DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one. Any band members mentioned herein are the property of themselves.
Warnings are: Language, drug useage, hints towards prostitution, boykissing (only a wee bit.) Review, please :) It helps!
At twenty-two years of age, Caleb is what every aspiring musician doesn't want to be. He's penniless, friendless, and he lost all of his family contacts because of a mistake. As glamorous as Fall Out Boy makes it out to be, burning bridges is anything but.
At seventeen, Caleb befriended Jack Barakat. Two months later he went to his first rave, and if he wanted to be succinct, he'd say it all went downhill the moment he stepped into the abandoned barn.
The amount of kids packed into the room was suffocating. The room flashed pink, purple, blue, all in a dizzyingly fast fashion. He was pretty sure that in almost every corner there was at least one couple sucking face.
He was awkward and scared but let Jack lead him around anyway. His fingers enclosed in Jack's large, sweaty palm, Caleb didn't feel the security he thought he would. Instead he felt like an unwilling horse being led prancing around the ring when he'd rather be running free in the mountains.
Really, this was the equivalent of cold hard regret stemming from his heart and flooding his body. He couldn't think over the pumping of the bass, how it shook the dirt ground under his moccasins. He reached up a hand just as sweaty as Jack's to push falling strands of red hair away from his eyes.
As a frail church boy with no party experience whatsoever, he knew he was fucked.
Some party remix he didn't know blasted over the hidden speakers. The crowd sped up, almost robotically, and now Jack was leading Caleb to a hidden bathroom. Inside it was dirty, once-white walls tinged brown and rust-colored with blood and dirt.
It was one of those things that screamed tetanus, STDs, streptococcus just by looking at it. Like a twisted Picasso painting, swirls of neutral colors making an indiscernible scene. Like Silent Hill when the darkness takes over.
In a morbid, twisted sense, it was all beautiful; it was all a form of artwork Caleb knew he could never appreciate.
Jack looked back at him, thick eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he said, "Well, don't take all day. Come on, Turman." Caleb had no choice but to follow his beckoning fingers, feeling like he just signed his own death pact.
In the small corner created by the last stall a man was sitting on the floor, threading a string through the spaces between his fingers. Caleb didn't want to go any closer but Jack tugged persistently on his arm until he moved.
The guy on the floor looked up, eyes wild and tinged with red, his greasy brown hair sticking out in every direction. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Caleb, then slid his gaze over to Jack. His eyes didn't exactly light up like he was seeing an old friend, but most of the cool indifference had left his face.
"Jack motherfucking Barakat," he said in a voice as gravelly as if he'd gargled with rusty nails. "What a surprise." He reached into the dark brown satchel on the floor beside his legs and fished around for a few seconds before pulling out a syringe. "The usual?"
"This is Caleb," Jack said, pushing the aforementioned boy a few steps closer. "It's his first time."
The guy raised an eyebrow but reached back into the dark abyss of the satchel for another syringe regardless. He handed them both to Jack, who reached into his back pocket and pulled out four crumpled twenties.
Caleb eyed the syringes warily, chewing on his bottom lip. "Jack, I don't think—"
Jack slapped one of the syringes into Caleb's palm. "Don't think, then. Just do." Caleb watched as Jack pulled the covering off the end of the long, thin needle with his teeth, spitting it onto the floor. He held out his arm, palm upward, and looked for a moment before sticking the needle into a vein.
Pressed the plunger, the motion going in slo-mo in Caleb's eyes.
More or less Jack slumped to the ground with a moan, eyes sliding shut as he held the needle to his arm. Caleb's brown eyes widened and he found himself thing well, maybe just one hit…
He took the other syringe from his palm, wiped off the sweat marks. Pulling off the covering, Caleb felt Jack's eyes on him, heard his weak, euphoric voice say, find a vein, Caleb. Just find a goddamn vein and you'll be in heaven.
Caleb pressed the tip of the needle deep into the crease of his arm and pushed the plunger down. Let his inhibitions go. The room spun, and suddenly he found himself on the floor next to Jack, both walking in a real-unreal world.
Caleb couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but he knew from intuition or something this was where his life would fuck up forever.
The next day is no different than any of the other ones on the streets. It's sunny and cloudless and Caleb is glad he doesn't need that disgusting blanket. Today he's managed to clean up his old acoustic guitar, the only thing he'd taken from home.
He's on the street tuning it, tongue poking through his lips in concentration, when a shadow falls over him. Caleb begins to say "Bro, you're blocking my light—" when another voice cuts him off.
"Hey there, pretty redhead. I didn't know you played."
Caleb's neck snaps up so fast he feels like he's gotten whiplash. After wincing in pain he opens his eyes to see the boy from the night before—Kyle, if he's not mistaken. "W-What're you doing here?' he stammers.
Kyle grins and in the sunlight his smile is just that much more dazzling. Caleb can see the silvery glint of a nose ring in one nostril. "Thought I'd drop by and say hello before heading off to the BK Lounge to see Jonathan."
He eyes up the acoustic in Caleb's hand. Caleb blushes, feeling somewhat ashamed at the awful state of the thing—it's surely seen better days, and he knows he's lucky he's still got all six strings intact.
As much as Caleb loves having Kyle stare at him like that, the extreme blondeness of his hair is reflective, and Caleb's getting tired of squinting. "Do you mind moving? Your hair's kinda blinding me," he ends up saying.
Kyle does move, but not before he smirks and retorts, "Firecrotch."
Caleb scoffs and tries his hardest not to smile. "You're mature, you drugstore blonde."
Kyle pats his hair gingerly, smoothing down the layers as he feigns shock. "Oh ho, who's mature now?" His smile looks like it could split open his face, and Caleb can't hold back his laughter anymore.
"I'd say now that your teeth are blinding me," Caleb says, plucking a string to make sure it's perfectly tuned, "but I like it, so I'm not going to complain." He's a terrible flirt, and even though words have always been somewhat of a strong point for him, he still hasn't mastered the art of using them on someone yet.
Just then Kyle sits down in the middle of the street, Indian-style, and looks expectantly at Caleb. "What are you doing now?" Caleb asks, exasperated. He needs to start playing, because if he doesn't get the people on their lunch hour rush he'll get almost no one the rest of the day.
Kyle shrugs and plays with a string on his hoodie. "Just waiting for you to start playing."
Caleb smiles and shakes his head. "Relentless."
"It's what I've been told," Kyle responds, still grinning.
"I—" Caleb wants to say he only plays for money, something he's had no trouble telling other people before. Kyle is different though, and Caleb can't bring himself to utter those words in front of him. Instead, he starts playing some old Blink song.
His choice of music does earn him some money—dollars, this time, along with the usual change, and for that Caleb's elated. Kyle whistles when he's done. He gets up, says, "Talent and beauty. How'd I get so lucky?"
Kyle holds out his hand. Caleb looks at it, confused, until Kyle laughs. "Come on. I can't leave you out here a second longer. Someone might snatch you up and then I'll be shit out of luck."
"I don't trick, if that's what you're insinuating," Caleb replies as he takes Kyle's hand.
"No, no," Kyle says, still laughing as he pulls Caleb up off the ground. "You'd be fucking decimated if you tried that."
Caleb tries his best to look insulted, but it's hard when a tall, blonde beauty is endlessly complementing him. "I think I can handle my own, thank you very much."
Even he knows that's a lie. He's tried prostituting himself before—desperate times call for desperate measures, what the fuck ever—and he'd left before the john could even take off his pants.
And he's not blind in any way. He saw how the johns driving by, or walking by, eyed him up, staring not-so-subtly up and down his body. Caleb knew that, to them, he looked like an underage kid, and to many of those guys, there was nothing better.
There's something about baring your body for a complete stranger that breaks any kind of secrets you've held to yourself before. In the end you both go home and hopefully never see each other again. So what if you're $300 richer? In Caleb's eyes, it's not worth it.
Give him the choice of starving or having anonymous sex with a stranger, he'd go for the former. Blame it on his religious upbringing, whatever. He's still got some kind of morals left, unlike that woman who used to share his street and his alley.
Pretty still hung to her weathered face, and even her tattered clothes still looked presentable. Caleb had spent countless days and nights listening to her ramble on about her life before the streets, how she'd made over a thousand dollars from tricking in just one area.
"Then why don't you leave?" Caleb finally asked one night. He wasn't trying to be rude, or even trying to scare her off. He, as a newcomer, was genuinely curious. He hated this life, and if she made so much money, why wasn't she gone?
She'd only stared at him, blonde hair hanging limply around her face, once-vibrant blue eyes—at least Caleb suspected—dull and a lifeless shade of cornflower blue.
The next day she was gone. Where, Caleb never found out. He never bothered to ask, or go looking for her. She might've gotten some sense in her and made something of herself, or found a different street.
"Mhmm," Kyle says, raising a dark eyebrow. His gaze falls on Caleb's bare arm, and once the redhead catches his stare he's pulling down his hoodie sleeves as fast as he can. He glares at Kyle, challenging him to say anything.
"You're clean, aren't you?" Kyle asks as he begins walking up the street toward Burger King. Caleb has no choice but to follow behind him, guitar still clutched in his head. They're both garnering some stares from passersby but ignore them.
"If you're asking me if I'm still addicted, no," Caleb replies angrily. "No money, remember? Or are you also insinuating that I'm some kind of STD-riddled street urchin?"
"Not in any way," Kyle replies as he opens the glass door. Caleb follows him and doesn't flinch down from the curious stares of diners. He marches up to Kyle and grabs the purple sleeve of his hoodie. He notices, now, that they're the same height and Kyle is almost as pale as he is.
Adorable wouldn't be the exact word to describe Kyle.
"Then what the fuck are you insinuating?" Caleb asks, voice dangerously low. He doesn't back down, just stares straight into Kyle's eyes intensely, anger boiling hot in his veins. He sees one corner of Kyle's lips curl up into a grin. "This," the other boy says, and leans forward to kiss Caleb.
Shocked wouldn't be the exact word to describe how Caleb feels when Kyle pulls away like nothing happened. He reaches up and places two fingers to his lips, raising his eyebrows in silent question.
"Look, to me, you're pretty no matter how homeless you are," Kyle says. "And you've got potential. Letting you rot on that street corner should be a crime. Redheads are a dying breed after all." He playfully socks Caleb in the arm.
Caleb doesn't have the energy or state of mind to make up a comeback. He's pretty sure he's doing a damn good imitation of a goldfish and he sputters out what should be words but aren't.
Kyle slings an arm around Caleb's shoulders and pulls him close. Instinctively Caleb squirms, trying to get away, but Kyle just holds him tighter and says, "I'll take you home and you can shower if you're so worried. You're fine, Cay."
"Wait a second," Caleb says and twists to look at Kyle. "How'd you know my name?"
"You forget," Kyle replies as he lets Caleb go and walks to the counter. "My best friend works here."
Jonathan comes up to the counter and Caleb realizes what happened. Jonathan sees him and waves him over, grinning like an idiot. "Long time no see, Caleb."
Caleb rolls his eyes and switches his guitar from one hand to the other. Kyle watches the transaction and says, "Go. Sit down and I'll be there in a second."
"Not a kid," Caleb mutters, but he still has that warm, fuzzy feeling in his navel as he heads to a booth in the back of the restaurant. Kyle actually cares, one of the first people to do so in almost a year. There's no way Caleb can push him away.
Caleb notices that when Kyle comes back with a tray—two Whopper combos, shit he's in love—and they've finished eating, the blonde-haired boy heads off for the bathroom without explanation. Caleb doesn't say anything, doesn't think much of it, and Kyle looks healthy as a horse when he returns.
Maybe Caleb's just paranoid. He did, after all, live on the streets.
Kyle's apartment is five or so blocks away, high up on the sixth floor. He's a gentleman when he ushers Caleb in, taking his guitar and directing him towards the bathroom. He disappears into what Caleb suspects is his room and returns with a pair of jeans, boxers, and a shirt.
Caleb blushes as he takes the bundle, refusing to look at the boxers folded within the shirt. Somehow this seems almost intimate. "Dude, I can't take all your shit."
Kyle shakes his head and steps out of the bathroom. "I don't care. Besides, all you've got is what you're wearing, and for some reason I'm thinking you don't want to wear those much longer." He raises an eyebrow as if he's waiting for Caleb to rebut.
"Fine." Caleb sighs and strips off his hoodie. Kyle takes it, says, "This we can wash, though," and is gone and closing the door before Caleb can say thanks.
Caleb strips off the rest of his clothes, shakes his head when he sees the amount of dirt and pollution caked on his body. The shower is on the far wall, large for a small apartment. He goes over and turns on the taps, flinching when some of the beginning cold water hits his arms and face.
He turns his back to the full-length mirror on the wall next to the shower. When the water warms up enough he steps in and almost immediately feels his muscles relax.
The water dripping to the slippery floor from his body is light brown with dirt, and when Caleb grabs a bath pouf from a rack and pours body wash on it, he can almost see the change in skin color when he begins scrubbing.
The shampoo on a rack above his head smells like Kyle, and he takes comfort in that as he lathers up his hair with it. He doesn't like to think that he's falling for the other boy, but he knows he is and he knows he's falling hard.
Caleb isn't even aware of the temperature of the water until he gets out and notices the bathroom's fogged up, all the mirrors opaque. His skin is light red from both the heat and from the fierce scrubbing he'd done.
He wraps a towel around his waist after quickly drying his hair and walks over to the sink where Kyle's clothes are folded. Picking up the jeans, he unfolds them—before he got into all of this he knows he wouldn't have been able to fit into these—and a note tumbles out and falls to the ground.
Curious, Caleb leans down and picks it up, unfolding it.
Caleb, I care. That's all that matters.
The smile never leaves Caleb's face as he dresses. And the fact that the boxers Kyle gave him have polar bears on them makes it just that much cuter.