greatamazingfeelingsboy

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au,
michael guerin

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He's not new, not exactly. Caleb's been here maybe a month or two longer than him, but he's the latest new kid to come to the city, so he's still The New Kid. His emotions are always a swirl of hope/boredom/excitement, tinged slightly with a bitter edge, like he's constantly got a bad taste in his mouth, or something. There's more to it, but Caleb can't pinpoint it. He's furtive, distrustful, but it's not an active thing. It's always under the surface, this dark plum purple that's not fear but not suspicion, either.

Wariness, he thinks.

His name is Michael Guerin, and Caleb hates the days he's not in class. His feelings are always so easy to latch onto, because he never has to try. He doesn't stress out. Class is easy for him, but he's going to fail out if he doesn't start participating, which is why Dufresne had suggested him when she'd told Caleb he should look into tutoring.

It's not like Caleb is dumb. He's usually a pretty good student. But he's under eighteen, so he still lives at the Children's Home. He's surrounded by pubescent kids, some of whom don't know how to control their urges, some of whom never fucking sleep, which means Caleb gets, maybe, two hours a night. He goes to school exhausted, has no focus, and has stopped being able to balance the most basic emotions. So his grades are slipping. If they keep slipping, he's going to be kicked off the team, which he really, really doesn't want, so he finds himself outside the auto shop some of the music kids said Michael works at part time, staring at the door like it might swallow him.

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"No, pie is dessert," he argues, as if he has any ground to stand on, when he's just relieved he's going to get a meal. "Milkshakes are a beverage," he says, like he's smug about the fact that he's arguing, or maybe it's just that he enjoys it.

"How come you asked me?" he says, once they're driving. "I'm not the only kid tutoring, and I know I got a bit of a reputation. So, why me?"

He's fishing for something, Caleb can feel it, he's just not sure what. Maybe just the truth, or maybe he's hoping for something more. It's hard to tell: the kid is sunny with hope for something. But Caleb's not a mind reader, so he just shrugs.

"Dufresne said you'd be a good option," he says, because he can't bring himself to admit a fascination with him, and because it's true. "She said you kinda coast through class and maybe it'd be good for both of us, or something."

She had said she thought it'd be good for both of them, but Caleb doesn't tell Michael it's because she'd thought Michael was lonely and could use a friend. Nobody likes to hear that.

Michael can't help his derisive snort. He's heard this before back in Roswell about applying himself outside of his grades, because he coasts so easily, but then he doesn't do much beyond that. So yeah, he gets it. Lucky for Dufresne, Caleb's cute and Michael likes him.

Which is saying a lot, because he doesn't like most people.

"Yeah, all right," he allows. "But only cuz you're cute."

"Oh, so cute," Caleb agrees, framing his face and offering a winning smile. It's easier than acknowledging that he's definitely feeling something from Michael — not butterflies, exactly. Smaller and tighter, more... certain? Caleb isn't sure, because he's never felt anything like this before.

But he likes it, a lot.

The server comes up, an older woman who recognizes him from his times here with the team, and she doesn't even pull out her pen and pad.

"Lemme guess, Kiddo," she says, in her cigarette-rough voice. "Basket of fries, extra-large chocolate shake, four hot dogs on toasted buns, and a diet Cola." When Caleb's grin widens, she rolls her eyes. "I dunno where you put it," she says fondly. She looks at Michael and nods her chin at him. "What about you, Squirt?"

Michael stares at the waitress, a little stunned and wary when he gets called 'squirt', even if she's not entirely wrong. After all, he doesn't eat that much, and he's usually in clothes that are a touch too baggy for him. "Uhhhh..."

He gapes at her, then says, "Fries?" as if he's not entirely sure.

Because fries sounds good, right? He doesn't want to ask for too much, after all, because Caleb doesn't know how smart he is yet, so he might decide this ends today. "Where do you put all that food?" he asks Caleb warily.

"And a milkshake," Caleb offers when Michael only asks for fries. The waitress hums and nods, but she gives Michael the stinkeye before walking away. Caleb smiles after her, then looks at Michael when he echoes the waitress's remark.

"I play football," he says, like that makes perfect sense. "Listen, don't mind Flo, she's... she can be a lot, but she's really nice. She usually undercharges me, 'cause she found out I live at the Home, so..."

Michael is a little taken aback by the stinkeye he gets, but he's used to adults thinking he's not worth their time, so he shrugs and heads inside to the booth, curling in on himself as he sits on the opposite side of Caleb, giving him an amused look.

"Never thought about washing dishes or taking on a job?" He's not trying to pick and prod, just trying to talk, but the thought's there.

"I thought about it," he says with a shrug. "Even talked to the school counselor about it? We budgeted out my time on paper and I think it left me with, like, two hours to sleep a night?" Which is pretty on par with what he gets anyway, but Caleb can't imagine trying to fit a job into his current schedule. He shrugs as he adjusts his bag on the bench beside him, unzipping it. "Most places won't hire a minor until the summer, anyway, and that's when I'll have way more time." Just a few more months, and by the summer, Caleb will be eighteen, anyway.

"Yeah, you gotta find some place like me," he quips, reaching for some of the napkins to shove them in his pockets, because it never hurts to have extra toilet paper. "They love hiring a kid who can work on cars, because I don't ask for as much money."

He shifts to gesture for Caleb to sit on the same side as him. "Here, over here, I don't wanna read upside down," he insists, staring up at Caleb from where he's sprawled in the booth. "You pick. Math or science first."

"Are you sure? You look like you could make a little nest over there," Caleb says with a little laugh. He pulls out his math textbook though, because he fucking hates math, so he might as well get it over with. He sets his last failed test next to it, then turns both around to face Michael before sliding out of his side of the booth and moving over to Michael's side.

As he's settling, Flo brings their milkshakes out and sets them on the tabletop. Caleb's has whipped cream and extra chocolate drizzle over top.

"Wasn't sure how you liked yours, Squirt," she says to Michael. "Gimme a holler if you need it dressed up."

He waits until she's gone to make a face, all polite and 'thank you' and 'all good ma'am' while she's there, dutiful because group homes taught him not to rock the boat, but when she's gone, he gives Caleb a confused, almost mildly frantic look. "I'm not that small, am I?"

Never mind that he knows he's not eating enough. Still, he reaches for it and digs a pencil out of his pockets to drag the test towards himself, making a few notes rapidly, because this stuff is like child's play to him.

"Look, I can teach you all of this, it's easy, but I need to know how you like to learn."

Caleb reassures Michael that Flo is just the quintessential grandma figure, who likes feeding everyone she sees. Then they dive into the math portion of the tutoring. Caleb isn't dumb, and the longer he works with Michael, the plainer it is to see that he's actually pretty smart — when he's not distracted. He's no genius, and he marvels at how quickly and easily Michael can work through the problems on the exam. But he has enough of a grasp that it's probably confusing why he'd failed this test in the first place.

They break when Flo brings out six hot dogs, two baskets of fries, two Colas, and two more milkshakes.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna go into a food coma," Caleb says once she's walked away.

His stomach growls hungrily when the food shows up, and the pencil twitches in his hand, before he practically snatches the fries, curling them in close and eating them way too fast, because he knows that if he doesn't, things could get taken away.

That's all he touches, though. Fries, because that's what he ordered, and he doesn't want to get greedy.

Wiping his hands on the napkin, he swallows it back, then taps the test again. "You get really close in a lot of these questions," he says, stomach aching real quick after he ate too fast. "Back home, did you have the same problem? Almost, but not totally there?"

Caleb pretends not to notice how hungrily Michael eats, or the way he shifts uncomfortably after he empties the basket. He shrugs a little, though.

"Normally, I do okay," he admits. "But... I dunno, it's just hard to focus, here." He hesitates, then looks at Michael. "How'd you know I'm not from here?"

Michael gives him an amused look, wondering if he's really getting asked that. "Seriously?" He shakes his head, not wanting to go into the reams of research he'd done in the first few weeks he was here, but it's there, and his theory remains that they're in some kind of time travel scenario where their pocket is just outside of everything.

How they got there, well, that feels a little more like kidnapping.

"I'm tutoring you in math and science and you wanna know how I can tell that not everyone's a local?" In Caleb's case, it's actually not that fascinating. He shrugs, sipping his shake. "Maybe I asked around about you, found out you only started a few months before me."

Caleb polishes off his third hot dog. "It didn't actually occur to me that the new kid would ask around about me, specifically," he says, then washes down his meal with his Cola. "I'm not that interesting, I mean. Look at me."

Michael bites his lip and looks, for a very long time, because Caleb asked for it. "Okay," he says bluntly. "I'm looking at you." And it's a damn good look, because he's a tall drink of water and Michael just needs to get over the footballer thing.

He's sweet and he can put away food like crazy and he asked for help.

And yeah, he's hot, he's got eyes. "Maybe I was just trying to figure out who else around the school wasn't there from the start."

Caleb tries to hold his gaze, but the intensity eventually makes him blush. Michael's looking at him like he can drink him in. For a moment, everything is warm and golden, and Caleb thinks he feels those not-quite-butterflies again. He nods, though, accepting Michael's answer at face value before he clears his throat.

"Anyway, um, no, I, I just have a hard time focusing in class settings, but I do not want to be that kid who has to take tests alone in a dark room, or something."

Michael grins at him as he bites another fry, then sucks on the milkshake straw until his cheeks hollow out. He likes playing it up, because he likes seeing how uncomfortable he can make other people when he's that comfortable.

"So write the test with everyone, or pretend, then do it later," he says. "Is it the social outcast thing?" He's never really cared about that, seeing as he's been one all of his life. "Football star can't be seen as different?" he scoffs.

The derision settles sickly in Caleb's belly, and he pushes the plate a little further away from himself. There's a little bit of a sour expression on his face.

"What? No, I don't care about that," he says. It's mostly true. But he doesn't want to be outed as kind of a freak, either.

"So then write the test after hours, get the privacy you need," Michael says, and taps the paper with the eraser edge of the pencil. "Look, even in the last half hour, you've managed to grasp things," he says. "And we're not even moving that slowly."

"I'm sure that if you gave me like, three days a week, you could pull whatever kind of grades you want," he insists. "Get yourself a shiny football scholarship, be normal," he says, waving a hand. "All that bullshit."

Caleb rolls his eyes. "You don't have to be a dick about it," he says with a frown. "It's not bullshit. Maybe you don't like football, but it matters to me — a lot. It's got me through some shit, okay?"

"I'm not being a dick about it, I'm just a dick in general," is Michael's helpful reply, because he knows he is. "And sorry, but I came from a place where the football players were real assholes about a person's preferences and made life hell for someone that I really cared about."

Technically, it had been against him too, but he wasn't really out there about his bisexuality.

"Well, I'm not one of those assholes," Caleb says, "and neither is half the team. The quarterback is gay, Dude, there'd be a real problem if our team were shitheads."

He shrugs a little, too, draining his Cola in nearly a single gulp. But he doesn't seem too offended anymore — he can feel that Michael hadn't been trying to offend him, personally.

Michael knows that Caleb's not an asshole like that, or he wouldn't have asked him for tutoring, which is why he's so damn glad that he can nod, take him at face value, and know that he's not fucking around. "Yeah, I know. Valenti did a number on me," he admits, "even if it wasn't me."

Though, he kind of hates that he didn't get to get into the kind of scrap he'd been hoping for, at prom.

"So, football and school, that's the next step, huh? What're you gonna major in?"