Chapter Text
Until he gets out of the house, Jeremy can’t breathe.
Pushing through the sea of bodies in the living room and down the corridors, he feels like he’s drowning, stumbling over shoes and sweaty limbs. Another top ten hit he doesn’t care for beats down on him like a rogue wave. He keeps his head down and his breath held while he makes a beeline for the front door, careful not to step in puddles of splashed liqueur and various other… well, he doesn’t want to think about what may be putting his favorite socks at risk.
So he pulls open the heavy front door with beautiful windows. As soon as he steps out of the house, like his body is chasing it, Jeremy gasps for breath. The frigid air burns his throat and bites at his skin; if what happened up there didn’t wake him up enough, going outside certainly will.
The stone steps freeze his ass off while he hastily puts on and ties his shoes, a jumble of shoelaces and shaky hands and blurred vision. Before he can slow it all down, a silent sob racks through his body. Jeremy buries his head in his knees.
Fuck Rich. Fuck getting another Uber. Fuck being bothered by the cold. Fuck everything.
There are some people outside, but nobody's paying attention. Thank god. Jeremy didn’t exactly want to be noticed with tears running down his face. He’s sure the white church was a block or two down. His house isn’t much further, so he gets up and starts walking, tears be damned.
And honestly, how could it get any worse than this? He’s dealt with enough this year, let alone last year, and the year before. What is anyone truly losing if he goes and stands in the road again, waiting for some headlights to put him out of his six-year-long misery, and then they finally do? He could go out like that. Make a mess out of himself as a final “fuck you” to the universe, or God, or whatever it is that’s responsible for this stupid fucking cesspool of a life. Become part of something, even if it’s a statistic.
It only takes a few heavy steps in, then Jeremy suddenly crashes into another body.
“Shit, sorry, I wasn’t watching—”
"Shit, Jer, it’s okay,”
When Jeremy lifts his head, all the internal cursing at himself quiets down. Michael smiles at him, still wearing that same red hoodie he always wears. His glasses sit crooked on his face for a moment, but Michael reaches up and fixes them. God, Jeremy’s never been more relieved to see his face.
“Are you crying?" Michael squints.
And there goes the moment.
Jeremy shakes his head, tilting his gaze towards his shoes. "No. What are you doing here?"
"Sometimes I come to these to find someone to smoke with, just something to keep me busy. If I’m chill, I get free weed," Michael says. Huh, he smokes. "You headed home?"
"Yeah."
"Can I walk with you?"
Without picking up his head, Jeremy taunts: "I don't know, can you?"
"Will you let me?"
Jeremy can feel this bout of whatever stuck on his face. Anger, fear, numbness—he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want to walk home alone. “Yeah, okay.”
And that’s how he ends up walking several blocks across Metuchen at eleven on a Friday night, with goody-two-shoes Michael Mell by his side. He knows what he’ll do to himself if he goes alone. Each neighborhood they trek past is the pinnacle of suburbia, straight roads and cul-de-sacs that spin slightly under the influence; Christmas lights still strung upon some houses shine in streaks through Jeremy’s tears and shitty vision.
Not too far into the walk, Michael opens his mouth: "You okay?"
"Yeah, I’m fine.”
Which is obviously so far from the truth. By now, his eyes still sting, both from the tears and the weed, and his wrist is still sore. What would’ve happened to him again if he’d been drunk too isn’t fun to think about, but just like everything else, that’s staying inside.
“Hey.” Michael nudges him, pulling him before he can fall deep into that spiral of thought. "What do planets like to read?"
“Planets can’t read, Michael.”
"Asshole. Comet books."
Jeremy snorts. "That's so stupid."
"Well, it made you smile, so maybe it's not that stupid.”
Heat floods Jeremy’s face, cheeks all flushed, and not because of a substance this time; he didn't even realize. "Okay, maybe it wasn't that stupid.”
Michael bumps their shoulders, grinning like a little kid. By Jeremy’s side, their fingers and knuckles barely ghost each other. Pale and freckled in contrast to olive and green and purple. At least something good is happening, and that’s all he can ask for.
"You're the last person I expected to see at that dumpster fire of a party."
Jeremy pulls his hand back. "Rich invited me."
"Oh.” Michael’s smile falters. "That explains it, then."
Eyes narrowed, Jeremy scrunches his nose. “Okay, what’s your deal?”
"Nothing! There’s no deal.”
“You always get so weird when I talk about him. I’m not slow,”
“I just don’t get how you do anything he tells you to.”
"I wanted to come to the party,” Jeremy says, and it’s half-true.
"But he blew you off anyway, and now he’s probably making out with someone else," Michael says, and wow, how comforting. That shit stings. "But you only came to the party for him."
"It was stupid," Jeremy agrees, kicking a pebble and watching it roll. "What's your problem with him anyway? Why do you even hate him?"
"He hates me; it’s only fair."
"Why does he hate you?"
Michael’s body stiffens; the light in his eyes hasn’t faded as quickly before. Not since Rich took credit for his notes.
"I guess popularity was worth more than our friendship. He’s not the same person he was when I knew him," he finally says, expelling a long sigh. "I’m sure that he's fine, though? I don't know. He probably just likes to treat me like garbage—"
"He's okay," Jeremy defends, and it still doesn’t feel quite right leaving his mouth. "He’s just a dick. A huge dick. I always get involved with the dick-iest people."
"Dick-iest?" The corners of Michael’s mouth twitch into a smile. "I don't think I’m a dick."
"Well, thanks for not being a dick,” Jeremy scoffs. “And for walking with me… I probably would've died out here." Not that he would have complained about that, though.
"I just wanted to make sure you got home safe."
Jeremy can’t help but roll his eyes. Yeah, right. Like anyone actually cares about what would happen to him. That golden boy persona Michael’s got going on is still bright as day. When will he finally break?
Or is Jeremy really so broken that he thinks some totally average kid is acting perfect? Why can’t he view others without so much contempt? Michael’s good. He’s the closest thing to a best friend you’ve got. At least you have something.
The trek back home takes a while, leaving Jeremy shivering, but at least that’s something else to keep his brain busy. Michael walks all the way to the front door with him, even though he doesn’t have to; he starts with talking about his art projects and ends at video game coding.
The chatter dies off after they approach the front step. Jeremy turns to look at the other, chewing his lip. “Thanks again.”
“No need,” Michael says, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Damn you. “I guess I’ll see you on Monday. This was nice.”
Jeremy’s chest aches on ‘Monday.’ It’s been a while since he’s not wanted to be alone. He’s scared he’ll miss it.
“You can stay,” he catches himself saying to a bug-eyed Michael. “If you want to.”
"Are you sure?"
Jeremy shrugs. "I've got nothing else to do.”
“Okay, yeah, sure,” Michael nods; he would be a good distraction. “If you don’t mind.”
For some odd reason, Jeremy doesn’t mind, and he says as such. So Michael walks into his house for the first time ever.
Normally, Jeremy wouldn’t bring anyone over; he doesn’t have anyone to bring over. But with Dad gone, it’s quieter, and Jeremy’s still not exactly thinking straight.
Still doesn’t hide how dysfunctional they are, though. To no one’s surprise, those godawful medical dramas are still idly running, and Mom is passed out on the couch. She looks rough. The empty liqueur bottle on the floor proves enough.
Jeremy picks up the blanket from the end of the couch, draping it over her sleeping figure. Hopefully it’ll be enough to keep her warm, at least.
When he looks back up, Michael's smiling at him again. Flushed, Jeremy apologizes quickly.
He leans in close. “We probably shouldn’t go up to my room,” he murmurs, “she freaks out when I’m alone around guys.”
To that, Michael mouths a gentle ‘ah.’ So they go out to the backyard, where Jeremy hasn’t been in what feels like forever, but it’s only been just a few days.
Since meeting Michael, time has been moving a lot slower. Standing here with him under the porch light, watching a flurry blow in with the wind really hammers that in. Jeremy has no idea what time it is or what it may be, but he knows Michael’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles back at him.
Jeremy hops down the steps, leading Michael to his patch of grass and taking a seat there. He pats the empty spot next to him. Taking the invite, Michael lies down. Turning himself in the opposite direction, Jeremy follows. If he tilts his head, he can see Michael’s face, upside down and slightly frost-nipped.
"Guess what?” Michael says. “I’m allergic to grass.”
"Dude, get up!"
"It's okay." Michael waves his hand dismissively. "I'll just get hives or something."
"Weirdo.” Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Risking your life to talk to me of all people.”
"I’m not risking my life. I like you," Michael says. "I like talking to you. I like your voice."
Jeremy can’t help but frown. "Nobody’s ever said that to me before."
"You didn't talk to me for weeks, y’know. I missed your voice without actually hearing it," Michael says.
What a goopy weirdo. He never steps down from a challenge, does he?
“Hey, I really appreciate this,” Michael murmurs. “I wasn’t really looking forward to going home. I was kinda hoping you’d say something.”
“Do you really have no other friends to go home with?” Jeremy blurts. He cringes just as quickly as he says it. “Shit, that was rude, I’m so sorry—”
“I don’t. Not really,” Michael shrugs; that smile is evident in his voice. “And I’m okay with that, I guess.”
“I think going to yours would’ve been a better idea. My mom’s neurotic,” Jeremy laments. “I mean, I get in trouble a couple of times and smoke a couple of times, then suddenly, she’s tracking my every move. I got lucky this time.”
“At least she cares.”
“She asked me to send her my location tonight. Isn’t that, like, overkill?”
“It’s more than my moms did,” Michael offers. “They don’t even know I’m gone, and I honestly don’t think they care.”
Jeremy blinks, knowing he’s focused on the wrong half of that statement. “You have two moms?”
“It’s not what you think. Gay people can be dysfunctional parents too. It’s not limited to wine moms.” Michael quips. “I mean, I get it. People always think that since I have two moms, my family is happy. Like we get along all the time and they can do no wrong.”
"But that’s not how it is,” Jeremy says.
"Right.” Michael agrees. "My stepmom and I hate each other. It was fine when I was a kid, then I grew up and it just… got bad. Even worse when I started hanging out with Rich and his friends.”
Which is a weird concept, and Michael knows that, giving Jeremy a half-hearted smile. “Before they dropped me, of course. It’s like… to my parents, I’m always doing something wrong. Like I can’t do anything right at all,” he continues. “My mom can have an affair all she wants and that’s okay, I guess, but god forbid I smoke a little weed or I snap and destroy something. Then I’m the disappointment. But I guess someone has to be.”
I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Jeremy thinks.
“I don’t think you’re—”
"Am I rambling too much?" Michael cuts in.
Jeremy blinks. "No, no, um… you can talk for as long as you like."
"Right, sorry. It’s just… sometimes I wish it would go back to just my mom and I.” Michael sighs. “I’m actually not from here, either. I’m from Florida. My bio dad split, but I had all my cousins and aunties close. Then my mom met Charlotte, and that was fine… but then we moved here to be close to her parents, and everything just got worse.”
So nothing's perfect. What a stupid assumption that was to make anyway. He just doesn’t understand how someone so good as Michael came from shitty circumstances. Jeremy’s been doomed since the beginning—it’s wired into him. And Michael, who’s too good for this world, hasn’t seen half of the worst.
"But if they hadn't, I wouldn't have met you. I think you're probably the best thing that's happened to me here so far."
Jeremy blinks. "That is a bold statement for someone who just met me.”
"Well, you're special," Michael says, tilting his head to look at Jeremy—who only stares at him. "What?"
"I’m not special,” says Jeremy. “I’m not anything.”
"You’re different. A good kind of different, I think. Special."
He reaches for Jeremy’s cold hand; on instinct, even though he’s so warm, Jeremy pulls away, much slower than before. Michael only looks back at him, red in the face, like when they first met, but… something about it feels different this time. Something burns deep inside Jeremy’s chest—not in the same way that Rich stung. Not like the disdain he felt before.
“Everything looks the same here,” Jeremy begins, “the streets, the houses, the people. the trains. And so do I. I’m just kinda in the background. I’m, like, a part of things, but I’m not really there.” He turns his head back to the sky. “So how are you so sure about this?"
Michael thinks it through for a while. From where they lay, there’s a twinkling star peeking through the clouds.
"Space dust.” Michael finally says. “We're all made of space dust, and I think that's what makes us all different... in our own little, special ways.”
Jeremy looks him up and down for a moment, trying to comprehend a response to whatever hippie, spacey bullshit he’s trying to make him believe. Again. Michael really likes that space analogy, and Jeremy doesn’t know how to feel.
"You know, if we're going by space metaphors..." Jeremy leans in really close, their faces just inches apart—so close he can feel the heat radiating from Michael’s cheeks. "I think I’m made more of dark matter."
"Indescribable, mysterious?"
Jeremy scoffs. "No, invisible. Dark."
"I can see you just fine," Michael grins. "I can see you perfectly. You're perfect."
"I’m not... I don't think you understand," Jeremy sits up; Michael does the same. "I’m seriously fucked up. I’ve got issues."
"Who isn’t fucked up, dude?"
"Nobody’s as fucked up as I am,” Jeremy argues. “You’d hate it.”
"There are people who are far more fucked up than you are, Jeremy Heere." And for the first time in ages, the words bring a fuzzy feeling deep down into Jeremy’s chest. He likes the way Michael says his name; he couldn't even wear it out if he tried. "Hell, even I’m probably worse than you."
"I seriously doubt it,” Jeremy huffs a laugh. “You’re, like… one of the best people I’ve met.”
“And we don’t even know each other that well.”
Jeremy grins. “Not yet, anyway.”
But this feels pretty close. Their paths may have just crossed, maybe even briefly, but Jeremy could talk to Michael like he’s known him forever if the universe would let him.
…And now he’s genuinely believing in shit like the universe. What an enigma Michael’s turning out to be.
“You’d hate it,” Michael echoes in a murmur.
“I’m starting to really like it.”
When Michael huffs a laugh at that, Jeremy feels it against his skin, hot and heavy. He feels it all over his body and soul, deeper when their eyes meet.
There’s something there that wasn’t before. A glint in Michael’s eye. A spark, maybe, as if that fuzzy feeling caught flame, a racing inferno inside his chest.
Before Jeremy can place it, Michael leans forward, closing the space between them.
What the fuck?
Holy shit, Michael’s kissing him. This boy who Jeremy’s been a total asshole to, treating him like a weird kid, is kissing him, glasses pressing into his face—and he can’t think.
But his hands beckon Michael closer.
It’s gentle to start, so much more pleasant than Rich’s hunger and alcohol on his breath. (Wow, he’s been kissed by two boys in one night; he's becoming a little adventurous.)
Gradually threading his fingers through Michael’s hair, Jeremy deepens the kiss. His mouth is warm and his lips soft; though inexperienced, Michael’s good.
That is until he starts to pull back.
“No, come back,” Jeremy whines against his lips, not bothering to open his eyes. His hands drag Michael back in with no protest.
The second time is better than the first, even if their teeth bump oh-so-slightly. Michael’s hand travels to Jeremy’s curls, fingertips caressing his scalp, and god, this is what making out is supposed to feel like. Like close still isn’t close enough. Heat blossoms all over Jeremy’s body, so much that the chill in the air can’t hurt him.
As Jeremy leans back, warm beneath Michael’s weight, he thinks that maybe this was all he needed. Whatever this is; whatever it will or won’t be. Some crazy-ass friendship this is turning out to be.
Somewhere between taking Michael’s bottom lip between his teeth and resisting the urge to just French him already, Jeremy senses something pressing against his flesh.
Oh.
Deep in his pocket, Rich’s lighter still presses against the fabric.
Fuuuuuck.
Fuck, they broke up an hour ago. What is he doing?
“Michael, just… slow down, man,” Jeremy manages between several open-mouthed kisses. “Oh, dude…”
It only takes a light push to get Michael to slow down and stop. When he pulls back, his glasses sit crooked and foggy on his face, and his lips are all puffy and wet. Softer. Close. If that’s only after a moment of kissing, then Jeremy can’t even imagine…
"Shit,” Michael gasps, swiping his sleeve across his mouth. “I don’t know what that was.”
Jeremy nods, because same. He wonders if there’s anything he can say to make this situation worse.
"I thought you were straight?"
"Are you stupid?"
There it is.
"Fuck, sorry," Michael curses, and with every word he speaks, he only cringes harder. "I just—oh, I don't know what came over me. I’m gonna go home."
But Jeremy doesn't want him to go. "Okay…”
"I'll see you Monday. For real this time,” Michael says, getting up from the ground. “Thanks for the night.”
Jeremy doesn’t know how he should respond, so he doesn’t. Whether it’s because of his lingering high or the buzz from the kissing, he doesn’t know. Instead, he waves a small goodbye with his fingers, watching Michael drag his feet through the light dusting of snow that’s accumulated around them. He didn’t realize how cold it really was until now.
Michael unlatches the back gate, careful not to let the hinges creak, and then he ducks into the dark of night. He doesn’t look back twice.
And now there Jeremy is, alone again. Nobody to touch like he’d hoped until it happened. Nobody to hold like he needs.
Just him, a little bit of weed, his thoughts, and the truth. Nothing about Michael Mell is perfect, aside from maybe his smile and his twinkling eyes, but that's okay.
That just means he’s not any better than Jeremy is.