GAME OVER: a Be More Chill fic

Level 12

(A/N: Trigger warning again for self harm, alcohol, and blood. I promise the story cleans up after this chapter. Stay safe!!!)

"Where I go, when I go there... no more whispering anymore," Michael sang softly to himself, strumming gently. "Only hymns upon your lips, a mystic wisdom, rising -- "

A loud beeping interrupted the sweet music filling the basement. Michael opened his eyes, set aside the guitar, and reached for his phone. He almost didn't read the message when he saw the contact name, but he knew Jeremy wouldn't text at this hour if it wasn't important.

PLAYER 2: ayúdame te necesito

Michael stared down at the cryptic message. He'd received a lot of cryptic messages from Jeremy lately, but this one was the worst -- he honestly didn't know what to make of it. "Help me I need you". At three in the morning. In Spanish. Jeremy didn't even speak Spanish.

Nevertheless, Michael was a mom friend by nature. He worried about his buddy; even if he was angry with him, even if he was the last person on Earth he wanted to see right now, he still worried. So, at three in the fucking morning, he slipped out the front door and drove to Jeremy's, praying that he didn't wake anyone up, and thinking, This better be good.

He pulled into the driveway, yawning, and took out the spare key Jeremy had given him a while ago. Mr. Heere didn't know about it, but Jeremy thought it was a good idea. Michael hadn't had to use it very often, since the door was always open during the day, but it was good to have in case of an emergency like (he assumed) this.

Michael entered the house as quickly and quietly as possible and took the stairs two at a time. Jeremy had always been jealous that Michael was tall enough to do that, he remembered. He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. I'm supposed to be mad at him, not reminiscing about him.

Michael hesitated on the top step. What if this was just a plot Jeremy had come up with to make him talk? He really didn't want to talk to Jeremy right now, especially after the scene they made this morning. Maybe he should just leave now and avoid all that.

On the other hand, what if Jeremy really did need his help? Michael wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened that he could've prevented. He shrugged inwardly. If this was a trick, all he had to do was turn around and leave. Simple. And then Jeremy couldn't blame him for being pissed.

He approached the bedroom door decisively and knocked. Jeremy better be awake, he thought, but there was no answer. Great.

Michael turned the handle and walked in, completely unprepared for the sight before him. All of his anger melted away into panic as he scanned the room. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the floor next to a bloody knife, and on top of the bloody bed lay a very bloody Jeremy.

Michael ran a shaky hand through his hair. What happened? Who did this? His heart raced as he crossed over to the bed and instinctively grabbed Jeremy's wrist to check for a pulse, but he stopped when he saw his arm, saw the three new cuts on top of his old remaining scars, and the word scrawled across his forearm in dried blood.

"Jeremy," he pleaded, nudging his shoulder gently. "Jeremy, wake up, please wake up."

Jeremy stirred, then groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Ow -- ow -- I'm up, I'm... My head hurts."

"I know, I'm sorry, are you okay?" Michael shakily checked his other arm, then looked at his face and tried to stay calm as he examined him.

"I think so?" Jeremy yawned. "I think I'm pretty drunk. And my arm hurts. But other than that, yeah?"