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[greatamazingfeelingsboy]

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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[greatamazingfeelingsboy]

Caleb is still frowning, but it's a gentle, confused expression. He toes his sneakers off and sheds his jacket, then sits on the bed before laying down. He can feel Michael's chilly determination, for now, brighter and sharper than the hope he carries like a protected candle flame. He can feel the kids in the next room: one of them is frustrated, sharp, annoyed jabs that pull at Caleb's arms; one is sleepy and lonely, a blue mist that blankets Caleb's lungs in cold damp. Someone else, further away, is horny and trying to fight it, like they think it's wrong, or something. He tries to push it away before he can key into it, and finds the panic of schoolwork not getting done on time. He's too familiar with that, and it's exhausting in its own right.

With a heavy sigh, he stares up at the ceiling, but any trace of that easy sleep he'd had in Michael's truck is gone, replaced by tension in his jaw, shoulders, and forehead.

[littleorphanalien]

Michael isn't paying attention to any of that, other than Caleb's sad little sigh, which he can do something about. He reaches out for him as he settles in on the bed, deciding that he's in for a good night of sleep himself if he can get Caleb down here.

"Come on," he says. "I sleep better with someone holding onto me, get down here." It's not even sexual, not this. His best sleep had always been when someone at the home let him glom on, whether it was Max and Isobel, or one of the other long-term kids.

[greatamazingfeelingsboy]

Caleb blinks at him, but he can feel that it isn't anything weird. Michael's being truthful.

"What, like, you're the little spoon?" he asks, a little confused and too tired to keep up, really.

[littleorphanalien]

"Yeah, it's the best place to be," he says, and lies down, reaching out for Caleb's arm so he can grab it and yank it around his mid-section, wriggling close to the wall to give Caleb space to climb on. "Then you get all that warmth and the pulse and it puts you to sleep."

Sort of like white noise, he figures.

[greatamazingfeelingsboy]

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.

[littleorphanalien]

Michael grabs at his arm and pulls him in, breathing out slowly and letting his own emotions sort of shallow out, dissipate, and surround him. He's already tired, so he latches onto that feeling, knowing that he could use the rest.

And this is way more comfortable than the back of his truck.

"Just breathe," he coaxes, when Caleb seems tense still. "In for five, hold for five, out for five."

[greatamazingfeelingsboy]

Caleb tries to listen to him. He manages it, for a few breaths, but the noise of the Home starts to press in again when he starts to relax. He's too tired to focus properly, too tired to balance. But with Michael warm against him, smelling faintly like sunshine and telling him to breathe, Caleb starts to feel his eyes get heavy, his body slowly, slowly follow suit.