Although he's been holding a nine-to-five job for over three years now, Jeremy Heere rarely goes to bed before two or three in the morning. He isn't an insomniac—he's just a night owl, and 3 A.M. is the quietest time of day, the time when he can pretend he isn't selling his soul and creative liberties to Adult Swim, can pretend he's still an artist. And just because he has an entire wall of records and CDs doesn't mean he doesn't like to listen to the radio in the middle of the night. It's better than shuffle in iTunes.
Plus, there's an awesome guy named Michael who DJs from one A.M. until five. Jeremy doesn't always last through the whole shift, but he likes the sound of the guy's voice and his laugh when he tells a joke that he—and normally he alone—finds hilarious. Jeremy tries to imagine what face goes with the voice and the name, sometimes. All the Michaels he knows are balding, except for his eight year-old cousin, but somehow that doesn't fit with what he hears every night as he draws on his sketch pad.
Then there's that weird thing when he falls asleep with the radio on, and right at that point before he's really asleep, whatever Michael is talking about seems to work its way into his head and he'll drift for a while, thinking about pouring a bowl of cereal and having a horde of spiders crawl out or climbing a mountain and putting a giant, blue flag at the top. More often than not, Michael himself is in the dreams, but Jeremy never actually sees him. He's always standing just behind Jeremy's shoulder, or else he's up ahead of him, blurry and indistinct.
The morning after one of those dreams—Jeremy was in a rowboat, trying to rescue Michael from a lake that turned out to be made of grape jelly—he's driving around with his best friend, Rich. They always do their errands together, even though Rich stopped being his roommate and moved out of Jeremy's apartment two years ago. It's the wrong time of day and it isn't even the right station, but Jeremy leans back in his seat as Rich cruises down the street, listening to the radio hosts talk about the weather and the traffic.
"Do you ever try to picture what these people look like? Is she blonde, is he tall, are they both secretly fifty?"
Rich just shrugs. "Well I didn't before , but now I'm gonna have to check the radio's website when I get home."
"...Oh." It's such a simple solution, but it feels like cheating, it's so easy. He changes the subject to keep from thinking about it. "Are you bringing Jake to Thanksgiving?"
Jeremy is up late a couple of nights later, despite the fact that his train leaves in four hours, when Michael's voice cuts in on the narration of the comic book he's reading.
"—on the off chance that any of you are awake out there, I'm opening the board up to requests, so give us a call at 1-888-955-WSJX. Talk to me, people. Person. Somnambulists."
Jeremy doesn't know what he's thinking when he picks up his cell phone and punches in the number. Hell, he doesn't even know what he's going to request.
It's too late for him to hang up though, because whoever answers the phone patches him straight through to Michael.
"We've got a live one ladies and gentlemen! Hey there, loyal listener, it's Michael. What the hell are you doing up this late?" He sounds excited, although it's probably just at the chance to have someone new to talk to.
"I'm neglecting my need for sleep and reading comic books," Jeremy says, like a nerd. He immediately wishes he hadn't. He could've said something cooler, like 'masturbating'. Which, okay, masturbating isn't that cool, but it's possibly less pathetic of an answer.
Michael laughs. "Oh yeah? Which ones? Don't tell me it's Superman, that guy is a goody two shoes loser. You always know what's going to happen." It sounds like an old and rehearsed argument, an opinion he's been sharing for years, but it's still enthused, even if it is ass o'clock in the morning.
Jeremy stares at the phone for a second, "Uh, X-Men."
"Oh, cool! I've only read a few of the issues, I really should read more, but I usually stick with the more traditional stuff. I like Batman, he's way more interesting than Superman, and—Oh. Chloe's telling me I should let you just ask for a song, never mind the awesome conversation we're having here !" His voice goes up at the end of that, obviously directed at whoever is sitting in the booth and not at Jeremy. "So, what's your pleasure?"
" Situations by Escape the Fate," Jeremy says before any of the other responses to that particular question can beat it out of his mouth.
"You know that's a song about a one night stand, right?" Michael asks. It sounds like he's smiling.
"I know, but it's cool."
"Okay, this one is for Jeremy in Red Bank,Situations by Escape the Fate. Thanks for calling, Jeremy."
"Thanks," Jeremy says before hanging up and turning his radio back up. Relatively painless, actually—plus, it is a cool song.
There's a string of songs after that—for "Jane in Hoboken" and "Tom in Newark"—but Jeremy is still riding high on Michael's voice and the sound of his laugh when he finally drops off to sleep.
It's probably kind of sad that a three minute conversation with a DJ made his week, but he's still in a good mood on Saturday afternoon when he hits the comic store. He nods to Christine who's sitting behind the counter with a phone wedged under her ear, smiling at Jeremy as he passes by, and wanders toward the heart of the store. There's someone Jeremy doesn't recognize standing in the aisle across from his—it's not like all the comic geeks know each other, but there are familiar faces and this isn't one of them. He's prettier than any of the other guys Jeremy has seen in here, for one, but Jeremy can make out the outline of a few tattoos on tan skin that look like they're gaming related.
That's all cool, but the best thing is what the cool guy is holding.
"Hey! X-Men!"
The guy looks up and grins, "Uh, yeah, someone recommended it to me, so I figured I'd finally get around to reading it."
"Dude, it's the best—the characters are just—they're just so much better than the usual super hero types."
"Do they whine less?" He rolls his eyes, brown eyes, from what Jeremy can see from behind the guy's glasses. "Because eighty percent of the time I want to punch Peter Parker in the throat. So what if he got bitten by a radioactive spider? He's got powers , get over it already." He's gesturing as he talks, waving the comic around, and Jeremy grins in total agreement.
"Seriously, 'whiny bitch' shouldn't be the hero's flaw—"
"Exactly!" The man pushes his glasses further up his nose. "The movies weren't bad though."
Jeremy shrugs. "Yeah, once they caught up everyone who'd been sleeping through pop culture for the past thirty years. How can they not know Spiderman ?"
"I know, man, but Superman is worse." He's leaning in, tilting his head towards Jeremy, and Jeremy's leaning right back. "I mean, really," he says, "is there anyone who'd go see a Superman movie who doesn't know the green rock is bad?"
"Seriously," Jeremy agrees. "Not to mention that—"
"Hey, Jeremy!" Christine calls from the front counter, "I got your order here!"
"I should go get that," Jeremy says, and the guy rocks back a step, nodding. "Enjoy X-Men—I wish I could read it for the first time again."
"Thanks," he says and smiles in a way that makes Jeremy duck his red face as he turns toward the counter.
By the time the weekend ends, Jeremy is staying up way too late and sleeping well into the afternoon just because he can. It fucks him over on Monday—it always does—and by Wednesday he's passed out at his desk by eleven o'clock, his pencil rolling from his fingers as his head rests on his sketchbook.
His dreams start loose and disconnected, but then somehow he's in a dark club, surrounded by heat and sweat and noise. Someone is yelling on a stage and a different someone pressed up against him, chest to chest, breathing hot air against his forehead, causing chills to run down Jeremy's spine. Jeremy can't see the guy in front of him—can't see much of anything, really, except for vague impressions of people —but it's pretty obvious that it's a guy pushing closer, slipping his hands under Jeremy's shirt. He slides a knee between Jeremy's legs, grinding against him, inviting Jeremy to do the same. It's not like anything Jeremy would realistically do, but in this dark club there doesn't seem to be any reason not to.
In the back of his mind, he knows it's a dream—especially when he leans forward looking for the other guy's mouth and finds it instantly. If he ever tried that in a real club like this, he'd probably end up licking the guy's eye, his ear, or something similarly ridiculous before he got to his mouth, but here—here it's easy, obvious, completely natural. It's lips sliding together, slow and bizarrely sweet, and it's Jeremy licking his way into this tall guy's mouth without a second thought. He can feel the bare skin of their stomachs pressed slick together where their shirts have ridden up—Jeremy can just imagine what that stomach looks like, what they might look like in places that aren't crowded clubs. The guy pulls back, then bites at Jeremy's bottom lip, sending a spike of pleasure straight to his cock.
Then he leans up and says loudly in Jeremy's ear, "You're listening to WSJX. I'm Michael, playing anything I want."
Jeremy blinks, and his eyes open to his bedroom ceiling. The radio is on and he's got one hand wrapped around his cock, listening to Michael talk without even understanding the words. It only takes a small stroke before he's breathing heavily and coming in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut.
As he cleans up and turns off the light, he does an excellent job of not thinking about how he's just had a sex dream about someone he's never even seen. He rolls over to bury his face in the pillow and reaches over to turn off the radio.
He's conserving electricity.
The whole "not listening to the radio in an attempt not to turn into a creepy stalker" thing lasts almost a whole two days, and then it's back to the usual routine. Michael's funny, is the thing, and he has reliably good taste in music.
On Monday, Michael asks for call ins again, this time on the hot button issue of "lighters or cell phones at concerts". Jeremy's phone stays in his messenger bag, even when Michael's producer reportedly says that "cell phones are brighter". (They are, sure—but lighters are traditional .) Tuesday night, he asks "What's your dream band?" and Jeremy's known his answer to that since high school, but he keeps drawing and waits for the music to come back on.
Wednesday, Rich calls and says, "We're still on for tomorrow, right?"
"Huh?" Jeremy asks, a forkful of his Chinese takeout half way to his mouth.
"You bought tickets for the gig a month ago." Jeremy doesn't know how Rich manages to roll his eyes over the phone; it's one of the miracles of the modern world.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Totally." It's a showcase of local bands at one of the new bars—Jeremy had heard about it on the radio. Thanks Michael.
Rich rolls his eyes again. "Good thing you've got me to remind you of this shit, you furry."
"You're the best friend I could ever have," Jeremy agrees.
Again, Jeremy can see his friend's eyes rolling through the phone. "It starts at 8:30, yeah?"
"Uh, yeah," Jeremy sees the tickets stuck to the fridge now, in between out-of-date grocery lists and various notes written at 3:00 a.m. to himself. "Do you want me to pick you up?"
"Sure, see you tomorrow."
The bands aren't bad, and they've been getting progressively better as the night goes on. Jeremy lost Rich to the crowd a set ago, so he's hanging back near the bar, in case Rich comes looking for him, doing his best to remain visible for his short friend. He's not doing that great a job, though, because some guy comes crashing into him, arms flying. He's tall though, so Jeremy probably has an estimated 99.9% chance of survival if the guy tries to start shit.
"Fuck, sorry!" The guy apologizes quickly, which is good, since Jeremy isn't at all interested in testing his theory on who would win in a fight.
"Uh, it's okay. Nothing's broken," Jeremy says, wiggling his toes just to check. The guy is hot and familiar looking, but he can't quite place it.
Fortunately, he's not wrong, because the guy narrows his eyes and then grins at him. "Hey! You're the guy from the comic store, right? X-Men?"
"Yeah!" Jeremy grins because, hey, it's nice to be memorable sometimes. "I thought I recognized you, but the hair-"
"Yeah, all slicked back." He runs one hand over his shiny jet black hair as he says it, then grins and shakes his head at himself.
"It looks good," Jeremy says before he can stop himself.
"Thanks," the guy says with a smile, and hey, maybe they've got a flirting thing going on now.
"So, did you like X-Men?" Jeremy asks, because this is important information if he's going to make an idiot out of himself trying to flirt back.
"Fuck yeah!" It's a good sign, and what he says next is even better: "I'll probably be heading back to the shop this weekend to get the next volume."
"Awesome!"
The guy narrows his eyes at Jeremy, folding his arms across his chest. "You were judging me on that weren't you?"
Jeremy opens his mouth to deny, and then closes it. "Maybe a little." There's no sense in starting with a lie, and X-Men is important.
He laughs, low and smooth. "I'm Michael. You're Jeremy, right?"
Jeremy's face twists into a confused grin and his shoulders stiffen. "Uh, yeah? How did you—" he glances down at his shirt, he hasn't worn a name tag for work—let alone forgotten to take it off before going out—in two years. "How did you know?"
Michael scratches at his arm, "I heard the girl in the comic store, and it's a cool name. I like it."
Jeremy doesn't think he's ever liked his name as much as he does right now.
There's something vaguely familiar about Michael, but Jeremy is distracted from trying to place what it is when someone steps away from the bar suddenly, backing straight into Michael. He loses his balance a bit and falls against Jeremy, arms flailing; Jeremy catches him without thinking, bringing his arms up around Michael's ribcage. He's warm and slightly sweaty, and it's like someone cranked up Jeremy's awareness of everything, because he can feel each spot that they're touching and every other part of his body is jealous of those that are.
"You're not, like, here with anyone, are you?" There's a hopeful tone to Michael's question and Jeremy has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too much.
"Just my best friend—"
"Good," he says, leaning in further. He tilts his head down and their lips are an inch apart. "For the record, I don't normally do stuff like this," and Jeremy can barely hear him over the blood pounding in his ears, because then Michael is closing the gap and the pressure of his lips against Jeremy's makes his pulse pound. He's glad he's got his arms wrapped around Michael already—this way he can focus on kissing back and sucking Michael's lower lip into his mouth. Michael is, apparently, on board with this, judging by the way his hands are squeezing at Jeremy's shoulders, digging in through the denim of his jacket. Michael slides around to the back of Jeremy's neck and tugs slightly at the hair there, and Jeremy shivers, pulling Michael closer.
"Get a room, fags." Says a voice from behind Jeremy, which is just predictable—the one time when he is seriously not in the mood for dealing with homophobic dickheads—
"Fuck off, asshole," Michael says, barely moving his mouth away from Jeremy's.
The guy grunts, but moves away, and Michael goes back to sucking on Jeremy's tongue in a way that makes Jeremy think about him sucking on other things. That, of course, makes it even harder for Jeremy to shuffle back away from the bar as Michael steers them towards an empty patch of wall. Once they get there, though, Michael leans in and presses Jeremy up against the wall, kissing him slow and dirty in the shadows of the club.
Jeremy is vaguely aware of the band on stage wrapping up and the lights going up, but none of that is an incentive for him to stop what he's doing. Eventually, Michael pulls back a little, but Jeremy's lips follow.
Michael laughs and turns his head. "They're closing up."
Jeremy licks the outer shell of Michael's ear. "Did you want to go somewhere else?" He hopes the answer is 'Yes, my place.'
"I can't, I have work," Michael says, inhaling sharply.
"Oh." Jeremy slumps his shoulders, defeated—no one cares how early they have to be at work the next morning if there's an opportunity to get laid now .
Michael reaches for one of Jeremy's belt loops and tugs him to his chest. "No, I have work in like, an hour...which means I should have been there five minutes ago."
"Oh," Jeremy says again. "Wait, isn't it, like, midnight?"
Michael is digging through the pockets of his jeans, but he's still holding on to Jeremy, so it's not going very well. "Yeah, I'm the graveyard shift." He finds what he was looking for—a scrap of paper—and pulls a pen from his back pocket. "This is my number. You should call me."
Jeremy takes the burrito receipt like it's plated gold and tucks it into his jacket pocket. "I will."
"Good," Michael says. "I should get going or Chloe is going to kick my ass."
"Yeah, I should go find Rich."
Neither of them move.
"Seriously," Michael says again a minute later. "Okay, I'm going. I'll talk to you this weekend?"
"Definitely." Jeremy has to watch, motionless, when Michael leaves to keep from following him out the door and getting him fired.
He's a little too caught up in watching Michael make his way through the rapidly-dispersing crowd, and he jumps when Rich, the tiny fucker, appears next to him.
"You have a good night?"
Jeremy flushes even though he doesn't know if Rich saw him with Michael—there's nothing in his tone indicating that he had, but sometimes even Jake, his boyfriend, isn't sure what Rich's tone means. "Yeah, did you?"
"Not bad, but some asshole spilled both of his beers down my coat." Rich holds up the soggy gray mess. He's only wearing a thin muscle shirt underneath, so Jeremy is already slipping out of his jacket and handing it to Rich. "Jer, I'll be fine," Rich says, rolling his eyes, but Jeremy just grabs Rich's wrist and shoves it into the sleeve.
"It's, like, twenty degrees outside and we parked six blocks away. Just take it."
Jeremy is half a block from home when he realizes that he left Michael's number in his jacket pocket, which Rich still has. He debates going back for it—but he's only half a block from home, and it's fucking cold out, and it's not like he was going to call tonight. It's probably better to wait until tomorrow to start staring at his phone with half the numbers punched in, or accidentally call him freakishly soon.
He's still optimistic about the whole thing as he flicks on the light and kicks off his shoes, doing all of the usual coming-home things without even really thinking about them. He turns on the radio, confident in his non-stalkerish nature—he went out tonight and didn't think about his weird crush at all, and so what if this really hot guy happened to be named Michael? It's a common name, and it's not like Jeremy knew that when they started , which would be, wow, seriously very creepy.
The song ends, and Michael-the-DJ's voice starts up. "Hey there, everyone out in radio land, this is Michael with WSJX and you're listening to the night shift. That was Iron Maiden with Run to the Hills ." He's talking just slightly too fast, hurried and excited, and it makes Jeremy grin to hear him. "I hope some of you guys made it out to the showcase at JJ's tonight, the bands were out of this world and the crowd was excellent."
Jeremy freezes with one leg out of his jeans. It can't be. The odds of it are too unlikely.
He's ready to write it off as a coincidence—there totally could have been more than one Michael in that club; the place was packed—but Michael-the-DJ(?) keeps talking.
"I didn't want to leave, but Chloe here doesn't need another reason to want to cause me bodily harm. You guys know the drill: if I disappear during a broadcast or ever vanish mysteriously, call the cops and tell them to search Chloe's car, her apartment, the works." There's a brief pause. "And now that I've greatly increased the odds of that happening, it's time for some of Jersey's best."
The Misfits fade quickly into the background as Jeremy's brain starts flashing the stalker sign, all neon lights and blaring sirens. He can just imagine how well calling Michael would go—Jeremy doesn't really trust himself not to say something like "I've gotten off to the sound of your voice," for one, and even if he did manage not to, how is he supposed to pretend that he doesn't know all the random stuff about Michael that he does? Should he act surprised when Michael mentions that no one remembered his tenth birthday? being a vegetarian? his first concert being a Weird Al concert?
Jeremy kicks off his jeans and doesn't bother grabbing his sweatpants, just pulls the blankets up from the foot of the bed. Just his fucking luck that he meets an awesome guy and manages to screw it up before their first date. He doesn't usually like going the 'woe is me' route, but tonight he's going to revel in it, so he turns off the lamp and the radio and spends the next hour lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling. If only he could've met Michael without knowing a damn thing about the radio, but if he hadn't been listening to the radio, he probably wouldn't have seen him at the comic store, and Jeremy definitely wouldn't have been at the show last night. Ugh, it made his head hurt to the think about it.
The universe was twisted, he decided as he settled in for bed.
He spends Friday moping, grateful, for once, that he's essentially a picture-copying robot at work and doesn't have to be creative. He can just lose himself in Squidbillies and the same repetitive motions. If the lines are a little darker today than usual, no one will notice. They should just be glad that that's Jeremy's only method of venting; the cartoon deaths he could come up with probably wouldn't be Adult Swim approved.
He watches Tv as he eats Chinese takeout that night, and goes to bed afterwards. When he wakes up at ten the next morning he has no idea what to do.
So instead, Jeremy goes over to his dad's house. He's been meaning to do it because he left something back there during his last visit.
It's not like he has anything better to do, and it's worth it, because Jeremy's dad seems so happy to have company, so when Jeremy's dad asks if he would like to stay for dinner, Jeremy says, "Sure," and smiles. It'll keep him busy, at least—a meal spent with his dad would be nice.
Sunday he's up early again and slips out to the comic store. He hesitates before parking on the street, because Michael could be in there, he said he might be. But it'd be fucking stupid of him not to get his new issues just because the hot guy who likes him also likes comic books. It's not like he can avoid the store forever, anyway.
Christine looks surprised to see Jeremy in the store before noon. "I didn't know you knew these hours existed," she says reaching for the stack of books she has behind the counter.
"I have a job, y'know," Jeremy replies.
"Yeah, but this is the weekend. Oh hey, have you been referring people to us or something?"
Jeremy looks up from the Hellboy statue displayed next to the register. "Uhm, no?"
"Huh. Well, we've got a new regular or something, he asked about you yesterday."
"Really?" Jeremy hopes Christine doesn't pick up on how pathetically eager he is.
"Yeah. If you don't know him you might have a stalker on your hands, Jeremy," Christine says, grinning knowingly.
Jeremy gives a faint laugh, "Tan? Lots of tattoos?"
"So you do know him," Christine says, ringing up the last book.
"You could say that. Sorry, Chris, but I've got to go and see Rich, I'll see you next week." Jeremy throws his money on the counter and grabs the books before sprinting out the door.
He probably should have called Rich ahead of time, but Jeremy just shows up at his apartment and starts banging on the door.
"Dude, what the hell?" Rich asks, damp strands of dyed red hair falling in front of his eyes once he finally lets Jeremy in.
"I need my jacket. From Thursday. I need it."
"Chill, chill, I've got it right here," Rich nods towards the laundry basket on the couch. "I even washed it for you," Rich says proudly.
"You washed it ?!" Jeremy's tone is slightly hysterical.
"Yeah, for probably the first time in three months," Rich jokes, which is not the time to. "You can thank me later."
Jeremy frantically digs through the pockets, trying to remember which one he put Michael's number in. "Shit, fuck, fuck, shit, god dammit ," he swears when he finds the faded scrap of paper with exactly two numbers left.
"Jere? What's wrong?" Rich asks, sitting next to him on the floor.
"The universe hates me ," he answers simply, because it's obviously the truth.
Rich makes a sympathetic noise, but he's known Jeremy for a long time, since elementary school. "Do you want some coffee?"
"Yes, please," Jeremy says, clenching the paper in his fist. Maybe he can try some of that CSI shit and see if the ink came off in his pocket. It isn't a bad idea, but even the pocket liner is black so Jeremy can't tell if the number is there or not.
Jeremy spends the rest of the afternoon at Rich's, drinking his coffee and explaining his saga. At least Rich doesn't think he's creepy, even if the rest of the world, by the looks of it, does.
He doesn't listen to Michael's show that night—no reason to salt the wound—and Monday sucks even worse than usual; he misses his usual bus ride and the later one is packed and he's pretty sure Starbucks gave him decaf instead of real coffee when he went for his fourth cup at eleven. He had to go back for another two after lunch to make up for it.
It's after midnight now, though, so it's technically Tuesday—which means that it has to get better from here. That's what Jeremy hopes as he reads, music playing from the crappy speakers of his clock radio.
"Welcome back, guys, Dana's blown the popsicle stand and has passed the reigns on to me for the night. I hope your Monday wasn't too terrible-" Jeremy snorts at that, trying to remain focused on an old issue of Batman, "-mine wasn't bad, but the weekend was kind of a let down, so the sooner we get done with this week the sooner we get another one."
Jeremy isn't too sure how to take that bit, and eyes the very clean, if crumpled, piece of paper on the table. He keeps reading, stopping to listen every time Michael starts talking.
It's nearly two thirty, and Jeremy's just thinking about maybe calling it a night, when he hears Michael say, "This is a song about one night stands."
Suddenly it's painfully obvious that Jeremy doeshave Michael's number—maybe not his personal number, but a way of contacting him, at least. He rolls out of bed and goes scrambling on the floor, trying to figure out which pair of pants he wore that day, and which pocket has his cell phone. He dials the station having no idea what he's going to say, hoping he'll be inspired.
"WSJX," a voice Jeremy vaguely remembers from his previous call says. "Name, city and why are you calling?"
"Jeremy, Redbank and uh. I wanted to ask Michael something but you don't need to put me on the—" Jeremy is cut off by the sound of muzak—which, really, you'd think a radio station would have better stuff to play. It's catchy, though, in its own way, and Jeremy's almost starting to hum along when it cuts off with a click.
"Hey there, Jeremy from Redbank, I hear you have a question for me?" Michael asks. His voice is cheerful, but Jeremy can tell that something sounds a little off.
"Uh, yeah, I was wondering if you could help me out?"
"That depends on what you need, but I'll see what I can do." Michael sounds a little confused now, and Jeremy takes a deep breath, praying that Michael doesn't hang up on him for being a creepy asshole.
"I was at the showcase last week, and I met someone awesome there," Jeremy begins slowly, "and they gave me their number but like an idiot, I sent it through the wash, and all I have left is 8, 4, 2 on the back of a receipt for a burrito with black beans and rice."
"I see," and maybe Jeremy's imagining it, but he thinks he can hear Michael smiling.
"I was thinking that, since your station sponsored the event, there was a chance that they might be listening right now."
"There's always a chance, right?" Michael says. "Why don't you stay on the line, and we'll get some contact details from you, just in case your mystery date is out there listening."
"Okay," Jeremy says, really hoping that he was obvious enough that Michael knows he's talking about him. Otherwise, he's going to have to tell whoever asks him for his info that if anyone calls, they're not the right guy.
There's a pause, and then a click, and then Michael is back on the line. "Jeremy?"
"Uhm, hi."
"You really washed it, didn't you? This isn't just some kind of joke?"
"No, yes, wait." He shakes his head, trying to clear it. "My friend put it through the wash—and then Christine told me you'd been at the store—"
"Oh god," Michael sounds kind of mortified.
"—and I'd missed seeing you there, but I wasn't sure if you'd ever go back , and I realized the guy on the radio was the one I'd met but I didn't remember that I could call the station until like, two minutes ago, and are you going to have to go back on the air soon?"
"It's In A Gadda Da Vida —we have like, another fifteen minutes," Michael assures him quickly. "So did I just miss you at the comic store, because I swear I was there for like two hours on Saturday."
"I was busy at my dad's house on Saturday, I didn't get in until Sunday."
"I feel better then," Michael said. "So are you going to give me your number or what? I promise I won't put it through the wash."
"Oh! Right," Jeremy says, quickly rattling off the digits. "Could I get yours, uh, again?"
When Michael says the number Jeremy can kind of make out how the piece of paper next to his bed still says that, but writes it down again anyway. Twice.
"So what are you doing this morning?" Michael asks.
"Huh?" Jeremy says dumbly. "Uh, sleeping a bit, I guess, and then going to work?"
Michael hums. "If you wanted, we could maybe get coffee before you go—"
"Yes," Jeremy agrees quickly, disregarding every thought of sounding desperate.
Michael laughs. "Awesome. I'm usually out of here by 5:30, and the Starbucks on Broad Street opens at 6, if that's not too early for you?"
"So long as there's coffee," Jeremy says. "But uh, I should probably get to sleep then. I'll see you in a few hours?"
"Yeah, definitely," Michael says, "See you then."
"Okay, um, bye."
"Bye."
It takes Jeremy another second or so before he hangs up. He can't believe that worked, or that he has a date in three and a half hours.
It takes a while for Jeremy to calm down enough to sleep, and then he has to get up early to pick something that looks kind of cool—or at least semi-clean—and that he can wear to work, after. In the end, he only gets about two hours of sleep, and he's running a little late by the time he gets out the door. Luckily, there's hardly anyone on the road at this hour, so he manages to get there and find a parking space with five minutes to spare.
Someone is leaning on the glass window next to the door, a hat pulled down over his hair and hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. Jeremy grabs his scarf off the passenger's seat—it's a little frilly, but it's warm, and New Jersey at six am in December is not. Masculinity vs. comfort is a battle he's willing to let comfort win.
"Hey," he says stopping a few feet away.
Michael looks up and grins, then hunches back into his coat. "They should let us inside any second." He takes one hand out of his pocket to gesture, and Jeremy catches a glimpse of Pac-Man. He grabs Michael's wrist before Michael can stuff his hands back in his pockets, and pulls it closer for a better look.
"Cool gloves!" Jeremy says, because they are, and he is absolutely not at all feeling awkward about standing in front of a Starbucks, holding a guy's wrist.
Michael grins and wraps his Pac-Man ghost fingers around Jeremy's. "Yeah, they're my favorites."
Jeremy is feeling warm all over, even though it has to be ten degrees out. "How could there be anything better?" He pauses, but, fuck, he might as well get this over with. "You probably figured out that I'm a fan of your show—kind of a big one—but I don't want you to think this is anything weird or creepy related to that. I mean, I didn't even know you were you, you know?" He laughs, awkward and tense, shifting his weight. "It kind of threw me off at first, when I found out." And Michael's not sayinganything, and, fuck—"I just, I don't want you to be weirded out or anything." The words fall out of his mouth in a messy tumble, so Jeremy hopes they make sense. "If you are—I mean, that's fine, I'll just get a cup of coffee and go, but I figured you should know—"
"Jeremy," Michael cuts him off.
"—that—Oh, uhm, yeah?"
"It's cool." He grins, squeezing Jeremy's hand. "I'm glad you like the show, and to be honest, I had a feeling you were when we ran into each other at the showcase—"
"How?" Jeremy asks, more than a little confused.
"You were really into X-Men, and then that girl, Christine? Called you Jeremy." Michael shrugs—it's hard to be sure, what with the cold, but Jeremy thinks he's blushing. "There can't be that many Jeremy's in the area, I mean—and then you were at the club and I figured maybe," Michael shrugs. "You aren't weirded out, right?"
"No," Jeremy assures him. It's awesome, it's totally awesome, and the only thing that would be awesomer would be if—"Wait, did you play Situations on purpose?"
Jeremy's heart does a weird flippy thing when Michael blushes, definitely a blush this time, over and beyond anything the weather could do. "Maybe?"
That's kind of hot. "That's kind of hot."
Michael laughs and Jeremy can't help leaning closer; it's like Michael's magnetic, like they're magnets together, pulled irresistibly closer. Michael's laughter stutters out when he looks up from their joined hands and sees how close Jeremy is. Jeremy is a little disappointed—but only a little, because then they're kissing and it's soft and warm. The rest of Jeremy's face feels even colder compared to the heat coming from Michael's mouth, but he's not going to complain or anything.
The bells on the door next to them jingle as a short barista pokes her head out. "Were you guys going to come in?"
It's a horrible choice she's asking Jeremy to make: coffee or Michael? So he doesn't answer immediately.
Michael doesn't have that problem. "Yeah," he says, craning his neck down to rest his forehead against Jeremy's. "Come on, let's go inside."
Coffee and Michael, then.
Jeremy can handle that.