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The drive back to Jeremiah's house in his blue pick-up is... awkward. Abby's quietly sniffling to herself in the back. Mike Schmidt is in the passenger seat, staring out through the windshield and seeing nothing. How Jeremiah longs to drown it all out with something. Rock or R&B would be preferable, but hell, he'd take the latest pop over this. The Schmidts would probably mind, though. Hmm... he should get new air freshener soon...
"Do you think she'll be okay?" Abby asks. The last time she spoke, she was yelling at the adults to drive around and go get Vanessa. Sweet kid, Jeremiah thinks. Naïve kid, too.
For possibly the first time in his whole life, Mike Schmidt doesn't even attempt to placate his sister. Instead, he says nothing. Maybe he's angry enough that the words simply drowned out. Jeremiah clears his throat. He's not good at this, but someone has to make an effort, "She was alright before, she's alright now." It'd be better if she died, that'd remove some wild cards, but such topics aren't worth discussing with middle schoolers. Abby seems too upset to comprehend the idea, anyway.
They pull into Jeremiah's driveway. It's a nice house he did up himself, a bit big for one person, but his extended family drive over often to fill the space. He guesses that he'd meant to have a girlfriend by this point, but sometimes one gets distracted with things. They all pile out of the pick-up and Jeremiah fishes out his house key. He throws it to Abby, "You can get yourself situated." She runs up to the front door. Mike Schmidt takes the hint, staying behind. "So. Vanessa Elise Shelly."
Schmidt scratches behind his head. "...Vanessa Afton, yeah. Do you–?"
"–No, Shelly. Her mother kept her maiden name, and she took it."
Mike Schmidt's eyes widen. "Oh. I guess that answers my question. You sure know a lot about her, huh?" He tacks on suspiciously.
Jeremiah side-eyes him. Schmidt can be so dense; the world isn't out to get him. "I hoped I didn't know her. 'Msure there are plenty of blondes called Vanessa around. Then again, I'm not the only one who hasn't been transparent, yeah?" Schmidt self-consciously looks down and scrapes the pavement with his shoe. "Anyway. Make yourselves comfortable. I've gotta do something first." Jeremiah hops back in his trusty pick-up. He barely catches Schmidt yelling out something.
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What a decrepit thing this place has become. It's so different from the last time he was here...
His hand stung from the shallow knife-wound. "What are you playing at, Mike!?"
The other teen was teary-eyed, voice high and childlike as ever, the pocket knife in his slender hands shaking, "I have to do this, Jeremy. Don't make it harder than it has to be. Let me-"
Jeremiah slaps himself in the face to pull himself clear of the memory. Michael could've chosen differently, or Jeremiah could have let himself die. There's no changing the past, and there's barely effecting the future, even as some long-buried part of him works overtime to supply doubts. He wouldn't have been able to kill you. He never had a cold heart. It was all a ploy, and you know it. You know who told him to do it. Murder and mayhem, it's all the Aftons were ever good for. Hell will freeze over before Jeremiah lets them take another swipe at him.
Jeremiah hops up the wall and risks a mad scramble up to Michael's bedroom window. The lock is still broken; the latch altered to make it easy to open from the outside. He remembers their dumbass giggling the first time, and for a little while after. The remnants cling to his mind like a stubborn stain. "Father would surely kill us if he found out," Michael joked. But even as a dumbass kid, Jeremiah knew Mr. Afton was a smart man. He knew, and Jeremy was only allowed in because he allowed it.
Things have barely changed. It's dustier, colder, but even still Jeremiah imagines sitting on the plush rug, Mike lying on his bed. Reading their scripts by lighter-light, rehearsing their lines until their tongues went numb and lids got heavy. You could be my Juliet, Jeremy had thought, once. Jeremiah thinks about kissing the pillow Mike rested his head (still rests?) every night, but realises that's a crazy thought and it's better to forget it ever entered his mind. Michael isn't here. It's time to move on.
The house is so much smaller and darker than Jeremiah remembers. The carpet muffles every sound. He climbs down the steps carefully. There's more rooms at ground level, so Jeremiah keeps his head on a swivel. He hated hide and seek as a kid... he quickly grew out of all the good spots, and seeking wasn't all that... Hold on, was that–
The shadow jumps out and Jeremiah catches the gleam of something sharp headed right for him. He wasn't completely unprepared, though, and he's able to twist away from the kitchen knife. He swiftly grabs the arm holding onto it, pushing them back, back, until they're up against a wall and the offending object is pinned. Jeremiah leans down a touch to inspect who he's caught. Mike, of course it is, Jeremy knew he'd find him here, pants heavily, anxiously—shaking slightly.
"J-Jeremy?" Michael stutters, eyes watery from panic.
Jeremiah barely holds back a growl. "Nobody can call me that anymore, you especially."
Michael gulps back air, "You have to help me. Vanessa wasn't there, and I can't find Charlie... I think... I think she..." Mike struggles, shaking his head, "We have to get to her quickly. She could die, and I don't... I don't want to be alone..." he looks up at Jeremiah. There's distance in his ice-like eyes, his voice. He's not all there.
Family, family, family. Always family. Couldn't see who was right in front of him. Some things don't change, some people don't grow up, a deeply bitter part of Jeremiah whispers. But why should he care about history? "You are alone," he states.
The cloudy state of Michael's mind evaporates as he finally realises which millenium he's in, and he suddenly starts to put up more of a fight, "Let go! Release me!" He pushes and strains against Jeremiah, but Mike was never strong enough to break free. Jeremy always won their little wrestling matches. It was over the moment he grabbed him. "I could've– I'd still– let me– let me GO before I SLIT YOUR THROAT." Michael laughs breathily, maniacally, the act settling over him quickly. The Aftons were always good at pretending. "What is this all for, Jeremy!? We both know you won't... you won't hurt me again."
"I'M JEREMIAH!" He bellows, hoping to get it through Michael's thick skull; remind Mike that while he never grew up, Jeremiah remembers keenly the bite of that betrayal, and how it changed him for good.
There's a lull where both are fighting for their breath and voice, a not-quite silence filled by clear inhales and exhales, staring into each other's faces. Jeremiah's eyes flick down for a moment, and a thought flows, unbidden; haply yet some poison hang, like he could kiss the problem all better. Jeremiah wrestles back his concentration. His life is no fairytale, no tragedy. He couldn't succumb to the terrible mire of Michael's ideologies any more than he could draw the poison out of him.
Unfortunately, Michael notices, and some kind of switch flips. It's like all the uncertainty vanishes, but Jeremy knows all Mike's doing is trading one mask for another. "You want me," he remarks confidently, that irritating, fake smile on full display.
"I want you dead," Jeremiah responds. It's a simple, resolute answer. It's also untrue.
"If you're so eager to pound me to a pulp, why not go ahead?" Michael teases, probably quoting some raunchy line out of a cop show.
Jeremiah cringes. There's a short, miserable life lined up for Michael Afton, and Jeremiah won't do him the pleasure. Instead of taking Michael's virginity or killing him outright, Jeremy punches him in the stomach, hard. Mike's happy dagger clatters to the floor as he doubles over, releasing a pained wheeze. "Don't come near me or the Schmidts again."