Chapter Text
The first time callum went to the beach, he was two. His mum had taken him and they both had clambered onto an overpacked train, heading away from Canning Town, the scenery blurring through the windows. It was before he had been corrupted by his fathers poison and it was before she ran away, leaving him behind. She had worn red. He remembers that, confirmation coming from the three or so pictures lying around in a box somewhere. Probably with Stu. Callum had burnt that day, his pointy ears red at the tips, but more noticeably, his feet against the hot sand had hurt, the uncomfortable scratch of it between his toes. That’s when it started, the negative connotation he had of both sand and the colour red.
He didn’t like to see the colour on anyone else, apart from one. The colour now tainted by a heavy blanket of grey and hidden memories best kept unearthed.
Ben wore red a lot. He liked it on him.
::
They fade, that’s the thing with memories, there is that tendency to forget what actually happened and replace it with a desired fantasy. A version, perhaps, that should have happened, could have happened, had something been done differently. Had someone made the correct choice that was so simple to recognise with the aid of hindsight.
Callum would think about this often, especially at night, that was when time seemed in abundance, as he looked up at the industrial roof of the barracks. A place he had come home from once, a place where he had left and consequently found the meaning of his existence. The one.
It seemed two years of his life had been swallowed up, that nothing had changed because here he was, under this roof, scratchy uniform leaving scuffs on his ankles and wrists. The only thing left was his memories, memories that threatened to dwindle, to fray so severely until they snapped completely in half, untraceable and shattered forever. Callum held onto what he could remember with a vice-like grip, scared that one day he'd loose them amongst the rubble that crumbled around him. Suffocating and suffocating him.
It was a good distraction, the army. The strict regime helped, he needed that structure to his day, now that he was missing what his life had orbited around for 2 years. The concept of the army wasn’t as scary anymore, he didn’t wake up fearing what the day had to offer as he no longer had anything to come home for, no reason so survive.
The sand was something he struggled with, sometimes he would crouch down and stroke a small pearl of it between thumb and index finger. Him and Ben liked the beach, they would bundle themselves in a car they had burrowed from the car lot, with it without Jay’s permission. Lexi, little Lexi, would always pack a swimming costume whether it was the middle of December or end of August.
:::
There was a sandcastle, him and Lexi had been working on it for a multitude of hours, making sure every wall was straight, every curve smoothed and rounded. They were just working on the moat - essential for any sandcastle worth mentioning - when Ben came running in, stomping his size eight feet on each turret and both myself and Lexi looked at the scene in motion, horror evident upon or greasy sun creamed faces.
He laughed, and Callum realised he couldn’t remember exactly how it sounded like now, instead he could only see his mouth forming a giggle as he bent over, hand on his bare stomach. Callum looked over at Lexi, who gave him a nod. He stood up from his crouching position, taking his time on purpose, achieving a control of his movements that he couldn't manage now.
“Alright? Need a hand old man?”
Callum smirked, stole one last look of confirmation from the blonde haired girl sat down next to the destroyed castle. He approached Ben, who was looking at him challengingly. Challenge accepted. Bending down he hooked his arms around ben’s legs, flinging him fluidly over his shoulder and began leading him to the July tempered ocean.
“CALLUM! Babe put me down! Not fuc-“ noticing Lexi was watching in amusement he groaned and corrected himself, “please, I’m sorry-“
It was too late though, Callum was already dunking him in the ocean, Ben’s squeal making him laugh so hard he let go of his guard, allowing himself to be dragged down by a strong arm.
Lexi had joined them minutes afterwards, and Callum had wrapped his arms around his small family unit. His perfect family unit. They floated in the water for what seemed like forever, only Callum’s toes touching the bottom, keeping both of his loves safe.
:::
The sand represented war now, a battlefield. Before, before Ben, the sand had never had an alternative meaning apart from pain and fear, Ben had taught him that wasn’t the only way to look at the world. It was strange, the grit in his hand now had to return to its original meaning, he had to forget what he had learned, because remembering that meant remembering what he had lost. What wasn't there anymore.
Sleeping hadn’t been the same since, it was loud now, something it hadn’t been in Ben’s bed. Looking to his left, a man lay in another single bed, a man he hadn’t bothered to learn his name, on his right it was the same. And in front of him, and behind. He was surrounded by people, his bed situated right in the middle, but he felt lonely. Chris wasn’t here this time, the one companion he had in previous tours, he was dead, so how could Callum allow him to get to know a person, when a person is so temporary?
People don’t stick around, things change, things go wrong, people have to move on.
The rest of the troops had picture frames and bits and pieces from home, Callum had nothing. There was nothing he wanted to take with him, as he had to leave behind the only things that had ever held any worth to him.
:::
He woke up one day, the sun bright and harsh against his once closed eyes. His brain told him to lift his hand, lift it over your fucking face you idiot. It was bright, he needed shade. But his eyes remained unsheltered, the sun piercing and printing a colourful mosaic on his vision. It took a while, too long, for him to notice he wasn’t in his bed, but lay in the sand, and he was back there, that day in July with his family. Except he wasn’t, and he couldn’t move his hands. He needed to wipe the sand from his eyes, he needed to stand up.
And then, by some mercy, it wasn’t so bright any more, the sky above him turned grey. And that had been a relief, because it had been too bright, too fucking bright.
But his eyes were still burning, and his throat began to scratch uncomfortably. Finally he realised, it was smoke that had taken away the light, the light had been a fire. And Callum was injured.
He’d been here before, that was the first thing that came to mind. He knew that it was the after that was the most difficult, the nightmares and the scarring. Both physical and mentally. He would wake up, hearing the screams and he would comfort him, the man he shared his bed with, lull him back to sleep with a small hand in his hair. This time, there wouldn’t be that, there wouldn’t be the comfort afterwards. Just the pain and the dreams. No one to kiss him awake and tell him to breathe, count with him on every inhale and exhale. He’d have to do it on his own.
So he closed his eyes. Because what did he have to fight for anymore? Why should he stay awake? Callum was on his own, just like before.
He closed them, and went to sleep.
:::
“You’re going home, Highway, you can go home.”
His head fell back against the pillow, a distinct smell of sterilisation stinging his nostrils. A nurse unplugged him from the heart monitor after taking his blood pressure for the last time. He looked down at his bandaged torso and scarred right hand and inhaled deeply.
Callum felt guilty for being so disappointed he had survived, when other men and women hadn’t that day, they had been left on the sand, remembered by a cross and a memorial. Callum had been lucky, he had been told multiple times. But he didn’t feel lucky, not when his soul had died over a year ago and he had just been waiting for his body to catch up.
Now he was just left with more injuries, more wounds to hide and deal with. He was a broken man, just like the skin of his palm and fingers and only one person could ever put him back together again. But not this time, Ben wouldn’t be there this time, Callum wasn’t his responsibility anymore, nor was Ben his.
He’d failed, he’d tried again, and he was being sent home. Home to be crowned as a hero by his brother, when he was nothing but, because he didn’t fight out on the sand that day, he just closed his eyes.
Callum is a coward. He should have died a coward, not saved and be given another chance. Because what use is another chance when you already fucked your second? He’s been here before, dispatched on medical grounds, and he found Ben. That was his second chance. He doesn’t deserve a third.
And now he was being sent home, to a home that no longer existed. A home he had left 423 days ago.
A home he had ran from, leaving only a note behind.
::
He felt trapped from the moment he had left base, but especially now, sat in the taxi which had picked him up from Heathrow. It was inevitable what was happening, he was being sent back to Walford, it was the only address they could send him. His only home now was with his brother, whom he hadn’t even told about his coming home, a home that just happened to be around the corner from what could have been his real home.
The thought had crossed his mind, to stop the taxi and find a hostel to stay in, after that the plan was blurry and Callum was still on so many meds his head hurt to even try to sit and strategise.
He did have questions though, all surrounding the same thing, same someone. They always did.
Would Ben still be here? Had he moved away? Lexi, would she have grown? Catching up with her dad in height? And what about Phil?
The last question did nothing to calm him down, instead fueled his already apparent anxiety until it was like a wild fire, spreading up the walls of the cab, burning the already fire scathed skin of his hand. It was like he could taste the smoke again, and Callum just wanted to close his eyes.
The scenery was familiar now, and soon he would have to leave the confinement’s of the black vehicle and walk across the square.
He wanted to be back on the sand, eyes closing while fire lit up the sky, illuminating the space above like the fireworks at his their engagement.
Callum closed his eyes, pulling the sharp edged sleeve of his uniform over the cracked skin of his palm, it hurt, but not in a way that Callum didn’t deserve. He had began to seize up, his wounded torso ironically on fire from having been sat uncomfortably too long in both plane and cab.
He felt the vehicle begin to slow under the soles of his boot, and he made his decision then. He would hide.
Hide away from his mistakes, away from the family he had lost, and away from the Callum there was before. Callum hadn’t looked in a mirror for 17 days now, but he didn’t need a mirror to understand that he didn’t remember how to smile anymore, and he wasn’t convinced he wanted to learn.
The car stopped
The cab driver spoke, but he only caught bits, something about the army paying for the fare. Callum gave the woman a nod, he hadn’t spoken to her the whole journey, and saw little point in doing so now. He was worried that he wouldn’t recognise his voice if he did. Speech was a thing he had stopped doing a while ago, unless completely necessary. If he didn’t speak, he couldn’t fuck anything up.
There was an offer of carrying his bags, but Callum simply shook his head as he pushed to climb out of the car, his bandages squeezing against his ribs. He doesn’t remember getting his bags out of the boot, but it must have happened, as he now stood alone in the centre of the square, bag over his good shoulder, hoping to achieve what he used to be so good at.
Invisibility.
He was quite literally wearing camouflage after all.