Caleb stretches out next to him, tucking his other arm between his chest and Michael's back — not because he wants a barrier, but because he has no idea where else to put it. He also has no idea where to put his face, and ends up sort of bumping his forehead against the back of Michael's head.

Someone downstairs is upset, sharp daggers standing out and jabbing at Caleb's back. He huffs a little and hides his face in Michael's neck. There are bees in his stomach, sludge in his ribs, toffee in his joints, Styrofoam in his teeth — God, can't people just stop? How is he supposed to sleep like this?

Michael is warm against him, and he smells good, in a sort of musky, haven't-showered-in-a-day-or-so way, where the soap's worn off and it's just him. Everything's got this sort of golden-tinted color to it, like amber. Caleb clings closer to Michael, trying to get deeper into it.