BROKEN HOME :: OT4

la maison est subjective

Chapter Eleven; la maison est subjective

Michael thinks that he has had enough of the silliness between him and Calum; they are living under the same house and not exchanging words. That is not how best friends act. And he finds humours because if they had a fight like this when they were a child, a simple pack of Kit-Kat chocolate would fix it.

However, they are no longer kids. They are grown up adults responsible of what they say and their actions; they need to stop this cold war they have in between each other and work co-operatively to make the best out of the case.

"Calum, can I talk to you for a second?" he asks as he scratches the back of his neck and interrupts the boy reading a book titled Eleanor and Park. He doesn't understand how a boy who looks so manly can be in to something as romantic as this, but he decides it is better not to stereotype, and lets it go.

Calum lets out a loud sigh before folding the corner of his page and resting the book on the table. He thinks he is going to get the whole speech how Michael is right and how he needs to start denying his sentence. He also knows it is getting a little late for that and it scares him.

It scares him because the truth is, he doesn't want to go to jail. Since ever the case has been on hold, he has been researching about the treatment there and so far, it is not pleasant. However, he doesn't want Michael to step his feet on the same ground as those murders, and if that means putting his life on the risk, he would do that.

He would do anything for him.

"If you are here to tell me that what I did was wrong, you might as well save your breath." Calum suggests as the other boy leads him in to the library silently. He closes the door behind them and stares at Michael's face attentively.

"What's wrong?" Calum asks after studying the other boy for a minute. He can read him almost like a book, and he knows when he is feeling blue or when he is feeling grey.

"What are you talking about, nothing is wrong. Anyway, I just wanted to ta-" he is interrupted by his friend walking closer to him gradually, still with that attentive and focused face.

"No, no, no. Don't give me any of that bullshit; tell me what's wrong." It almost comes like a demand, and Michael doesn't know if he is happy to know that the boy cares or if he is scared at how much he knew him.

Before he can reply, a loud sound of lighting emerges from the far north and is followed soon by a few droplets hitting the windows harshly. The sky had turned grey very quickly, almost as if it wanted to match the mood of the green eyed boy.

When Michael disconnects his eyes from the window, he finds Calum raising an eyebrow with his arms crossed, waiting for an answer. "I just miss you." he confesses and he can see his companion molifying in front of him, almost as if those words were a cure to an infection he carries.

"God, I miss you too." Calum replies and opens his arms for the boy to come and hug him, to which Michael obliges without hesitation. It feels oddly different than all the hugs they have shared over the years; somehow the others were the same hug he could get from anybody else, but this, this one is different.

It feels like a blanket or a warm and fuzzy pair of socks on a winter evening; it feels like a shooting star that comes once in a life time; it feels like the sun and the moon have finally met- they no longer have to die for each other, they can be side by side without all of the arguments.

And when Calum holds him a little tighter when another lightning strikes, he wonders if the other boy is feeling like a moon or a sun, because he doesn't want to be the person to smother him.

They take a seat on the couch which is found in the living room; and it feels very comfortable, with only the two of them in the room, a blanket to cover their bodies and they have each other to heal up the wounds.

And Calum wonders if this is what they talk about; when he hears his mother rambling on about a home. Because he believes home is subjective.

He sometimes doesn't feel like home when he comes from a busy day at uni and rests his head on the bed; he definitely didn't feel like home when he packed his bag to stay over at his dad's house when he was thirteen; and when his father and mother lived at different houses, he doesn't know which one to call home, because neither felt like one.

And now he is sitting next to Michael, with Orphan Black playing softly on the television, and although it is far less interesting, the only sound he can focus on is Michael's breathing. He also can't ignore the small and gentle movements of Michael's finger on his head.

Home is subjective; and he decides that this is home.