Happier (Michael x Noah)

Gregory

Author's Note~

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SUICIDAL IDEATION AND MENTIONS. IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THAT, PLEASE SKIP THE NEXT TWO CHAPTERS! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

I'm digging through one of the dumpsters behind the Pizzaplex when a familiar voice rings through the air. I look up from the trash to see who's there, but I don't see them. So, with a slight shrug, I go back to searching the dumpster. I'm hoping to find something to drink and a shirt or jacket to wear over my shirt. I hate the winter--I'm surprised I haven't frozen to death yet after being homeless for so many years. Utah's winters are brutal.

"Gregory! Gregory, where are you?" the familiar voice shouts. They're in range for me to hear what they're saying now.

I don't like the sound of that. Michael didn't tell me if I was going anywhere with him or somebody else today. I don't trust this situation.

But just before I can leave, Jeremy steps into view. He sighs, relieved, before he exclaims, "There you are!" He laughs. "I got worried that somebody took you. Come on, Michael wants you to come in for dinner."

"Really?" I ask. "Why isn't he getting me, then?"

He chuckles nervously. "He's cleaning himself up. He just had a big mental breakdown. Oh, and speaking of that, be careful what you say around him. He's very... emotional right now."

"I will," I promise with a small, sad smile.

We begin to make our way to the Pizzaplex. Once we're inside, we make our way to the concessions. When Jeremy sees that Michael isn't there, he tells me that he's going to go into the kitchen to find Michael. 

"C-Can I come?" I ask before he leaves. "I don't like the thought of behind out here alone."

"Sure. Just remember, be careful what you say around him," he reminds me.

"I know."

We make our way inside the kitchen. But Jeremy stops in his tracks when he spots Michael. He's in front of one of the first counters. He was a bottle of red, glowing liquid opened on the counter, as well as a syringe filled to the maximum with the same stuff.  He whips his head toward us when he hears us come in, his eyes showing paranoia, fear, and surprise.

"Michael...?" Jeremy mutters worriedly. "What are you doing with the agony remnant?"

"I can't do this anymore," he whispers in response.

"Overdosing on AR isn't going to solve anything." He inches a couple of steps closer to Michael. "You already tried to see what would happen if you did that, remember? All you did was pass out, then you were pissy and aggressive for a few days--and it made your healing process much, much faster for a week."

"It made me pass out for weeks," Michael clarifies. "That's plenty of time for me to suffer in my nightmares to figure out what's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you. You've had a terrible, traumatic life, Mike. That doesn't mean that something is wrong with you." He takes a few steps closer, but Mike panics and holds out the syringe threateningly. Jeremy puts his hands in the air, surrendering. "I know you won't hurt me. And you already know that overdosing won't get you anywhere. So would you please put the remnant down?"

Michael doesn't relent. He keeps the remnant pointed at Jeremy. But, with his free hand, he starts to scratch and pick at the skin on his lips.

"Cut that out," Jeremy demands gently.

He obeys, but he goes straight to doing the same thing with his forearm. He sets the syringe on the counter so his position for scratching isn't as awkward.

Jeremy slowly inches over to the counter and takes the syringe and the bottle of red liquid. He squirts the weird, glowy stuff from the syringe into the bottle. He closes the bottle with its lid on the counter before he turns to me with a sad smile. "I'm going to put this somewhere he can't find," he explains softly. "Would you stay here and keep an eye on him?"

"Yeah, sure," I respond, kind of stunned by the recent events.

Was Mike going to kill himself?

Suddenly, Mike collapses to the floor. He bundles himself into a ball, his knees up to his chest. His skin-picking has grown more aggressive and has sped up. He's also shaking and his breathing has become rapid and shallow. It looks like he's having a panic attack.

I go over to him and sit down next to him. He scooches away from me.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly. "Do you want a hug?"

"Don't touch me!" he exclaims. He scooches away from me again before his skin-picking grows faster.

"You're bleeding," I point out.

That seems to shake him out of his stupor. He stops his scratching and picking, then examines his arm.

"Do you want to go to the First Aid station to bandage your arm?" I ask.

"No." He rubs his hand over his wounds, grimacing every time he presses too hard on them.

"Are you sure?"

He hesitates. "No..."

I chuckle and stand up, then extend a hand out to him. "Come on. Let's go get your arm bandaged up."

"I want Noah," he whispers.

"Let's get you cleaned up. Then we can call Noah, all right?"

"But I want him now..."

"He can't see blood, remember?"

"I know," he whines. He stands up with a heavy groan. "Let's go to the FAS already."