about to get in trouble in front of Michael; I'll never get to live that down.

Surprisingly, though, instead of getting onto me for my language, Dad leaves and closes my door.

"Your dad thinks you're gay," Michael comments, wearing a stupid, mocking grin across his face.

That's where he's wrong. My dad doesn't think I'm gay—he knows I'm gay, or queer, or something. I came out to my family a few months ago.

I can't tell Michael about that, though. It hurts to lie to him, but I don't want to have this conversation. I know that if we do, he'll try to bring up my old crush, and then we'll fight again like before, and I don't want that to happen.

"Yeah, well, I'm not."

"Oh, yeah? Then why does your dad think—"

"I'm not gay, okay? Please just—just stop."

"I was just fucking with you," Michael says, eyebrows furrowed. "You don't have to get all angry at me."

"I'm not getting angry,"

"Yeah, okay," he retorts; his little 'tsk' paired with an eyeroll is what almost sets me off.

"What's your fucking problem?" I ask.

"You're my fucking problem!"

"Well, it's not like I asked you to come here!"

"Oh, come on!" He says, and I flip him off. "Don't be fucking rude!"

Are you kidding me? Aside from what I just did, I don't see how I'm the one being rude. He just came here (and I still have no idea why he's here!) and he won't leave or even use his manners. He's smoking in my house and jerking off in my bathroom and insulting me to my face, and I don't even know what the fuck is going on anymore.

"It's just so bad with me around, isn't it? Even if it's just for one night," he scoffs. "I just make you feel so awful, don't I?"

"Yeah, you do! And you know it, and you just fucking love it. You love making me feel awful."

With that, the egotistical troubled teenager persona goes away for a moment. Michael looks sorry. He looks hurt. For a moment, I actually regret ever opening my mouth. I probably just broke this boy.

A moment passes by, then two. Silently, Michael gets up on his feet again. He adjusts that stupid black hoodie, tousles those stupid curls a bit, grabs his beanie.

His eyes meet mine once more, and boy, does he look pissed. I have no idea what comes next, and that's the scariest feeling I've felt in a while.

"This was a mistake," he finally says. "I should've ran off to Jake's house. He would've been nicer to me about this, even after all the shit we went through."

I can't seem to shut up. "That's because Jake is a nice guy."

"Fuck you!"

The words should hurt more, but they're weak. They feel like that joking fuck you my friends and I would always throw around—except there's no joke here. It's more of a pathetic excuse of an insult.

(I still flinch, though. I think that's just me being a pansy.)

"I don't even know why I thought you changed. You're still a dick," Michael says. "I hope I never have to see you again."

And those are the words that hurt the most.

But they don't stop me from getting on my feet, and they don't make me any less ready to make Michael stay.

"Please don't go,"

I grab his hand, and he's quick to pull away. Fear—I see the amount of fear in his eyes. He's scared now, but why? Why is he scared? I get that I'm really being a dick and I made him angry, but I don't want him to be scared, or angry, or upset. I just want to fix things.

I just want to make things better again.

"Please?" I beg.

Chapter Text

"Jeremy!"

Shit.

I push Michael onto the floor. I don't mean to, it just happens in the midst of my panic. It doesn't seem to please him, but then again, why would it?

"Ow! The hell?!"

"I can't let anyone know you're here!"

"So? You don't fucking push me, you moron!"

"Shut up or she's gonna hear you, you little bitch baby!"

Michael's eyebrows furrow together; the confusion is so clear on his face. "Who the fuck—"

"My stepmom, fucknut!"

And right after that, my door opens again. My head immediately snaps upwards to make direct eye contact with Heidi. An awkward second passes, then another.

"Hey," I smile, except it feels so weird and it's just forced on my face, "what's—what's up?"

This is the part where I notice she's still wearing her scrubs. She looks exhausted, but she's smiling. You can see that even after being completely busy all day, she can smile a genuine smile. That's something I can't ever pull off.

"Come say hi to our visitor."

It's literally the middle of the night. It's normal for Heidi to get off work this time of night, but for us to have a visitor? While I'm still (secretly) hungover? I'm trying to make it make sense.

But I don't refuse. I just say "Okay?", and I hope for the best.

Michael perks up after she's gone, "A visitor?"

"Yeah, but not for you."

"Well, I got that, dipshit."

I hold my hand out for Michael to grab, but he grabs my wrist instead. I help him up anyway. He still looks pissed as all hell, but I couldn't really care any less anymore.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you and saying all that shit," I apologize, since it's the kind thing to do. "...And for pushing you."

Michael stares at me for a moment, then looks away as if he's repulsed by the sight of me. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the truth.

"Yeah, you should be," he finally says, and we leave it at that.

Despite my pleads for him to stay behind, we end up leaving my room together. It's the one time he actually decides to shut his mouth. Let's just say it's awkward, though awkward is an understatement.

He sits on the railing of the stairs, considers sliding down it for a moment, then he decides against it. If things weren't so painfully awkward, I would laugh.

When we get to the bottom of the stairs, I spot our visitor—my visitor. It's Evan. My stepbrother who I rarely talk to is sitting here in the big reclining chair in the living room.

Nice.

Evan stops playing with the zipper on his dark grey jacket when he notices me. "Oh, hey,"

"Hey," I shoot an awkward finger gun, "what's up?"

Evan seems to genuinely think it through, but just shrugs in response to my half-assed question. He looks at Michael instead, confusion yet fascination written on his face.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I could ask you the same thing, twink," Michael says, and Evan's fascination goes away.

"This prick is Michael."

"Michael," Evan says blankly, trying to put two and two together. "Like, the Michael? The one you always—"

"Shut up," I sneer.

"Oh," he says. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," I say, "just...don't, okay?"

Evan gives an awkward nod, then goes back to fidgeting with his jacket. I hate the awkwardness. My head still hurts, and it feels like it's getting worse.

Right then, Heidi literally shows up right out of nowhere, which nearly scares the hell out of me.

"You two getting along?" She teases.

"Sure," I awkwardly respond.

She looks at Michael (who I honestly forgot was there for a moment), then at me. "Jeremy? Who's this?"

"Oh, well, um—"

"I'm Michael," he says, and I nod along. He does another awkward-looking peace sign. It gives me secondhand embarrassment.

"Is he your..." She starts, but she doesn't finish. I don't get it, but Michael does; he starts giggling.

"What's so funny?" I ask him, and he just grins.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"What?! Where'd you get that from?"

"Yep," Michael grabs my hand and leans into my side, "yeah, sure am."

What the fuck?

"Oh," Heidi smiles again, "well, hi there. You know it's a school night, right?"

"Yeah, I know," he smiles. It gets on my nerves and makes my heart flutter at the same time. "I was just about done here anyway."

"Oh, I see. Do you need a ride home?"

"Nope,"

"I'll get him home, no worries. You should get some rest."

"Better make it quick, soldier," she says. As you can tell, she's picked up on my Dad's nicknames for me; I don't like it. "You still have school."

"I will, I promise,"

"Alright. Goodnight, you two," she says to Evan and I, "and you—" she points to Michael, "I guess I'll be seeing you around more often."

Somehow that makes Michael so happy. "I think your mommy likes me," he says after she leaves the room.

"What the hell, Michael? Why did you tell her that?"

"I knew it would make you angry. It's funny when you're angry." Michael giggles. I flick his forehead with my finger and my thumb. "Ow," he whines, mumbling a swear word after.

"You're just adding to my headache. Get me some ibuprofen from the kitchen. Thanks."

"Yes, sir," he nods and turns to the kitchen. As he walks away, I hear him mutter a word that sounds suspiciously like 'kinky.' I want to hit him.

When we're both sure that Michael's no longer listening, Evan goes straight to interrogating me about this whole thing. "Okay, since when are you two dating? I thought you hated him."

"We're not actually—Jesus fuck, Evan," I sigh. "Michael and I aren't a thing."

"So you aren't dating him."

"That's what I just said,"

It's quiet for a second, then Evan shrugs. "Now that I think about it, Michael's kinda cute."

"Hey! The fuck, man?!" I say, and Evan looks a little too taken aback by my reaction. "You have a boyfriend!"

"Jared?"

"Yeah, Jared! Who do you think I'm talking about?"

An awkward smile appears on my stepbrother's face. "Well, you see—"

"What happened to Jared...?"

"That's over with," he says. "It's been over with for, like, months."

"And you're just telling me now?!"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, no," I say, but I'm sure my frown contradicts that statement. "I'm glad that you're happy now, I swear. I just—really shipped you two, but I'll get over it."

"Thanks...?"

I nod, and quickly realize that was an awkward thing to say, and an awkward thing to do. Everything we say is awkward. Who seriously allowed us to be brothers?

Whatever. Not like overthinking it will fix it or anything. I finally take a seat on the end of the couch, and right after I do that, Michael re-enters the room with a cup.

"I hope you know your kitchen doesn't have any good food in it," he complains. "But whatever. Here's your medicine, bitch boy," he hands me two ibuprofen and the glass of water. Aw, he remembered that I hate dry swallowing pills. Maybe he's got a heart after all.

"Well, aren't you the sweetest thing?"

"I'm nice when I want to be," Michael tells my stepbrother, and that's all I think he's going to tell him.

I'm a little hesitant to take the pills, but I convince myself I'll be fine and I take them anyway. It feels weird, how Michael's staring at me while I drink the water he gave me. He doesn't look away, either.

"Hopefully that'll be enough to cure your hangover," he remarks, and I glare at him.

"Shut up, man."

Michael's little comment doesn't seem to make Evan's impression of me any better. "What the hell, Jeremy? Alcohol?"

"Sometimes I'll drink to cope with stress," I set the glass on that table next to the couch. "That's all."

"I usually just have an anxiety attack and it'll eventually blow over."

"Well, I'm not like you, Evan, you know what I mean?"

Another awkward nod signifies the ending of this conversation. I focus my attention on something—someone else; Michael lights another cigarette, right there in the middle of the living room.

"Is he being serious right now?" Evan asks.

"One hundred percent," I sigh.

Michael looks up at me, grins, then he flips me off.

"Thanks, babe," I say. "You're so fucking sweet to me."

And suddenly, everything seems to stop. That's what breaks Michael—again. He looks like he's seen a fucking ghost, and I don't know how to snap him out of it. I go to reach for him, and he immediately jerks away from my touch.

"Michael?"

He looks down at the ground. "That's too much. Sorry."

"You can tell my stepmom that we're dating but I can't jokingly call you babe?"

"No, you can't, okay? I'm sorry."

He still apologizes. I always remember how he was constantly apologizing for tiny things, especially after the squip. The old Michael is still there; I've just gotta dig him back out of the hellhole that is his life.

This is great, right? I can fix this. I can totally fix this.

"Shit. Well, um, I'm headed to bed," Evan announces, breaking my train of thought. He stands up, "I've still got classes tomorrow night—tonight? I don't know. But there's some shit I gotta do before that. Also, I can't stand to be around cigarette smoke."

"Alright. Night, Ev,"

"Night, Jeremy," he says, then he looks at Michael. "and you too...Michael."

"Goodnight, stranger," Michael says. It's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night. We watch as Evan makes his way to the guest room, then it gets quiet again.

And now we're alone.

Michael takes a seat next to me on the couch, and I accidentally scoot away. In response, he blows his cigarette smoke in my face. Disgusting.

"You realize you need to leave soon, right?" I ask him, trying my best to fan the smoke away with my hand. "Like, today at the latest."

"I don't know where to go," he says. "I'll figure it out."

"School?"

"I don't go to school anymore," he tells me. "Got expelled."

"What?!"

"Fights and stuff. Momma wasn't very happy,"

Part of me wants to go: Fights? What the hell, Michael, you got into fights? But the other part of me knows that if I say that, he can and will probably fight me too. So I just keep my mouth shut.

"Th-things just got worse after I came out. They started arguing? And it felt like it was my fault," he takes another drag on his cigarette, "so I started this whole phase to get their attention, and it really backfired on me. All I did was get myself disowned and my parents split up."

Oh.

"That's...awful,"

"Well, duh," he rolls his eyes, which quickly widen. "Holy shit, I talk too much. You just...there's something you do to me. It's like, it's like I need to tell you everything. All my secrets."

"You can tell me anything. I'm here for you, Michael."

"Thanks," he says. "You're still a dick, though."

"Yeah," I say, "sorry."

I expect him to make a snide remark about me apologizing again, but he doesn't say anything. I watch him fidget with the end of his hoodie string.

I only just now realize how sleepy I'm getting. Of course, it's right when Michael's nice. The timing is so convenient.

Well, I guess it's no use fighting sleep now that it's finally come to me. I'm tired as all hell, so I let my eyes fall shut, just for a little bit.

It's quiet. I can hear the heater running, I'm focusing on my own breathing, and my mind is at ease. Before I actually process it, I'm actually well on my way to falling asleep.

The peace doesn't seem to last very long.

"Wake up," Michael pokes my forehead twice. "Go lay down."

I open my eyes, and his face is so close to mine. The cigarette isn't there anymore. I don't even bother to ask what he did with it.

"I can't leave you."

"You're practically asleep," he says. "Go, you fucker."

"No, you're gonna do some dumb shit and get me in trouble again,"

He sighs. "You're an idiot."

I flip him off again, and this time he laughs. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth; I just let go. I let myself smile a stupid, sleepy, lopsided smile.

Michael smiles too, and I finally find comfort again in those brown eyes.

Chapter Text

I can't stop thinking about the fact that I said "thank you" to the bus driver.

I shouldn't be so ashamed of myself; it's nice to have manners. I'm probably more ashamed of the fact that I'm still riding the bus. It's stupid, being a senior and still taking the bus to school, but my reasoning is mostly logical; I have no friends who can take me, my dad is usually too tired to and refuses to give me the keys, and I'm also a 'can't drive gay.'

When I left Middle Borough last year, I had to switch buses and stops. It threw off the routine I've had for almost my whole life; my reaction to that was... not the prettiest.

I have to walk a few minutes from the stop just to get to my house, and it's absolute hell around this time of year. I have no tolerance to the cold—it's just another factor that differs Michael and I. Luckily, I'm almost home, so I won't have to freeze and suffer much longer.

My neighborhood has always been your average upper-middle-class, mostly white neighborhood. It's quiet and rather boring. You've got one or two-story houses all the way down with average sized yards, but no white picket fences. Michael used to live closer—in this same neighborhood, actually—but he moved a few blocks away during sophomore year.

The scenery isn't much, but the walk helps clear my mind. All I can really focus on is how cold my hands are, which is slightly better than everything else I tend to stress out about—for example, the entirety of today.

School on its own is bad enough, but I couldn't concentrate today, which made it worse. I couldn't go five minutes without thinking of Michael, Michael, Michael. I sat through each and every single one of my classes worrying about him and thinking about what he said to me.

So he's officially forced himself back into my life, huh? And he's stuck in this stupid phase. It's all a phase, though, which is a good thing; that means I can fix it. I can get him back to normal and we can have our friendship back.

If Michael's even at my house still, that is. Something inside me is begging the universe to make him go—if he does, then I can forget about this whole ordeal and all the strange feelings that have come along with it.

I'll just hope that he's figured it out by now.

The rest of the walk is quiet, minus the loud music playing through my headphones that will probably give me tinnitus. The street isn't busy at all. Wind blows through the trees, and I imagine how much better this walk would be if it were a sunny day.

When I get home, I hesitate; I freeze up, my hand lingers on the knob. The metal is cold, I think. I can barely tell. I have no idea why I'm waiting, or what I'm waiting for. It's just my house.

I open the door. I wait for a moment, then another, and one more. The only sound I can hear is Fall Out Boy still blasting through my earbuds; I turn down the music in case there's something I'm supposed to hear.

I open my mouth to signify my arrival, but nothing comes out. That's weird. The corners of my mouth turn downward into a frown. I look around; I appear to be alone. The living room still smells slightly of cigarette smoke, but there's no other sign of Michael.

So he's gone. He's gone, and that's good. I do feel a certain hollowness and an aching in my chest, and my tingling hands are beginning to shake again, but that's normal—I think.

It should be good news, right? I can get back to my normal life again. I won't have to babysit another eighteen year old; I can get back to focusing on just school so I can graduate, and I'll live my life just how I was supposed to. Just how the universe wanted me to.

Chapter Text

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab him by his arms—I don't know why I do it. I'm not usually one to roughhouse, really, but here I am, hovering above him and holding him down. Since I'm already here, I try my best to look all serious, though I know I can't look scary.

I don't even notice how weird this position is until Michael opens his obnoxious mouth. He smiles, "Are we about to kiss right now?"

"No, I'm going to hurt you,"

"I'll moan," he giggles, and that obscene thought affects me so much that I have to pull away.

(I keep ahold of his arms, though. Something tells me I should hold onto him.)

"Jeremy's flirting with me, ooooh," Michael taunts, "he wants to kiss me so bad."

At this point, I've learned to tune him out. All I have to do is focus on something else, and I won't be forced to listen for a good while.

But somehow, for some reason, that something else is still a part of him. I see how his sleeves are slightly pushed up, revealing arms full of colorful bracelets; I kind of like how that's never changed. He still has some piece of rainbow string I gave him forever ago, and he's wearing it right on his wrist.

For a good moment, the center of my attention is plastic beads and rubber bands and fucking yarn. I like the colors. I like the patterns. All I do is look; Michael's voice is still there, yet I have no clue what he's saying.

The more I look, the more I notice. I start to notice more than just bracelets on his wrist.

"Ask me to stop if I'm getting too personal, okay?"

The question simply slips out, and Michael goes silent. For once, he knows I'm being serious. His eyes avoid mine when he gives a quick, firm nod, but I try my best to make eye contact anyway.

"Did you have a relapse?"

It gets too quiet for a second. His eyebrows furrow, and he looks like he's about to beat the shit out of me for asking—his fists clench and everything—but then his expression softens.

"Yeah," he says. "I fucked up again, I know. I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," I let go of his wrist and take his hand; surprisingly, he doesn't pull away. "I wish you would've called. I wish you would've come over."

"You would've gotten mad at me."

"I wouldn't have," I say. "I've been there before, you know I have. You were there for me. You know that I know what it's like."

"I was supposed to call you," he sighs, "and I didn't."

"There's a lot of shit we regret doing and not doing. It's okay," I say. "How long have you been clean?"

"A few months," Michael says. "I miss doing it."

That makes me think of how much I miss doing it. But the scars have mostly faded, and I've been clean for over four years, and I'm not willing to throw it all away now.

I trace over the callouses on his fingertips, something that wasn't there before. This is such a heavy subject to talk about, but touching his hand like this makes me feel safe. There's a void somewhere that this contact is filling.

It makes me feel like I don't have to hurt myself.

"It's scary," he finally says, breaking the silence. "I ran away from home, away from my mom and my meds and my creeper plushie and everything that keeps me grounded. I'm struggling so goddamn badly."

"Maybe you should go home."

"No, I can't," his hand leaves mine, and the void feels empty again. "I don't want to. I'm scared to go back. I'm just scared."

I'm not holding onto him anymore. He looks at me, and all I feel is empathy.

"I did it again, didn't I? Sorry, I talk way too fucking much—"

"You don't need to apologize," I say. Michael bites back another apology, chewing on his bottom lip.

My fuzzy head is pounding again, a feeling that's somehow much more pleasant than a hangover, and all I can think about are big brown eyes and round lips and a voice that used to give me shivers.

Why do I want to kiss him so badly? Kissing a pretty sad boy is just a recipe for disaster.

Whatever. It's not like I'm going to; I know better than to give into temptation.

"I still have that Squirtle plushie you gave me," I say instead of kissing Michael. "You can use it to help you sleep, if you want."

"Really...?"

I lean down, search under my bed for a second, then I grab Squirtle off the floor. I brush my bangs out of my eyes. "Don't know how he ended up down there, but..."

Michael studies me for a moment. He swallows thickly, then looks away, eyes landing on the plushie. "God, I'm a literal fucking baby."

"I still sleep with stuffed animals and plushies sometimes," I tell him. "No judgment here."

"Lame," he says, but he still takes the plushie from me.

He snuggles up under my comforter and blankets. I'd really like to have my bed and my room back, but I guess Evan's room will suffice until Michael decides to go home.

I get up and go to say goodnight, but he stops me, placing a hand on my arm. My brain goes completely fuzzy, and my heart goes thumpthumpthumpthump and—

"Don't go yet," he says, "stay?"

I blink. "Stay...?"

"Please?"

Even if I wanted to, I can't tell him no. I sit back on the edge of my bed even though Michael makes room for me. A smile appears on his face, and it isn't one of those cocky smirks. It's a genuine smile.

I watch him as he stares at the ceiling, and I wonder what about glow-in-the-dark stars could be so interesting to an eighteen year old boy.

"You know what I hate?"

"What do you hate?" I ask.

"I hate that they never made a sequel to Apocalypse of the Damned," he tells me. "We would've totally dominated that game."

It's been too long since I've played that game or even heard the title. Would the stupid joke I just thought of make him laugh?

"You can say it," he says.

"What?"

"What you're struggling to hold back."

I feel my face get warm again. I didn't know it was obvious. I feel no shame at the moment, so I just let the words come out.

"It's not the only thing I would've totally dominated," I say, and Michael bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

His laughter is so contagious, always has been, so it's not long before I'm laughing just as hard. I don't know what we're laughing at; maybe it's because it could be true or it couldn't be, or the idea of me ever getting laid is just so obscure, but the laughter feels nice.

Once it dies down a little, Michael continues to sleepily ramble about the game. I listen as he goes on about all the things the developers had promised us back in the eighties; bonus levels, new maps, what they had planned for the final boss.

It feels like we're having a sleepover, like all the ones we've had before. I'm ignoring all my stupid urges to play with his hair, to kiss his stupid face and shut him up. They're odd feelings when I think about them—but maybe they're just normal.

Hopefully they won't develop into something more.

We talk and we talk until Michael's asleep, Squirtle cradled in his arms. I've never been more jealous of a plushie in my life.

Chapter Text

Surprise. I have feelings for Michael.

I came to this conclusion during lunch today, and honestly, I don't even know how it happened. One moment I was stuffing my face with a shitty hamburger made of mystery meat, and the next thing I knew was that I totally have it bad for my former best friend.

I mean, it makes sense. I totally freaked out when I woke up next to him this morning, and it wasn't because of the drool. I actually thought he looked really cute when he slept, and when he grabbed my hand and asked me not to go, my stomach did those weird flips it does when I get crushes. Thinking he's cute and pretty and all sorts of things maybe are normal feelings, but the way I've been feeling them isn't normal. It's just gay.

He still seems to hate everything about me, so my feelings feel so wrong. Like, what's the point of being head over heels for someone who hates you? There's no way any of this will actually pay off.

And truth be told, I wish these feelings would go away. I can't deal with being in love right now; my life just doesn't allow any time for it. There's major tests I need to take and classes I need to complete, and if a stupid boy is on my mind the entire time, nothing's going to get done and everything that I've worked so hard for will be ruined. I can't have that. I've already lost everything else.

Still, none of that stops me from skipping home from the bus stop like a lovestruck idiot. My excitement to see him doesn't go down any less despite wanting to not like him.  I still crave Michael's hugs and the way he touches my hand; nothing stops me from becoming giddy at the thought of him.

And when I open the front door, he's there on the couch. No unprecedented anxiety attacks, no other roadblocks. Just Michael.

He's still wearing the same clothes that he's been wearing since he came here; gross, but it doesn't make me like him any less. His hair is damp and the curls are gone, so my guess is that he took a shower while I was at school. Thank god, my subconscious supplies.

"Hey," I say, setting my backpack by the door. I even put in the extra effort to smile, but Michael doesn't look at me. Immediate mood crusher. "I, um... I said hey."

He picks at a loose thread on the couch. "Hey."

"Um... is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You sure? You seem kinda off," I say, taking a spot on the opposite end of the couch. For some stupid reason, I go to reach for his free hand, but he immediately recoils. He doesn't want to be touched, I realize. It's weird what kind of a difference a couple of hours can make.

"Sorry."

"Stop."

He speaks so harshly to me; I don't know how I've allowed it to go on this long. No 'it's okay' or even 'it's fine'—my lesser favorite of the two phrases—follows. Just 'stop.' I can tell I'm screwed, but my heart still races. That scowl is so unnatural when it comes to him, yet I can't help but think he still looks gorgeous, even when he's pissed.

I want to apologize one more time, but he's already going off again. "You're such a dick, you know that, right?"

"I... what?"

"You treated me like garbage, man,"

"What? Since when?"

"The entire time I've been here. During our entire friendship."

Huh, that's strange. Up until the last five months of our friendship, I was always the second priority. According to how everyone else acted, he was always more important than me, and he always came first, and that fact definitely didn't fuck up my mental health. I was always comparing myself to Michael, always placing him on a fucking pedestal.

It's weird how he started feeling that way when I decided I wanted to do something about it. I can't tell if this is another one of his acts to make me feel bad for wanting to be appreciated more, or if I really am just as much of a shitty person as he says I am.

But fuck, this isn't about me. The world doesn't revolve around Jeremy, you idiot; Michael's right, and I hate that he's right.

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

"Because it's all I can think about when I see your stupid fucking face," he scoffs. "What, do you just expect me to forget about it?"

"I never said that," I say. "Why are you even pissed at me, anyway? I just walked into my own house, and suddenly you're getting pissy."

"Oh my god, just shut up already,"

"Don't tell me to shut up," I shoot back.

"Shut up," he repeats. "If you knew what you said to me that day would fuck me up so badly, would you have said it?"

"What?"

"You seriously can't be that dense," he argues. "'You're too clingy, Michael.' Oh, and we can't forget 'I think I'd be better off on my own,'" he continues. "I hate that you fucking speak your mind when you're high, if you would've just shut up, then—"

Then everything would be okay now.

Shit. I never wanted to say any of it from the beginning. Like he said, I always immediately say what I'm thinking and reveal what I've been hiding when I get stoned—it's like that filter I have completely vanishes. I was going through it and we were making mistakes, so we smoked and I said dumb things I didn't even mean.

How could I be so stupid? Of course he was going to bring that up; that's probably why this whole visit happened. Closure. He wanted closure, but I just gave him a hard time. I ruined the friendship, I ruined what we could've had, I ruined—

"You're such a dick."

And he's storming past me.

"Wait, Michael—"

"Just stop talking," he says, "shut up, just shut up."

I make the idiotic mistake to follow him. God, I hope we're home alone. I couldn't even begin to explain this.

We're rushing up the stairs, leaving the living room behind us. Somehow, I can feel the anger radiating off him from here, and unfortunately, his bad moods are contagious. I'm gaining on him and he knows it, so he does what I should've expected from him, slipping into the vacant bathroom at the end of the hallway.

I get one final glance at him—such a pretty face, scowl and all—before he slams the door in my face. And there he goes. Hiding again.

I jiggle the doorknob, but to no avail (and no surprise), the door doesn't open. "Hey, can we—can we maybe talk about this?"

"Go away!"

"This is my house!"

And not another snarky remark follows. Michael is totally silent on the other side of the door, and for what isn't the first time, it's filling me with fear.

Oh, man, I fucked up.

I fucked up, just like I always do. The one person I care about the most hates me, and it's all my fault because I can't keep anything to myself. I'm so fucking dumb. I say such fucking stupid things. I wish I could stop talking forever, just so I wouldn't screw up so goddamn badly all the time.

And of course I just want to kiss him, like it'll make things better. Like it'll get rid of all the hurt I caused. But it won't—it'll just confuse him. It'll piss him off and it'll hurt him even more. It'll hurt me too, and it'll hurt like nothing else in the world ever will or has.

Liking Michael is so fucking stupid. It's awful. Out of all the people I could've caught feelings for, it had to be the most difficult, stubborn boy in the history of difficult, stubborn boys. I just had to fall for the one who doesn't want me.

I thought I had the situation under control, but I made things worse, like always.

Now I know that I need some help.

Chapter Text

So who do I decide to go to for advice? Jake.

Michael kept going on and on about he should've gone to Jake instead of me, so I'm going to see what the fucking hype is about Jake Dillinger—whilst also begging him to help me. Sure, he's hot and nice and probably knows more about Michael than I do at this point, but I can be nice. Why else am I doing this revolutionary, friendship-fixing thing for Michael? I'm a nice guy.

If I've learned one thing from the Halloween 2018 incident (as if I hadn't learned plenty from that shitshow), it's to not believe everything you see on social media, especially if it's coming from Jenna Rolan. Jake's house is fine; it's not a pile of ash. Whatever was damaged managed to be fixed, and I'm hoping that'll be the case with what's happened between Michael and I.

Here I stand at the front door, freezing my balls off. (So maybe walking wasn't my brightest idea.) I haven't been to this house in so long; it's honestly intimidating.

I turn my head, peering at the driveway again. What I'm assuming to be Jake's car is still there—I've only seen it a handful of times, usually in the dark and while totally plastered—so logically, he has to be here. I know he has to be here. I don't know if it makes me feel better or worse.

Okay, breathe. Just do it for Michael.

And so I knock. I knock a little too hard, leaving my knuckles sore—and then I realize I could've just used the doorbell. Idiot.

Part of me hopes nobody answers, while the other part of me is begging for someone to appear and give me solutions. I don't know what I want, or if I should really even do this, but I've come too far now to back down or admit that this may not be the best decision.

Too much time passes for my anxious, impatient ass to handle; I almost knock again, I almost ring the doorbell, I almost leave—but I stay put. Feet glued to the front step like I belong here.

To my surprise, the door opens, and I'm finally met with a formerly familiar face—but not the one I was expecting to see.

"Oh, look, it's Jeremy," Rich scoffs, "the world's biggest dick."

What a lovely greeting.

I start noticing things before I even think about speaking. Why is Rich wearing pajama pants? It's literally five o'clock. Did he get taller? Or did I get shorter? His lisp is gone—the world'th biggetht dick, that's what he would've said. The red streak that was once in his hair is completely faded, and it seems like he's growing his hair out just like Michael. I'm not going to lie, he's a little cute. Maybe even really cute.

"Uh, okay, um, l-look," I begin, "I'm not asking for any trouble. I just need to talk to you guys."

"Go away," he says, already starting to close the door in my face. I manage to stop the door before it slams shut on me; this doesn't seem to impress him.

He gives me a glare. "What the fuck do you want?"

"It's about Michael."

Rich studies me for a moment. I suddenly feel so insecure about the way I look, everything I've ever said, and everything I've ever done.

He then grabs me by my arm and yanks me inside. It nearly takes ten years off my lifespan.

The house is a lot more spacious than I remember. The door slams shut louder than I thought. Rich drags me to the living room, and I have to force him off my arm so I can follow behind him. I see Jake, who looks extremely confused, and undeniably hot in that tank top and those gray sweatpants. My cheeks flush. Last time I saw him, he was on crutches, so seeing him the way he is now is a little overwhelming. I have to remind myself to keep my eyes up. I mumble a quick hello, and then Rich is all up in my face again.