Disclaimer: These characters are mine. Please respect this, and them.

A/N: The first of the fics written for the bodyandsoul100 challenge, using the prompt 'Beginnings'. This fic is a pre-TH; Michael and Paul's first meetings. Also gives more hints as to pre-TH Paul, poor boy.

Beginnings

The secret to getting by in high school when one is neither popular, nor talented, nor possessed with the capabilities to be either, was to find the perfect level of invisibility. This mix allowed one to pass unnoticed in class, hallways, or at lunch but without creating the stigma of 'loser' that was the most fatal.

It took a lifetime of being bullied, beaten up, and otherwise tortured in elementary school to discover this balance, but Paul Fleming finally found it. By the time ninth grade rolled around, no one asked about the dark-haired kid who sat in the middle of the classrooms, who didn't respond unless called on and got just over half the answers right, who wasn't smart enough to steal homework from but not dumb enough to pick on, who did just well enough in gym that he didn't ask for a ball to the face, who made it out of the change rooms so quickly that no one was ever sure he was there at all.

Paul wasn't happy, but then, that wasn't what he was there for. He was in high school to get his diploma, because otherwise, he wouldn't be able to find a good job. And without that means of employment, he'd be nothing but an extra mouth for his family and that was unacceptable. As soon as high school ended, as soon that piece of paper was in his hand, Paul was done with it. He didn't need friends or extracurricular activities; not when he had his family.

But then, life has a way of throwing in the unexpected just when people think they have it covered, and as cliché as it was, change came for Paul in the form of a weeping redhead.

Paul knew Michael Walker in the same way that the rest of the school did the Resident Faggot. The kid had been outed by their vying-for-number-one-spot jock, Brian Jacobson, and it wasn't hard to miss him. Not when he always walked with his head down and shuffled his feet, and was constantly flanked by Pete Martin (the other number-one jock, though he seemed to have stepped down) and Amanda St. Clair (the second-most sought-after girl in school). But, like the half of the school that didn't hate him, Paul felt nothing besides vague pity for him.

Michael's friends seemed to have things under control, though, and Paul didn't have the time to get involve. It was twelfth grade and he was almost out of there; another year and he wouldn't have to worry.

He hadn't eaten that day, or the day before; even though money was better overall, the price of hydro had just gone up and the Flemings had to readjust finances to stay afloat. Paul's stomach growled for the third time since they'd begun 'Uninterrupted Silent Reading' time, and people were starting to glance. Michael's friend looked over like he wanted to offer Paul the rest of his lunch; Paul raised his hand and asked to be excused.

"Getting soft," Paul muttered, leaning against the lockers on his way to the washroom. A year of actually eating two meals a day and he'd forgotten how to survive on less; two days without food shouldn't have him feeling faint and trying not to throw up. He'd have to retrain himself.

He made it to the bathroom before anyone could see and question why he wasn't in class, and Paul gripped the edge of the sink with both hands to steady himself. His stomach clenched and rolled, attempting to digest food that wasn't there.

"Geez," the voice from behind made Paul jump, and he spun around to see the Walker boy standing with one shoulder against a stall door. "Maybe you should eat something."

Gee, is that all there is to it? Thanks a lot, Paul thought, but kept it back. He managed a smile and pushed his bangs off his forehead. "Probably."

"You're not anorexic, are you?" green eyes, darker than Paul's own, swept over Paul's form in an appraising glance.

Paul's eye twitched, and only his resolve to keep his position as invisible kept him from exploding. That, and Michael Walker obviously had enough problems.

It was then that Paul noticed the toilet paper peeking from the bottom hem of Michael's sleeves, and he frowned. The other boy noticed his gaze and, face paling, pushed it back into hiding, but not before Paul saw red blotches on the white tissue. Ahh.

"Maybe you should stop cutting," Paul folded his arms and clenched his jaw. "You're not suicidal, are you?"

Harsh. Too harsh; Michael's whole face tightened and the mild curiosity faded, hurt and anger taking its place. "All right, I get it," he snapped, "'Scuse me for caring."

"You're excused," Paul pressed one hand to his head, feeling the slight whoosh of air as Michael brushed past him. God, that hurt, to be so callous to someone who'd been through so much, but what did it matter? To Michael Walker, all Paul would be was yet another insensitive jerk in an entire school of them. He didn't need to know.

He couldn't help wondering, though, if Pete knew what his best friend was doing while he was in class. But when he came back into English class, Paul couldn't think of a way to bring it up, so he didn't.

It happened a few more times after that, but Paul made sure Michael didn't see him. He couldn't help him and didn't want to add any more animosity, so he just stayed away. Getting involved with someone like that was a surefire way to get noticed, and he couldn't. Not when he was so close.

Paul sat by himself in the cafeteria, but he choose tables where, if people glanced, it appeared as though he might be associated with those sitting a few spots down. Michael and his friends were about half the room away, and they looked happy enough. Sometimes they had their good days.

Someone, one of the annoying juniors with nothing better to do than taunt people they didn't know but were aware that everyone else taunted, flung some item of his lunch their way. Paul, well used to this in younger grades, flinched involuntarily.

But he'd misunderestimated Pete Martin. Barely looking up, the boy caught whatever it was a smushed up sandwich, maybe and flung it right back, hitting the kid in the face. The denizens of the cafeteria, fickle beings as teenagers were, laughed; it didn't really matter who was getting schooled as long as they could mock someone.

Paul smiled and ducked his head, returning to his lunch.

"Hey, honey," Mom came home from her day job as Paul cooked supper, and kissed the top of his head. "How was school?"

"Fine," he stirred the soup, eyeing the bubbles on the surface. Bethy was in charge of toast, and the fifteen-year-old waved and blew a kiss at their mother.

"Make any new friends?" Mom sounded exhausted, and Paul turned to look at her. Her work uniform was clean and unwrinkled as usual, but her face carried far too much weight. She wasn't even thirty yet but right then, looked much older.

Paul managed a small upward twitch of his lips. "Don't need them. I've got all of you, right?"

'Tony, whose responsibility was setting the table, latched himself to Paul's jeans. "An' you like us best, right?"

"Darn right," Paul winked at him and ruffled his kid brother's hair. "You're cuter than any of the kids at school, anyway."

He knew it bothered Mom that he didn't have anyone to hang out with, but Paul wasn't about to change his system now. She kept giving him that pitying look, though, and Paul decided to eat supper; he'd been planning to skip this one.

A week or so later, on the down trip of yet another no-food marathon, Paul stumbled into the washroom and collapsed in front of one of the toilets, shaking. He needed to find another job; like it or not, he was seventeen and his body needed food.

He'd just got himself calmed down when the door swung open and Paul heard two voices; one crying, one placating. He froze in the stall and stood up, backing up against the side.

"I just can't take it anymore," he recognized the person as Michael, and Paul winced. He'd taken to watching the boy lately, and the number of times he was picked on was astonishing. "I didn't do anything to them!"

"I know, Michael, I know. But they're jerks and no one said it made sense," that was Pete, obviously, as he was the only male in school who spoke to Michael without derision. "We're almost done the first semester, though, and that means we're halfway to graduating."

"I'm halfway to never coming back here again," Michael's breath was hitching. He sounded awful when he cried; like he couldn't hold back anything and, with his best friend, knew at least here he didn't have to. "It's not like I'm any sort of threat to them. All I want is for them to leave me alone. I don't even talk to him anymore, I never did after he said not to, and —"

"Hey, hey," Pete's voice was soothing now, and Paul heard clothing rustle. Pete had probably pulled the other into a hug. "It's gonna be all right. They can't touch you while I'm here, okay? And I'm not going anywhere."

Paul's mouth twitched, and, though he fought against it, his eyes prickled. Pete sounded so sure, so strong, like he really would do anything and everything he could to keep all the stupid people away. Michael's sobs eventually abated and his breathing slowed. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Eh, don't start with that again," the taller boy sounded like he was grinning.

"Start with what?"

"The 'Pete the hero' thing. It's nothing anyone with a shred of decency shouldn't do."

Paul thought of all the times he'd turned away and let them taunt Michael, each time he told himself it wasn't his business, and his cheeks burned.

"Yeah, well, thanks anyway," a short pause, then, "I love you."

Paul's eyes widened. Was it true, then? He knew the rumours about Pete and Michael, but as was his custom, ignored them.

"I love you, too. And if we hurry, we can make it back to the caf and finish our food. If you're a good boy, you can have one of my twinkies."

"You're too good to me."

The tears had disappeared from Michael's voice, and Paul wrapped his arms around himself. Was that what it was like to have friends? To have someone hold him the same way he'd hold Mom when things got too much for her? He leaned forward and peered through the crack between door and partition; Pete and Michael stood by the sinks, still embracing, Pete with his cheek resting on the other's tousled red hair. Paul's chest tightened.

"What can I say?" Pete kissed the top of Michael's head, then held him out at arm's length. "You bring out the best in me, jerkface."

And then, Michael did something that took Paul's perception of him and turned it around until it was dizzy and ready to lose his lunch; he smiled. Not the weak, post-crying grateful expression that he had on before; not even the look Paul had seen when Michael and his friends joked around in the halls.

This smile was different. It lit Michael's entire face; made his eyes sparkle and flushed his cheeks. His nose and eyes were red and puffed from tears, but that seemed to disappear. It was like the difference between a normal cloudy day after a rainstorm, and the moment when the sun broke through and shone, picking up the droplets hanging off emerald leaves.

In that moment, Paul discovered that Michael Walker was in love with Pete Martin. And in that same instant, he realized three things: one, he didn't care; two, he had to see that smile again; and three, no matter how selfish and silly it might be, he wanted to cause it himself.

How he was supposed to do that was another matter. Send him secret admirer notes or flowers? Please, that would just fuel more rumours, and if he and Pete were dating, it would just upset him. Paul snorted inwardly and shook his head. Dumb.

The two left, hand in hand, but Paul stayed a few more minutes, splashing cold water on his face and trying to calm himself. It made no sense that one look — and not even at him! — would shake him up like this. Honestly; Paul had six siblings, his mother, and a huge pile of bills to think of, not to mention surviving high school with decent marks.

Paul didn't have crushes; never had. He didn't have time, and had even less to offer a potential boyfriend even if he did. No reason to start now.

The next day, Paul caught himself staring at lunch time, as he bent over his math book and worked through an equation he knew he could do but for whatever reason couldn't work out. It had been a rough morning; Michael's eyes were shadowed and Amanda had her arm around him. One of them said something that tugged the corners of his mouth upward, and Paul looked away quickly.

Michael had a spare while Paul and Pete had English; the brown-haired boy was edgy and kept switching which leg was crossed over which. After the teacher handed out the questions for them to do, Paul made up an excuse about feeling sick and ran to the bathroom.

It was empty, and Paul didn't know whether to be relieved, disappointed, or angry at himself that he was anything but happy. He leaned back against the sink and hopped up onto it, swinging his legs. "Stupid," he hissed, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

And then he realized that someone was sniffling in the farthest stall. Paul froze and slid back to the floor, wondering if he should go for some toilet paper. "Are you okay?" He didn't call out a name in case it wasn't Michael.

"Fine," it was Michael, choked and resigned. "If you want to hit me, someone beat you to it."

Paul couldn't breathe for a few moments, and he rubbed at his chest. "What? I don't, um, I wasn't going to, ah, I mean, no."

"Oh," another sniff, "You can ball me up some toilet paper and toss it over, then."

"Should I get someone?" Paul did so, kneeling down and passing through a wad of tissues. "I don't know, but if someone hit you then —"

"No, thank you," Paul sat down in front of the stall and leaned his back against the wall. "It'll make it worse."

He knew that; every time someone beat him up and Mom threatened to call the principal, Paul had begged her not to because they'd only hurt him more later. "I knew that. Sorry. Do you want some Tylenol? I can get some; it's in my locker."

"I'll be okay."

It was ridiculous; he didn't need to be thinking these things. Not either opening the stall or crawling underneath the door to hold him, tell this boy that he wasn't the only one who'd been bullied like this. Paul was skipping class right now; the teachers would start asking questions. "Anything?"

A sigh, this time, and Paul could practically see the eye-roll through the stall door. "I'd actually just like to sit here until I'm okay to come out again. I don't even know who you are."

"Oh," Paul's chest did something weird; a strange sort of tumbling dance with his stomach, and his fingers tightened on his jeans. Ugh, jeans — he felt so weird wearing them, but that would just be an invitation to disaster. "I'm —"

"Michael, for God's sake, you'd better be in here."

Paul jumped as the door slammed, and he scrambled to his feet. Martin's voice was scary when he was like this, some sort of combination of angry and scared, and Paul couldn't help being paranoid and thinking that Pete assumed Paul had done something wrong.

"Pete? Yeah, I'm here."

Michael was getting to his feet as well, and Paul backed out of the way. Pete rounded the corner. "Michael, I left just to make sure you were okay and you weren't there."

"I'm okay, I just, um, got in a fight, that's all."

"Who was it?"

Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and slunk out of the bathroom; Pete pulled Michael from the stall and pulled him into a hug. Their voices faded as the door shut behind him.

"Are you all right?" Mom asked him that night, as she perched on the edge of his bed and stroked his hair. It was her night off from the pub, and they'd spend the evening watching movies and playing with the little ones. "You've been funny for a few days."

"I'm okay, Mom," Paul mustered up a smile and reached out, patting her knee. "School's been tough, that's all, and I'm tired."

Mom raised an eyebrow at him. "Paul. Sweetheart. I might have been younger than you are now when I had you, but that doesn't make me stupid. Now tell me what's wrong or I'll stew about it for weeks."

He sighed and sat up, scooting over to give her room — not that he had to, as he hit four feet eight inches on a good day — and patting the mattress. "It's just stupid teenage stuff. You know."

"And that translates into 'boy stuff'," Mom slid an arm around him, and Paul made a face. "I don't think I've heard you talk about boys before."

"I haven't," Paul leaned against her, and he couldn't help but think how funny it was that she was holding him for once. But that was nasty of him, and he banished the thought quickly enough.

Mom sighed. "I don't know why you do this to yourself. I know you take care of all of us, honey, but that doesn't mean —"

"There's no boy, Mom."

She pinched him this time, making him yelp. "Here, let's try something new. If you don't want to tell me, just say 'I don't want to tell you, Mom' and I'll leave you alone, but don't lie."

"I don't, really," Paul looked up at her, eyebrows furrowed. "It's dumb. We've only talked once and we yelled at each other," he heard himself get whiny, and it sounded so junior high school girl that Paul grimaced. "And I don't like him anyway, Mama; not like that."

Mom ran her hand up and down his arm, but didn't press him. "I just want to help him, that's all," Paul knew he was pouting, but he couldn't help himself. "He's always sad and people are mean to him but he has a really nice smile and I just want to see it again. And I don't want him to cry anymore."

Mom laughed softly, but it wasn't a mocking one, and Paul just whimpered and buried his face in her shoulder. "Oh, Pauly, you always did have a Messiah complex. You want to save everyone," he shrugged, and Mom kissed his hair. "So you don't like him; you just want to help him stop crying?"

"Yeah," against his will, Paul's bottom lip started doing funny things, and he bit down on it. "I really don't like him," he insisted, and his voice trembled. "I can't."

That last came out almost in a whisper. His mother wrapped both arms around him and held him. "Why not, sweetheart? Is there something wrong with him?"

"I don't even know him. He could be a drug addict, or, or, or . . ."

"Or your father?"

"Oh dear," Paul reached up and tugged at the ends of his hair. "I'm not even thinking that far ahead, Mama. I don't like like him and it's stupid for me even to . . . agh. Not when you and Bethy work so hard and when Tiff's so angry and Jo doesn't know what to do and 'Tony finally doing okay in school and Mitch and Shanna are so little —"

Mom shook her head and bent to kiss his forehead. "Pauly, hon, you don't have to do that. We're doing better; all of us, and no one would begrudge you anything at all. Not after everything you've sacrificed."

"No," he pursed his lips. "It doesn't matter. He has a boyfriend anyway."

"I'm sorry, sweetie."

Paul just shrugged and let her hold him. That next week, Michael Walker attempted suicide for the second time, and the news spread around school quicker than the latest break-up gossip.

It took a few days before Paul worked up the courage to go; he stayed away long enough to be certain that Michael wasn't coming back to school any time soon. Other kids came to, well, not pay their respects because that was what one did at funerals, but something like that. Eventually, Paul couldn't stand it anymore. He told Mom what had happened and she drove him to the hospital herself on her way to work.

Paul yanked on his ponytail, hovering outside the door of the room. Why was he there? What could he even say? Tell Michael's unconscious body that he had a crush on him for no reason at all, that he'd wanted to help him but had been to scared, and that he'd been the one who'd said those cruel things to him that day? That he wasn't even sure why he'd shown up because no one could possibly want him, a girly boy who felt strange in pants and who had more siblings than most people had cousins?

Besides, Pete was there, sitting at the bedside and looking terrible, and he probably wanted to be alone. But as much as Paul convinced himself he shouldn't, he found himself opening the door and stepping into the room anyway.