Jeremy's had enough.

Mark's laughing his ass off at something stupid, sprawled out on the hood of his brother's stolen car like he owns the world. Simon's leaning against the dumpster, smoking and looking bored as usual. And Michael...

Michael's a complete mess.

Jeremy watches him stumble over his own feet trying to walk in a straight line, giggling at nothing. Mark had brought way too much shit tonight—beer, weed, pills he claimed were "harmless"—and of course Michael went overboard. He always does when Mark eggs him on.

"Alright, that's it." Jeremy pushes off the wall he's been leaning against, walking over to Michael. He's the only sober one here besides Simon, and Simon clearly doesn't give a damn.

He grabs Michael's arm to steady him before he face-plants into the asphalt. "Jesus Christ, Mike. How much did you take?"

Mark snorts from the car. "Oh come on, Fitzgerald, don't be such a buzzkill. He's fine! Right, Mikey?"

Jeremy shoots him a glare that could cut glass. "Shut up, Mark." He turns back to Michael, examining his face—pupils blown wide, unfocused eyes, that stupid grin. "You're completely fucked up. Your dad's gonna kill you if you come home like this."

He sighs, running his free hand through his hair. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was just supposed to be hanging out, maybe a few beers, nothing serious. But Mark always pushes things too far, and Michael never knows when to stop.