(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?"

Michael nodded and helped Jeremy stand. "We're gonna clean you up, okay? Jeremy?"

"Yeah. Okay." Jeremy seemed to have a revelation. "Michael! You're Michael!"

"Shh, shh, yes, I'm Michael," he confirmed, "and it's three in the morning so you have to be quiet. And your arm is bleeding so we have to wash it."

"Ohh. Okay." Jeremy paused, considering something. "I cut myself again, right?"

Michael hesitated before answering. "I... I think so. That's what it looks like." He led Jeremy into the bathroom.

"I did though. I just... felt... bad," Jeremy sighed dramatically as Michael sat him down on the floor so there would be minimal risk of him falling over. "About Michael. I made him feel really... bad. He's mad at me, but it wasn't me, the fuckin' toaster made me do it."

Michael struggled not to laugh at whatever drunken observation that was supposed to be. "Well, the toaster isn't going to make you do anything else." He grabbed a dark washcloth from the shelf and wet it with rubbing alcohol.

"I hope he doesn't. He's a dick."

Michael turned back to him and took his arm. "This is probably going to sting."

"Probably not," Jeremy giggled. "I'm pretty drunk."

Michael held back an amused smile as he wiped away the blood. He made sure the cuts were clean and dry before wrapping them in some thin gauze. "There, that'll work." Jeremy smiled up at him, hazy and loving. Michael smiled back.

"Thanks, Mikey," Jeremy whispered. "Why don't I call you that ever? It's so cute." He let Michael take his good hand and lead him back to his room.

Michael stripped the comforter from the bed and helped Jeremy sit again. "Stay here," Michael instructed, taking the blanket down to the laundry room. He stuffed it into the washer, though he didn't dare run it at this time of night. He couldn't imagine if Mr. Heere woke up to this scene.

Michael hurried back up the stairs, and was relieved to see Jeremy was right where he left him.

"If your dad asks, tell him I had my period," said Michael.

Jeremy giggled. "Gross."

Michael couldn't help but laugh whenever Jeremy did. "I'm saving your ass, Heere, don't call me gross."

"Not you. You're not gross. Not even." He stared at Michael intently for a beat, then sighed, "You have really pretty eyes."

"Oh." Michael turned red. "Um... thanks, man."

Jeremy suddenly became very urgent. He gripped the front of Michael's jacket in both fists and whispered, "You can't tell anyone."

Startled by his outburst, Michael cocked an eyebrow. "That my eyes are pretty?"

"Yeah. And that I'm... was bleeding," Jeremy confirmed. Michael nodded, but Jeremy was insistent. "And you can't tell my dad."

"I won't, I won't." Michael gently removed Jeremy's hands from his jacket, then reached around his friend and held him close, careful not to hurt his head or his arm. Jeremy relaxed into the hug immediately, trusting Michael (as usual) with all of his soul. Michael was still bothered, though.

"Jeremy..." He hesitated, unsure if he should ask. "What happened? I mean, why did you...?" He took Jeremy's hand just to have something to hold onto.

Jeremy looked up at him sadly, turning his head so the two were nearly touching noses. Michael fought the urge to kiss him right then and instead backed up a few inches, dropping his hand as he remembered how drunk Jeremy was.

"Michael..." Jeremy sighed painfully. "I'm gay." He gasped. "No -- ! No, I'm not gay, I'm drunk. And bi... bisexual. Yeah, that's the one, Rich was... told me..." He yawned again, then started crying again, and Michael was utterly speechless.

"Uh..." he tried. "Good for you, man, I'm glad you... figured it out, ya know?"

Jeremy sniffled and looked at him, surprised. "Wait, you're not mad?"

"Why would I be -- "

"I was mad. I'm mad at me, that's why... why I had to... Michael, don't tell my dad!" Jeremy cried.

"Shh, okay, I won't tell him, but you have to be quiet now. Okay?" Jeremy nodded. Michael helped him lie down and threw a spare blanket over him.

Jeremy dozed off almost immediately while Michael took some final precautions to keep him out of trouble. He closed the bottle of Ultimat, grabbed the knife and the washcloth from earlier, and went down the the kitchen. He wiped the blade clean and set it in the sink, carefully and silently, as if removing fingerprints from a murder weapon. He hid the vodka in the pantry, behind a few more bottles and boxes since he didn't know where it was originally. Out of sight, out of mind for Mr. Heere, he hoped.

Michael threw the cloth in with the soiled blanket, filled a glass with water as an afterthought, and went upstairs one last time to check on Jeremy. He was out cold. Michael set the glass on the nightstand, took a much-needed deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and thanked God that everything was cleaned up and put away. Maybe he'd actually managed to get Jeremy out of this one.

Before he could change his mind, Michael placed a lingering kiss on Jeremy's forehead and left, exhausted but relieved. Jeremy was okay.

Now he could go back to being mad.