Chapter Text
Jeremy remembers wanting to be a superhero from a young age. Remembers sitting on Michael’s space-themed bed, the tv holding his breath, his focus, as live coverage of his favorite childhood idols scrolled across the screen, trapped in heroic chaos. When he and Michael were eight they strapped together costumes out of blankets and markers and tape, and slid through the hallways in their socks, pretending the floor was their worst enemy and the pillows on the couch evil minions. They wore those costumes for Halloween that year.
When they were twelve they chose superheroes as the subject of their school projects, and gazed longingly at figurines through the mall windows. They brainstormed personas over their gas station slushies; the colorful duo that would stop at nothing to protect the world. Jeremy spent that summer with a broken arm for climbing on top his roof, striking a pose, pointing out how far he could see, and inevitably slipping when he tried to go back down. That was back when he lived with his mom in the New Jersey suburbs.
Michael found a rabid fascination with one of the new-age male heroes when they were fourteen, and didn’t like openly expressing it. He would hide the posters he bought and stuff the featured magazines under his bed. When Jeremy tried to bring it up he would go red in the face, and disengage from the conversation. Jeremy didn’t understand what was going on until a certain sleepover in April when Michael quietly confessed, in the safety of the dark, laying underneath the space-themed blankets, to liking other boys.
The year they turned sixteen they went through both their rooms and packed most of their superhero junk into boxes to put in the Mell’s storage, keeping only the most exclusive figurines and occasional poster. The blankets went into a box and replaced with something more acceptably teenage. Michael re-filled his shelves with retro collectibles and band merch. Jeremy left his mostly empty.
It never occurred to him that his childhood fantasy would become reality.
—
The first sign of change came when he jolted awake the morning after his school field trip, phone buzzing wildly and blaring an obnoxious tone from underneath his pillow. He swiped the alarm away, head falling back into the pillows, throwing his arm out to toss the device gently against his covers. At least, that was what was supposed to happen. Instead the phone stayed nestled comfortably in his palm.
Jeremy shifted his head to the side and blinked drowsily at his hand.
He stretched his fingers wide and turned his palm towards the bed. Blinked again, a little more awake. The phone stayed stubbornly in place.
He violently shook his hand up and down. No change.
And then he was suddenly and fully awake, more than a little freaked out, and texting Michael.
[ Tuesday 06:23am ]
jerr
Did you super glue my phone to my hand?
playerone
i wasnt even @ ur house yesterday dude
also y would i do that
jerr
Then maybe Rich pranked me again?? Idk I’m confused
playerone
ur phone’s not the worst thing that rich has stuck to u
jerr
I know you’re laughing at me, stoppp. What do i do?????
playerone
im sure it’ll come off!! …..eventually lol
Jeremy glared at his phone, feeling generally betrayed. He shook his hand again, groaned when it still didn't budge, and mimed tossing it like a basketball.
The device soared through the air, leaving Jeremy's hand behind with a twinge. It rebounded off the carpet, spun on an edge, and flopped over defeatedly in a corner.
He scrambled to check that it hadn't broken. It hadn't. This was definitely not the worst end to his situation, but he was left feeling hopelessly confused. And somewhat intimidated. He left the phone where it was, moving to continue his morning routine and avoiding it, until it startled him by buzzing when he wandered out of his bathroom.
It continued to buzz, because Jeremy was too distracted by the fact that when he jumped awkwardly against the wall in surprise, he stayed there. As in, his feet were not touching the carpet because they were stuck to the wall. He was stuck to the wall. Jeremy Heere was defying gravity.
It was officially time to freak out. He flailed away from the wall and grabbed at his phone, scrambling for the call back button next to Michael’s nickname. (Who else would have called him?)
“ Hey do you want a ride or— ”
“I'm sticky!” Jeremy whisper-shouted.
“ —Were you gonna take the bus...What? ” Michael's voice faded away into silence and confusion as he rendered Jeremy's words. Jeremy’s brain, which was in the process of catching up to his mouth, short-circuited and conveniently forgot the entire English language. The silence grew. Michael made his recovery first, amusement clearly evident even through phone static.
“ Uh. I would be sticky too if I spent my mornings the same way you do, man. Cause damn, we're both dealing with hormones, but you could win Olympic gold for— ”
Jeremy hung up.
—
Adrenaline was starting to flood his system. He suddenly felt giddy and excited, bouncing on his toes as he adjusted his belt, snatching up his backpack, bounding out of his room in a rush. It had felt like forever since he was this energized. He was more alive, like his body was somehow new and fresh, lighter, and he could dance on air. An undead corpse that had been dragging it's way through the motions of life, and was suddenly, truly, reanimated.
Okay, a little morbid there, Hamlet.
Instead of flailing wildly when his foot caught on the step-down into the kitchen, as it always did, he caught himself with ease. Unfortunately his sock slipped, ruining the victorious moment, and he was sliding forward against the hardwood. With a little scream in the back of his throat, he found himself sitting comfortably in a split.
Jeremy had never been flexible. Not even in childhood when other kids would bend backwards and walk around like freaky little monkey people, or put their feet behind their ears. He was always awkward in his own body and uncomfortably tense. His posture was specifically terrible.
This was new. This was strange, and wrong . Male hips weren't meant to bend that way.
He scrambled sideways, flailing his legs out of the unusual position and slamming his thighs together in a Marilyn Monroe fashion.
“ Oh my God ,” he breathed.
“Jeremy?” His dad called from two rooms away.
“Uh! Ahm! I fell, I'm fine, I’m leaving, don't worry about it!” He screeched, wincing at the pitch and volume of his voice and rising off the ground. Once his converse had been shoved on he was out the front door without a backward glance at his worried father, backpack straps clenched tightly in his fists.
—
The morning flew by without Jeremy having the chance to track down Michael and freak out about his condition. He wound up taking the bus, curled uncomfortably against the window, trying to ignore the popular students messing around behind him.
The halls were unnecessarily busy and loud after the field trip the day before, and he had too much trouble getting back and forth between his classes and his own locker to go visit Michael's. It took until lunch before he managed to catch any sign of his friend. By that point he had built up a pool of anxiety and convinced himself that letting Michael know of his situation would somehow lead to catastrophe. The world would crumble in upon itself and end. Part of his conscious told him that was ridiculous.
But there was no way to know for certain that that part of his brain was correct. Certainly he couldn't risk it over the world ending or worse—their friendship falling apart.
So he pressed his mouth into a thin line, watching a pair of white headphones weave through the crowd towards his corner of the cafeteria.
Michael bounced out of the wall of students, a giant grin splitting his face, an old slushie in one hand, and a fast food bag in the other. He bebopped into the seat across Jeremy, slipping his headphones off to sit around his neck. Jeremy could hear the edges of a song still playing through them.
“What's groovin’ dude?” Michael greeted, foot tapping against the floor to a rhythm playing in his head. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, dumped the contents onto the table, and started unpacking his mushy burger and fries.
I probably, totally, maybe have superpowers, my dreams are real, help. Or something is just very, very wrong.
“You sounded freaked this morning. Not that that's new or anything, but like the freak freaked, not the normal levels of daily-life-of-Jeremy freaked. Also you look like ass. How's the phone-hand situation?” Michael spewed.
“Uh.” Jeremy said. Tell him and the world most definitely implodes on itself, his traitorous inner-voice said. “It fell off almost as soon as I hung up. Not very strong super-glue, I think? I, erm, I had a bad dream...I guess?”
Michael sorted through his pocket junk, picking through crumpled receipts, gum wrappers, a screw, a business card; there was a dubious look thrown in Jeremy's direction, and a lost starburst pushed across the table at him.
“Ahem, that is, yes, I had a bad dream. When I woke up I was already kind of panicking and then I…spilled orange juice. On myself. So I was...sticky.” Very convincing. Jeremy nodded wisely.
“You're a terrible liar, Jeremy Heere. I know the real reason you were gooey and freaked out.” Michael moved onto unwrapping his burger, examining the sticker holding the paper closed, probably considering if he wanted to keep it.
“You do?” Jeremy squeaked, voice breaking.
Michael shook his head, smiling. “Olympic. Gold.”