For the past few weeks, South Park has been dealing with something of an unseasonable warmth; the down is always pretty humid, but in the park more than ever, Michael's shirts stick to his skin and his hair gets weighed down with sweat. There's playground equipment scattered around here and there, old and dilapidated and forgotten. A few rusted swings that don't work, a see-saw where the -saw has broken off and lays abandoned on the ground. The place is a mess, and Michael's usually here alone - if the heat doesn't drive people off, the tetanus risk usually does - but Jamie's becoming a familiar face.

Michael hasn't been sleeping in his dorm for about a month and a half now; he crashes where he shouldn't, and an old climbing structure in South Park filled with spiderwebs and ants has been his go to. Michael's been watching Jamie from there since he first came looking for the well, and today, on a whim, he's decided to not just silently stalk him from a distance and watch him loiter around Judas' Kiss. He's decided to confront him. Maybe get him to leave. Maybe force him to stay.

He's in one of his basic tanks, paired with fucked up black skinny jeans all ripped at the knees and combat boots that crunch over gravel when he walks. He watches Jamie for-- a while, standing close, just waiting to be seen, and when Jamie says you don't look like you belong here, that's when he speaks up.

"Neither do you." He walks a little closer, his hands behind his back, one arm bent and grabbing the other. "You shouldn't keep hanging out here. You're probably gonna get shivved, dude."