fucking with our lovers' heads

Chapter 3

This is the last chapter!! I'm so happy you guys have been enjoying it. It's been a fun time for me.

Jeremy

Boyf_: u there?

Marshmello: yea u?

Boyf_: I don't see anyone?

There's no one at the park when Jeremy gets there, five minutes before noon, heading for the tree he and Michael used to hang out near whenever they'd come to get stoned or talk shit or get clear air to get sober.

...No, Jeremy's wrong.

There is someone there, behind the tree, although he can't make them out. It's a bright day—classically summer, all clear blue skies and heavy sunshine, but the light doesn't penetrate the oak tree's thick leaves, so whoever's by the tree is cast in shadow. The shape of their clothing makes it look like they might be wearing a sweatshirt, but who the hell would wear a sweatshirt in this weather? Jeremy has on jeans and a T-shirt, and he feels like he's going to sweat straight through them.

There's nothing like getting a message from someone you thought was a discord mutual to find out they know where you live and what your name is and they want to meet you in a park, and then showing up to find one single person hiding in the shadows.

"I have 911 right here," Jeremy tells the tree, hoping this is the guy and he's not making a complete idiot out of himself. Marshmello did say he was here, and there's no one else around. "Just so you know."

The dude comes out from behind the tree. "You're gonna call the cops on me?" says Michael. He's wearing a sweatshirt, just like Jeremy thought—his red one with the patches, the one that smells like Michael and like weed and is probably the softest thing Jeremy's ever touched. "Fuck the police though, dude. C'mon, not the cops."

Jeremy doesn't move. He doesn't think he can. His feet are rooted to the thin, dry grass and his limbs are frozen as if the SQUIP has just decided to take over. He wonders vaguely what sort of expression he's making—blank-faced shock? Horror? Confusion?

"You're eating..." he says stupidly, pointing. "You're eating marshmallows."

Michael holds up the bag, as if to say cheers! and takes another one out of the bag before tipping it Jeremy's way. "I thought it would be kind of funny. And also help you identify me. And they're good. Marshmallow?"

"They're disgusting raw," Jeremy says reflexively, wrinkling his nose, his heart hiccuping in his chest. This is a conversation Michael and Jeremy have had before—as if he needs any more confirmation this is Michael.

Which—it obviously is. He's got the same black-rimmed nerd glasses, the same head-phone rumpled black hair, the same gay pride patch and scuffed discount shoes.

And the expression on his face—that's familiar, too. Very familiar. That unsure look, the one that means Michael's holding back, the one Jeremy couldn't stand so much he ran away because he knew that look was there because of him.

"No marshmallow?" Michael's mouth—previously frowning—twitches just a little, and it sends this stupid thrill through Jeremy. Michael turns the plastic bag back to himself to take another.

"No, I'll have one," Jeremy says. Just like he always does. That gets him a real smile, a whole one for just a second. It makes his breath stop in his throat.

Michael tips the bag back his way, and Jeremy takes a marshmallow, trying to ignore the way his hand shakes just a little.

"You..." he starts, trying to be mad. He should be mad! He should be furious! He should be turning on his heel and storming out of here! Why... why isn't he turning on his heel and storming out of here? Why does the thought of walking away freeze something in him? "It's you."