greatamazingfeelingsboy | Recent Entries

Sunday mornings are a good, quiet time to go for a run. He's even got a halfway decent route mapped out. He jogs from Candlewood, straight down Mulholland, and once he hits the park entrance, he grabs a path and runs. He alternates his speed as he goes, and occasionally even dodges into the trees to get some different terrain under his feet.

He's slowed again to a jog when he feels familiar emotions, and he slows, then follows them to their source. Daniel Arlington is jogging ahead of him, and Caleb picks up his speed to catch up.

"Oh, hey," he says. He's smiling, because even as he draws closer he can feel that something's different. Daniel isn't upset or disappointed. He's happy. He's delighted, under the focus that usually comes with running for exercise's sake.

It's a far cry from how he'd looked when he'd approached Daniel that day in the museum. Caleb is wearing jogging sweats and a hoodie, face pink from the chill, but his eyes are lit up, grin growing the longer he's standing next to him.

Caleb doesn't need to be an empath to know that Alex and Michael could use some 'couple time,' which is what he's calling it in his head so he doesn't accidentally stray too close to 'thinking about my big-brother figure having sex' territory. So on one Saturday while he's hanging out, he decides to bundle up Luke and Bopp and bring them out for the day. The whole day. So Alex and Michael can have the whole day.

He starts out with a late breakfast out, with Bopp tied to a bike stand outside of the cafe so they can eat in peace. Later, it'll be the arcade, maybe the park or the natural history museum, some lunch, the aquarium... Whatever they decide to do doesn't really matter to Caleb, as long as Luke is having fun.

Because the kid needs it.

He's been dealing with the fallout of Michael's abduction just as much as any of them, and Caleb hasn't really had the chance to help him with that. Maybe this will do the trick. Just get him out of the apartment, away from school, and let him focus on being a kid and having fun.

At first, he thinks it's an immediate neighbor. Caleb's laying in bed, feeling tense and warm, and someone nearby is getting aroused. He can feel it, hot honey in the low cradle of his hips, and he doesn't register whose it is right away. It feels good — better than his hand — and he could leave. He could get up, right now, and walk out of the building, go for a run in the cold night air, calm down. By the time he gets back, they'd be done, and he'd be able to go to sleep.

But he doesn't want to.

The hot honey is pooling, warm and amber and thick, and it feels good. He wants to feel this. Maybe he should feel a little guilty for wanting to enjoy someone else's sex life, but right at that moment, he doesn't. Right at that moment, he breathes out a heavy sigh, hand sliding down to cup himself. He's half-hard, and pushing up against his own palm is bringing him the rest of the way. He doesn't even need to touch himself, not really. He can feel the way the heat slides through him, into his muscles, teasing him.

He needs more.

Caleb rolls over, pressing his hips down against the mattress. He shudders as he ruts down against it, but something's still not right. He groans softly, then realizes: there's only one person. He's only feeling one person's arousal. But this is definitely more than jerking-off-arousal. It's bigger, fuller — it's caused by someone else.

So why can't he feel them?

He whimpers when a bolt shoots through him, pleasure tickling up his spine. There's a desperate want in the back of his throat, and for the briefest of seconds, he feels a flicker of uncertainty.

No, not uncertainty. Doubt. It's gray and soft and mutes the arousal for just a moment before it swells again, and Caleb's eyes flash open.

Fuck. Rosie. These are Rosie's feelings.

Caleb's dick doesn't care, but his face heats with embarrassed horror as he jerks against the bed. He needs to stop this. He needs to leave, he—

Why is he feeling her? She's four floors above him!

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut as Rosie feels incredible pleasure. It chases down his spine again, into his belly, his dick, making him clench. His hips are still circling against the bed like they can't stop, like they're on a motor all their own. Caleb whimpers into his pillow.

He doesn't jerk off. He clutches the pillow under his head with both hands and pants into it as he rides this out. That's what he's going to do. He'll ride this out, then clean up, then leave. He'll go... somewhere. He doesn't know.

Rosie's orgasm builds and Caleb cries out as it hits him like a train. He comes into his boxers and whimpers again through the aftershocks. His face is hot with a blush, and he can feel his own shame finally overpowering the languid afterglow beaming down on him like a heat lamp.

Caleb swallows and pushes himself off the bed. His legs feel like jelly, but he forces himself to hobble to the bathroom so he can clean up.

He yelps when a fresh wave of heat rushes into him, and his dick jumps.

"Fuck, seriously?" he gasps.

He shoves his boxers down, grabs a wash cloth, but when he brings it down to wash himself, he ends up fucking it, overwhelmed by her oversensitivity, her sharp need spilling heat through his torso. By the time he comes, he's on his knees, one arm braced against the edge of the sink, head resting on his forearm, body shaking. He groans weakly, trembling and breathing through it.

A minute passes. Two. Five, and everything is still. Rosie is feeling loose and relaxed and happy, and Caleb dares to move. He finishes cleaning up, changes into clean shorts, then pulls on jeans and a shirt. He's halfway to the door, coat on and phone in hand, when another wave hits him.

"Nononono," he breathes. He makes it to the door, then takes the stairs down to the lobby.

There. It's quiet. He's far enough away that Rosie's feelings are gone. The arousal that isn't his starts to fade, and his dick goes soft.

With a breath, Caleb sits heavily on the floor by the stairs. He swallows and checks the time. Midnight, or close enough. Fuck. He has no idea how long this is going to take.

But he's definitely going to tell Rosie no more sex on a school night.

"I have a couple hours before work tomorrow. You can come over?"

That's how it starts. Clint needs some help on an art project, and Caleb isn't an artist by a long shot (which he warns Clint about plenty), but he does remember all the stuff he and Chloe talked about, and when Clint hears that, he seems to think it's enough knowledge for Caleb to be helpful.

So, on Saturday morning before Caleb goes to the shop, Clint comes to the apartment. Caleb has double- and triple-checked that the spare room door is locked. He's covered anything that gives off too much of its own light (which is so weird, and so cool), and on top of installing the locking doorknob, he'd also installed privacy stripping along the bottom.

He won't let Michael's secret get out. Not after everything.

Clint and Caleb are sitting on the couch. There's some TV show streaming on FilmFix while they work. On the coffee table in front of them is a box of Sharpie markers in all sorts of colors, a sketch of Clint's idea, and the final piece he's going to be inking.

"I feel like you should've sprung the extra few bucks for actual art markers," Caleb says. "You're not gonna get shit done for shading with these."

Clint rolls his eyes, but laughs.

"I'm not planning on shading," he says. "I want to do something flatter, y'know? Starker. Something that'll stand out from the rest of the class."

Clint doesn't want to go to art school, but he has ideas about art that a lot of the more pretentious kids in their grade don't seem to. He's talking about it now, and Caleb should be listening, but instead, he's losing himself in the rhythm of Clint's voice. He's drawn into the heady, exciting swell of the passion Clint's feeling. Clint is gesturing as he speaks, voice rising when he starts to get enthusiastic, and lowering again when he feels self conscious. It's adorable.

Caleb's starting to stare, he knows it, so he clears his throat and tries to deflect with a joke.

"Don't you think you stand out enough already?"

"Why, 'cause I'm queer, or 'cause I'm black?" Clint asks. There's a kind of wry, challenging smile on his face, and now it's Caleb's turn to roll his eyes.

"No? Dude, you know that's not what I meant," Caleb says, and pelts a marker at Clint's chest.

"No, I really don't," he says, all faux innocence. "Tell me, Michaels, how do I 'stand out enough already'?"

Caleb feels caught. Clint's playful joy is floating on butterflies that are becoming way too familiar, way too comfortable, in Caleb's ribs. He feels his face heating, and he tries to laugh it off.

"I just— hello, you're the star quarterback. Literally every girl in school that isn't a lesbian wants to date you."

"Yeah, well, it's not the girls I'm interested in," he reminds.

The butterflies surge again. Clint's watching him with dark, hopeful eyes. He doesn't feel the hope, but he can see it. Clint doesn't dare to hope, Caleb realizes. He shakes his head and looks at the project in front of them. He can feel Clint watching him, and he needs to get this back on track before something happens.

"Here, gimme that marker back, I'll start the outline," he says, reaching for it.

"Nah, it's mine now," Clint says. His amusement rises up and crystallizes when Caleb looks at him. "Shouldn't have thrown it at me," he points out, and Caleb rolls his eyes and laughs.

"Dude," he argues, and reaches for it again.

Clint jerks it out of his reach, and when Caleb reaches for it again, tucks it behind himself. Caleb huffs a disbelieving laugh. He stretches to reach around Clint's other side. Clint laughs and twists to dodge.

The ensuing struggle is ridiculous, but Clint's joy is contagious as they wrestle for the marker.

Caleb's not sure how, or when, it happens, but he finds himself leaning over Clint, his arm pinned beneath Clint's body, their fingers tangled around the marker. Their breath is coming faster, heavier, from the exertion of their weird little wrestling match, but they're staring at each other.

For a long, weighty moment, Caleb is reminded of Sadie Hawkins, and leaning over Adam, and how he'd had no idea how close they'd come to kissing. This is different. He can tell, now. He recognizes the feeling that says 'I want to kiss him' in a way that he hadn't back then.

But he still doesn't know what to do about it.

Clint does. He stretches up, pressing his lips to Caleb's like he knows exactly what he wants.

* * *
Caleb doesn't know how long they spend kissing. But when his work alarm goes off, telling him to get his ass to the shop so he isn't late, he jerks back. Clint's surprise settles next to his own, making his heart pound all the harder, and with a curse he turns to grab his phone off the coffee table.

"Fuck, I gotta go," he says. Clint's disappointment paws at him. "I'm gonna be late," he explains, scrambling off the couch. "Um, just... Lock up when you leave, okay?"

"Caleb—" Clint tries, but Caleb's already rushing to the door.

"I'll see you on Monday!" he says, letting the door fall shut behind him.

He's a fucking coward, but he really is going to be late for work.

Jan 28th?

Caleb sprawls on Alex's couch, exhausted and sore and slightly frustrated. He'd gone to the gym with some of the guys from the team, and it'd proved... trying. Clint kept looking at him, which in and of itself isn't a problem. The problem was that he kept getting slightly aroused, at random times, while looking at Caleb. Which meant Caleb worked out harder, which meant Clint stared more, which meant that Clint got aroused more, and by the end of the two hours, he was so fucking tired and sore from trying to work out the feelings he kept getting.

He'd already showered at his place, but he'd promised Alex he'd swing over after the gym, since his place isn't warded against Grays. He likes hanging out with her, and he likes that there aren't any butterflies between them. It's nice to just... have a friend.

Which he realizes isn't fair to Rosie, who's easily one of his closest friends here. But she's so busy with her boyfriend and school that sometimes he doesn't get to just hang out with her. Last week doesn't entirely count, because he'd been a mess.

"Kill me," he mumbles into the couch cushion his face is pressed against.

[ an AU continuation of this thread ]

Caleb loses himself in the comfortable rhythm of their breathing. At some point, he's lined up their breaths, even, just watching the show, sort of losing himself in it, exhaling every time Alex inhales. It's quiet, and easy, and maybe that's why Caleb doesn't see it coming.

There's awkward sexual tension on the screen, and Caleb's ability doesn't work through TVs or anything, but apparently he's really into awkward sexual tension, because he feels himself getting hard as he watches. His breath sucks in, throwing off the quiet groove of they've got going and drawing way more attention to his predicament than he'd wanted to.

mid-Jan

Michael isn't doing too hot. Which, fuck, of course he isn't. He'd been literally abducted, cut into, cut open, studied, like some fucking science experiment straight out of any sci-fi movie. Of course he isn't doing well. But he's not even talking. Caleb's so worried about him that he's taken off from school for the rest of the week, and he visits whenever he can handle it.

Right now, he steps into the apartment with a wan smile at Alex, and he follows Michael's feelings into the bedroom. They're muffled — acetone, Caleb's pretty sure — but ever since that weird moment in the lab, when he'd felt Michael reach out, Caleb's had an even stronger connection with him. The acetone does nothing to really hide the feelings from him.

One of the dining room table chairs is by the bed, because Caleb sometimes stays for a long time. He wishes Dr. Bright were here. If anyone could be trusted with Michael's secret, it'd be her, and she'd be able to help him through this. Caleb isn't equipped for this beyond his ability, and he's not even sure he's actually helping.

He sits in the chair, draping his jacket against the back of it, and looks at Michael, allows himself to tune into his frequency.

'Fucked up' doesn't even really cover it.

mid-Jan

The rest of the day is a blur. They get Michael back to Ocean View, and Caleb lets Alex take over from there. He doesn't want to leave Michael's side, but he has to. He needs to check in with himself. It's been too long, and he doesn't know what to expect, and he can't let this shit overwhelm him when he's trying to sleep, or he'll never fucking sleep.

He tells Alex and Michael that he'll be back later, that he has something to do, but he doesn't tell them what. He doesn't want Alex to feel any more guilty about this than he already does.

He goes back to his apartment, and he stands still in the middle of the main room as he feels the last threads dissolve between him and the rest of the world.

Physically, he's okay. His body is exhausted, and he's getting a headache, but he recognizes the whys and the hows. He's hungry, but that's nothing new. It's the rising bile in his throat that sets him on edge, and suddenly he's overwhelmed by the fear/panic cocktail that's been hiding under other people's emotions.

He barely makes it to the bathroom in time. He drops to his knees on the hard tile floor, hands clutching the edge of the seat as he empties the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl. The retches turn into wracking sobs when his brain starts helpfully replaying the day.

He'd infiltrated an evil scientific lab. He'd been present — an accomplice — while Alex had shot people — killed people — with military precision. He'd felt their emotions cut off abruptly and rip from his body. It'd been a nearly physical sensation.

He'd seen Michael, strapped to a table, lying helpless and cut open, his insides displayed on a screen for study. He'd felt terror like nothing he'd ever known. Terror, and guilt, and rage, and the steely determination brought by years of training.

Caleb doesn't know how long he stays there, sprawled awkwardly against the toilet. Tears slide down his nose and drop off into the water. His ribs hurt from puking, or from crying, or maybe from both. His head is swimming, pounding now. Again, he has no idea the full source. It could be an empathy hangover, or it could be from puking, or it could be from crying.

He wishes Adam were here. He wishes Clint were here, or Rosie, or Alex Stern. He needs something good, something calm, to cling to.

* * *
When he wakes up, he's somehow sunk into the space between the cupboard under the sink and the toilet. His neck and shoulder twinge from the uncomfortable position. His head is stuffed and muzzy, his face itchy from dried tears. The toilet stinks, and he realizes he'd never flushed after puking into it.

He does that now, then closes the lid so he can use it to push himself up off the floor. Everything hurts. He pulls his phone out to check the time. It's late, after midnight. Fuck. He'd been out for awhile.

He washes his face, brushes his teeth, then shuffles out into the kitchen. He needs to eat something, and he needs water. His head is pounding. He texts Clint and Rosie to let them know he won't be in school for the rest of the week.

His stomach twists anew when he realizes how bland and blank the text is. How similar it is to the one he'd gotten from Michael's phone. He adds a few more messages — I'm okay, just need to take care of a friend. Could you grab my homework and shit? — then pours himself a water, pops a Hot Pocket into the microwave, and sits heavily on the stool at the counter.

That's when everything comes rushing back, and he finds himself crying again, like a fucking loser.

His life is so fucked up.

Saturday, Jan 11, 2020

Michael doesn't text. It's kind of a thing, with him. He doesn't text, he barely answers his phone, and honestly, Caleb is pretty sure the only reason he even keeps it around is on the off chance that Alex does need to call him for something.

But he doesn't text, and he certainly doesn't text Caleb.

They'd been working on the car, like usual, and had a break for lunch. Caleb had gone out for something — he's got a relatively steady income, now, so he has some extra money, and can get away with that sort of thing — and finished it there at the cafe, instead of taking it back to the shop. The last time he'd done that, he'd been too full to actually work on the car. He'd learned his lesson: the walk back was usually enough to chill out the food baby.

When he gets back to the shop, though, Michael isn't back yet. Caleb figured he'd probably gone home to share lunch with Alex, and that he'd be a little longer than usual. But their lunch hour ends, and he still isn't back.

And that's when his phone chimes.

Something came up. I'll see you later.

Caleb frowns down at his phone, but he doesn't answer, because Michael doesn't text. For a long minute or two, he actually stares at his phone, and wonders if it's a joke — if the 'something' is Michael's dick, or something. But that still doesn't track.

So he heads to their apartment. It's not a long walk, but Caleb feels like it takes longer than usual. He's thinking of all the different things that could've caused Michael to text him, and so far his brain has concocted everything from 'Alex lost his other leg' to 'Died in a fiery explosion.'

And, sure, that last one doesn't make sense, because how could Michael text him if he'd died in a fiery explosion?

He gets to Ocean View at last, the beach nearby filling his ears with ocean surf and quieting the rise of feelings coming from the first floor apartments. He waits a moment outside the door, and reaches out for Michael's feelings.

But they're not there. The red wall that reflects his own yellow into orange isn't there. There's no rush of sunset purple swirling around him like a blanket. It's just Alex's blue, quiet and calm and focused on... whatever it is Alex focuses on.

Okay, this is getting weirder. He knocks on the door, waiting for Bopp's answering howl and the inevitable curiosity that must be Alex wondering who's at the door.

early Jan

Being in a feminine body is... different, but not bad. Now that he's been assured that, yes, this is a thing Darrow does, and, yes, he's going to change back, Caleb's taken the time to sort of... get used to the idea. He's still pretty tall, though not over six feet anymore. Rosie had helped him get his hair into a ponytail so it's not in his face, and then she'd blessedly helped him buy clothes so he didn't feel totally weird.

He doesn't really want to talk about the bra experience.

But it's Saturday, so now he has to face Michael. He hadn't been anticipating that. He'd ended up trying to call him, but, of course, it went to voicemail. He was the worst. So, dressed in his new, much better fitting clothes, Caleb makes his way to the shop.

Tim greets him like always, with a smile and a "Hey, Kid," and doesn't seem to think there's anything weird about Caleb being girl-shaped. That's... kinda weird.

"Hey," he greets, still a little thrown off by the sound of his new voice. Then he makes his way back to the car he and Michael have been working on.

He braces himself for Michael's feelings, squares his shoulders, and calls out another "Hey," loud enough for Michael to hear him.

early Jan

Caleb woke up feeling... weird. His clothes were tangled up around his legs and ribs, and his pecs felt unusually sweaty. He reaches up to push his shirt against his skin, to wipe it away, and his arm... catches on something. It feels weird. He frowns and looks down, then jerks away with a gasp.

The breasts — breasts — follow him, because they're— they're—

"Fuck, what the fuck," he says, his bright orange panic neon in his own body. How is he not lighting up the entire apartment? His voice isn't right. His body isn't right.

He freezes. Slowly, because he's terrified of what he's about to see, he pushes the covers down his thighs. His boxers are tangled around his legs, his now too narrow hips and thighs too small for the shorts. Tentatively, he lifts the waistband.

* * *
He doesn't know what to do. He's wearing clothes that normally fit him, but in this slighter frame, they hang loose. He'd spent a good twenty minutes freaking out, and nothing was getting better, so he'd gotten dressed, layered up his clothes, and sent a message to Rosie asking if she was awake, if she was home, and if she could help him.

He knows better than to try to call or text Michael. His phone is little better than a paperweight, and he never looks at it unless he absolutely needs to. If Caleb were feeling a little calmer, it might have occurred to him to text Alex. But Rosie's closer, too. She's just a few floors up.

He's pacing the hallway on her floor when he finally gets a text back, and he rushes the door with a rapid knock.

Dec 22

Candlewood Apartments looms tall and slightly intimidating ahead of him. Michael's said he can use his apartment there, so he doesn't have to try to sleep through the varying emotions in the Children's Home. Caleb had hugged him, hard, when he'd made the offer, and now, he stands on the sidewalk, with all of his belongings stuffed into a hastily bought duffel bag and a couple of boxes he'd rescued from recycling.

It isn't much, but he's not gonna need much for awhile, right?

He can change that when he finally has his own place. He just has to wait five more months.

An hour later, he's more or less sprawled on the bed, feeling the neighbors through the walls. The threads are new and strange, and Caleb's eyes grow unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling. He can feel the differences in the people they're coming from, the different colors and shapes that try to wind their way into his body. It's easier, because there are only two or three within his range, instead of the several people rushing him like at the Home. He breathes out emotions that aren't his, and closes his eyes.

* * *

He wakes up with a gasp, disoriented and empty and surrounded by darkness. He jerks up and nearly falls off the edge of the bed, where he'd sort of rolled, one leg off the mattress, while sleeping. It's quiet, inside and out, and that's when he remembers where he is.

"Fuck," he breathes. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to stay awake, and enjoy the quiet feeling of his own emotions. Because for the first time since coming here, they're just his.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, then squints as he lights up the screen to check the time. 2:38 AM. He has school tomorrow — in just a few hours, really — and he'd fallen asleep way earlier than he'd thought he would. He's hungry, thirsty, and has to pee.

And, shit, he might as well take a shower, while he's at it. No point in trying to go back to sleep. He strips his jacket off (how the hell had he slept so long with it on?) and makes his way out to the main room so he can check the freezer and fridge for food. Michael works on his projects here occasionally, so he anticipates finding something.

There's a couple boxes of Hot Pockets in the freezer, so he grabs them and and microwaves both boxes.

While he eats, he checks the messages on his phone. There are a couple from Clint, and even Rosie, after he'd told her the news and promptly, apparently, passed the hell out. He texts them both back, then sets his phone to charge so he can take a shower and finish unpacking his duffel bag.

By the time he's done, it's almost time to go to school, so he makes sure he's got everything he needs before starting his day.

Dec 21

Working on the car is a regular thing. Caleb has therapy on Sundays, and he works with Michael on the car on Fridays and Saturdays. Clint and the guys have invited Caleb out with them more than once since the dance, but Caleb is feeling a little... crowded by them.

By Clint.

Clint really likes Caleb, and it's weird. Not bad-weird, like Caitlin's butterflies, but also not good-weird, like Adam's. Just... weird. So he's bowed out, but he texts Clint regularly so he doesn't think Caleb hates him, or regrets dancing with him, or anything. They're friends. Caleb doesn't want him to think they're not.

Today, he's going into the shop, but with a different purpose in mind. He's got his school bag, but instead of his textbooks in it, he has the books he'd bought at the bookstore earlier in the week.

"Hey, Kid," one of the other shop guys greets. Tim, Caleb thinks his name is. "Michael's back by the car."

"Cool, thanks," Caleb says. It's weird to him, but in kind of a cool way, that the guys Michael works with are starting to recognize him.

He makes his way towards the car, because he knows which one Tim was talking about, and the closer he gets, the more easily he feels Michael's red coming out to meet him. He smiles at the familiarity, and sets his bag down near the car so he can examine how much work they've done so far.

Oh, God. French class. Caleb had been taking Latin in Boston, and Petros High doesn't offer that, so he has to take another language course to get his credits to graduate. His options were Spanish and French, and he'd figured French would be the easier of the two.

He's second guessing his choice now, as he sits in the middle row of seats, listening to the teacher speaking in French and pointing at the board. He's late to the course, but he has some homework to catch up. He just... hasn't done it yet. So he feels totally lost, and he's not the only one.

His leg jiggles under his desk, and he keeps looking between some of the seasick faces before trying to focus on the teacher again. He feels like he's listening to the adults in Charlie Brown specials. Just lots of 'wah wahs' and not a lot of words.

About halfway into the class, the teacher splits them up into groups. Caleb doesn't know that because he suddenly understands French. He knows that because other kids start pairing off with each other. There's a flash of swirly butterflies, and Caleb looks up to see one of the cheerleaders approaching him. He's saved by one of the football players asking her to be his partner, and he swallows a sigh of relief.

He turns to see who else is left, and spots a familiar face that helps his shoulders unclench.

"Rosie?" he calls. "Um, can we—?"

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.