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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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?"

He shrugs a little, tapping his pencil against the paper idly. "Social work, I think," he admits, and he looks a little bashful as he says it, but not embarrassed or ashamed. "I was in therapy, back home, and... I dunno, it was good. I want to do that for people."

Michael's never set foot in a therapist's office in his life, or a doctor's, but then, he has that pesky issue of worrying that his alien nature is going to come out, so he needs to avoid that. "That's cool," he says, because it is.

"That's a lot of school for you, and you're definitely going to need sciences," he adds, seeing as that usually means understanding the mind, to some degree.

"Fuck, I know," he says with a laugh. "I like school, at least? And I don't think I'll need any, like... medical training. Or, not much, I think." He looks over at him, leaning on his elbow on the table. "What about you? Are you gonna bother with a higher education, if you're blowing through high school?"

Michael shrugs, because, "I don't know. I'm not really planning on being here forever, y'know?" It's not like he has his ship here, but he also thinks that there's got to be a way out of here, at least back up to the stars. "I guess maybe if I need something to keep me busy, I'll just go work at the auto shop full time."

He pops another fry into his mouth, knowing that it'd be full time and keep him occupied.

"It's not like there's NASA or JPL here, so what's the point of getting my PhD?" he snorts.

"I mean, what's the point of it anyway?" he says. He pushes the last two hot dogs towards him, hoping Michael will eat them so he doesn't have to. "It's just a piece of paper. And, sure, I guess here it means a little less, if, like... we can't leave. But it's still a sense of accomplishment, I guess?"

Michael doesn't take the hot dogs, because there's a joke he might have to make if he does, deciding instead to focus on the other thing. "I feel like that's your way of encouraging me to just quit school and do the auto shop thing."

If he does that, though, then he'll never see anyone his own age and friends for him are pretty much non-existent. Plus, then he won't get the eye candy of getting to leer at Caleb and all the other hot teens all day.

Caleb laughs a little. "No, I just mean, like... If you're gonna argue against it, then, yeah, there are a lot of reasons. But you barely go to school as it is. You're gonna fail out just by skipping so many classes."

He glances over at him when he feels... something. He's not sure what it is — warm, almost too warm, like a fire, settling low in his belly — but it makes him blush, and he clears his throat a little.

"Then I fail," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, because it's not like he cares. He doesn't owe Darrow anything, not his intellect, and so he's okay with the idea that he won't make it. "I thought me doing this was going to help."

It probably will, because he's going to want to see if Caleb does well, and that means going to class.

"You really think we're always gonna be here? Cuz I was hoping to go home."

Caleb shrugs. "I mean... I've been here over six months. I've tried leaving so many times I lost count. I... kinda gave up. I figure if this place wants me to leave, it'll send me on my way on, like, its terms, or whatever."

Michael hadn't necessarily meant that his only exit had been back through Roswell. For him, the stars are equally as promising, and he can't help but think that he could still get up there, even if it's in orbit around Darrow.

The alien, going home.

"So you're just good with being here, hanging out?" It's not accusatory, more a real question.

Caleb shrugs. "What choice do I really have?" he points out. He sounds a little bitter, but resigned, and he stands so he can put his math shit away. "I mean, I'm fucking tired, Dude. I'm tired of not sleeping, I'm fucking tired of feeling crazy, I just— I just want to be a normal fucking teenager."

That's more than he'd meant to say, and Caleb huffs an exhausted half-sob as he sits in the booth again, this time across from him, like he's just too tired to even stand anymore. He rubs his face and curses softly into his palm.

"I'm, I'm sorry, you don't need my shit."

"How come you can't sleep?"

Michael gets it, he does. It's nice and decent in Darrow most days, but the winters have been shit and he doesn't sleep so well when it gets too cold, but Caleb's at the group home. It's warm there, they even feed you and give you cash.

If it weren't for his bad experiences with homes, Michael might even be there. He settles the pencil on the table, shifting to lift up his knees, looking him over, reaching to lightly touch Caleb's shoulder, just to get his attention. "You look pretty normal to me."

Caleb shakes his head. "Never mind, um." He pulls out his science textbook and sets it on the table between them. "I don't, I don't want to talk about it, can we just—" He taps the book and rubs his face a little, indicating he just wants to get back to studying.

Michael reaches for the textbooks, closing them. "Okay," is all he says, collecting papers and books, sliding them back into Caleb's backpack. The thing is, he's not hustling them out so he can abandon him.

It's the opposite.

"Move," he says, nudging at Caleb's hip with the tip of his boot. "I know a thing or two about being so exhausted you can't think," he guarantees. "You know what always made me feel better? The other kids at the home would curl in with me. All that warmth, all that hum of noise gone, and then I could sleep."

He prods again, trying to make it clear with a single look that this is his intention for Caleb.

Caleb looks briefly panicked, like he's fucked up, but Michael doesn't want to leave — or at least, he doesn't want to leave Caleb. Then he mentions the home, and he shakes his head.

"No, I, I can't, it's too loud there," he argues, a little desperately. He just needs to be somewhere quiet, somewhere alone, and he can't get that surrounded by other teenagers. "They, they all have their own problems, and someone's always awake, and I can't—" He shakes his head.