Chapter Text
Callum can still remember the first time he met Ben. Sort of. In a fuzzy, distant way, because he was seventeen and so unsure of the world. It was a Saturday, and that morning, at five a.m to be exact, he’d been dragged out of his bed by his dad, and marched to a football camp, because no son of a Highway was going to be anything but a world class footballer; a man’s game for a man’s family.
The first thing Callum notes, as their car pulls into a handcrafted space, is the lake. He’s half tempted to run down to the bank and fall headfirst into the water, just to see what patterns he could make. There’s a tiny little dock, the small pier there stretching old and frayed out into the murky water, a little boat tied up close, and further along the bank is miles and miles of football pitches. White lines drawn out neat and fresh, goal posts that stretch further than Callum could ever imagine.
There are two sleek Range Rovers parked in the shade already, and the suffocating silence of his dad’s rattling old car is suddenly shattered, like a stray finger dipping into the lake water, as Jonno shoves open the driver-side door. Music can be heard coming from around the camp, warm bubbles of laughter through the windows, and somewhere close, through the cracks in the trees, Callum makes out a flash of movement as he too, cautiously, opens his door and peers out into their surroundings.
“You fucking dick!”
A shrill scream of laughter, another round of cackling, the pines behind them shuddering and sweeping as they part, two figures breaking from the tree line with damp hair and sodden clothes, an old water pistol wrapped tight in the hands of a boy, a girl running from him with her hair dripping wet on her sunburnt shoulders. Their eyes are bright, legs coated in stray pine needles. Callum barely gets a look at their faces, ducking instinctively behind his door as they sprint past and round the corner of the house, out of sight.
“Phil and his brood are here already, then,” Jonno says, mouth in a thin line as he pops open the car boot.
“Everyone is here, dad,” Callum says. “We’re late.”
“Well if someone hadn’t been so caught up finding those daft photographs and—”
Mum. Photographs of mum.
Callum ignores him, then, chooses to lose himself in the distant sound of echoed laughter and stumbling feet. His dad hands him the duffle bag, his arms are weighed down, and they shuffle towards the lodge Callum’s been assigned, still touched with morning gold.
Inside, things are small and cramped, liminal, everything tinted in white and beige; the ensuite and the rickety dining table and the tiny kitchen island and the two beds shoved against each wall. Dumbfounded, Callum stands in the entry way for a moment with his arms full.
Suddenly, there’s people at his door. Coaching staff. Players. Kids and their overzealous parents. People Callum has never met in his life ruffle his hair and pat his back, as they speak down to him — oh, we’ve heard so much about you and a star in the making and how long until you’re following in your father’s footsteps? — the whole affair was overwhelming from it’s very beginning. Inside the air is stuffy, too hot with the way the sun is coming in, pushing through the windows and turning it full of spun dust.
Once they’ve disappeared, Jonno leaves Callum with a tough pat on the pack and whispers, make me proud, son in his ear, the it’s about time, goes unsaid. Callum drops his bag on the bed by the window and sighs.
Proud. Proud. Proud.
Not even a second later, the door bursts open and he jumps out of his skin.
“Oh. Hi? Sorry.” The boy there stands frozen, frowning. He seems to assess Callum, eyes flicking over his face, the bag on the bed, the window. “I already bagged the window bed.”
Soft face and soft hair, wet, some of it clinging in small curls to his cheeks, and he’s a little pink, no shirt, just wet shorts and dirty feet and Callum feels something physically clench in his chest, this hot-sharp flush ricocheting up into his cheeks as he stands there, still frozen, now more mortified than before. The boy is still just staring at him, kind of lazy, and Callum notices that there’s an old, yellowed book on the bedside table, a few trophies and a photo frame, too. “Right,” he stammers. “Sorry. I, uh—I didn’t know.”
“My stuff’s literally right there,’ the boy says, gesturing with a shove of his palm.
“Yeah, I—” Callum shrugs helplessly. He feels sweaty and stupid all of the sudden, crawling out of his skin. “I didn’t see, really. I’m sorry—”
“I’m just messing with ya,” the boy says, and suddenly there’s a smile there, like flipping a coin and finding that the other side has been polished, slicked and cool to the touch. Easy and laid back, the boy struts through the room and flops onto the window bed, hands behind his head and smile placid and too-cool, dirty feet messing the sheets. “But seriously, this one’s mine.”
Callum nods awkwardly and heaves his bag up, letting it fall loudly onto the other bed. Behind him, he hears movement, and when he glances over his shoulder, sure he’s still embarrassingly beet-red, the boy has shifted onto his side, chin in palm.
“You’re Callum, right?” he says, cupped palm turning now into an accusatory point of a finger, a circular wiggle as his eyes form into slits, smile still there. “Mick told me all about you.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.” The boy’s smile widens. Callum can’t tell if it’s malicious or kind. “Little prodigy, and all that crap.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Callum diverts. He crosses his arms over his turning stomach; still, he stands almost in the centre of the room, and with the boy lounging on the bed he feels like he’s being assessed, like there are hands about to tighten his tie. “Sorry. Uh—what’s your name?”
“It’s Ben. Ben Mitchell?” the boy says, head dipping like duh? Don’t you already know?
Of course. Mitchell.
Callum scratches awkwardly at the hair behind his ear, one arm still tucked close to his chest. It’s a weird, fidgeting movement, something he always does when he’s nervous, caught-out. He feels ambushed, almost, as if the universe has dropped Ben here as a test.
So far, Callum’s failing, if the slithering, calm smile flushed cooly over Ben’s features is anything to go by.
“You’re Phil’s son?” Callum says, then, chest puffing out. Mitchell’s and Highway’s. Highway’s and Mitchell’s. They don’t get along, nor on or off the pitch. Everyone knows that.
“Not a problem, is it?”
“No, course not,” Callum shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed. They’re level now. “I ain’t like my dad.”
“So?”
“Just saying.”
“Just saying, were you.”
“Yeah.”
They stare at each other, and Callum can feel himself starting to come back now, senses clearing. There’s still a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, though, something curling in his stomach as he watches Ben assess him, eyes trailing from head to toe, every inch.
“Me neither,” Ben says. Softer now.
“Hm?” Callum questions, lost in his head.
“I ain’t owt like Phil,” Ben says, shaking his head firm. “Well, except for the fact I’m a top baller, obviously.”
Callum nods. “Obviously.”
“So…” Ben drawls, big grin back on his face in a blink. “Looks like we’re roomies then, roomie.”
“Brilliant observation,” Callum says, trying to match Ben’s lightheartedness. “Though I would have preferred to be by myself.”
Ben’s mouth quirks. “You can sleep out on the grass, if you really want. I won’t stop you.”
“No, this is fine,” Callum smiles tightly. “Definitely fine.”
The door opens again then, this time Mick pops his head in with a bright smile.
“How are you getting on, lads?”
“Great,” Ben chirps, laying it on thick as he reclines further. “Swimmingly, some would say.”
Callum stares at him, the way his chin tilts as he smirks, pink lips and unruly hair. That crawling feeling returns. He scratches at the back of his ear again.
“It’s fine, Mick,” he says, edged with a brush of embarrassment at her coddling. “We’re good.”
“Alright, alright.” Mick pulls back his hands, as if to surrender. “I know where I’m not wanted. You kids have fun. There’s dinner in the hall when you’re ready, El’s got the sausage surprise going.”
“Mick,” Callum says shortly, quiet, cheeks heating. “We’re ain’t kids.”
The door closes behind him, a jovial bye ! muffled by the thick wood, and Callum runs a hand down the side of his face.
“Sausage surprise?”
Callum glares, hand still stuck to his cheek as he meets Ben’s eye reluctantly. Crossed ankles tapping lightly together, head lolling onto his shoulder, Ben is the very picture of comfortability, calmness, a kid with the world at the tips of his fingers.
“Don’t ask,” he says tonelessly, and turns away.
“Again!”
Callum groans softly, rubbing at his temples as he goes back to the penalty spot at the other side of the pitch, of the staircase. Across the pitch, Ben gives him a sympathetic smile from where he’s reclined on the bench. The rest of the team glare. This is Callum’s fourth attempt at the penalty, and everyone is getting restless now.
“Highway,” Martin, today’s chosen reefer, announces. “You know the ball can’t hit both your feet on the way in. It’s pretty simple.”
“Got it,” Callum calls back tersely. He keeps fucking it up and his voice is shaky from the nerves and he’s slipped on the grass every time. He’s overly aware of all the eyes on him from the sideline, and for a moment, he feels as though he’s playing for his country, out in front of thousands of people—not in some isolated training camp in France. He’s practiced this so much and he doesn’t understand why he can’t get it right, now.
Ben gets his attention from the bench. He whistles and winks his way; doing nothing to quell his nerves, rather Ben’s attention amplified them. It’s sending Martin slightly mad, though. Huffing a soft laugh, Callum readies himself for the fifth attempt.
“Let’s go, Highway!” Jay calls from the bench beside Ben, a few resounding woops of encouragement echoing from the test of the lads. Callum flushes and mouths a silent thank you.
They get through the training session eventually, penalties perfected, when Mick calls time, flopping dramatically back into his seat and waving them off to go on a drink and an afternoon of recovery. Callum rushes back to the changing room before he makes his way down to the lake. He doesn’t cry, but his chest feels heavy and he’s just a little overwhelmed with everything, with this new tentativeness he’s found with Ben, and the overwhelming pressure to make his dad proud, and the fact that he knows he’s never going to be able to live up to his standards; football superstar or not.
“Hey, roomie!”
Callum rolls his eyes and continues walking. Day three. He’s sunburnt, irritated, under-eyes all hollowed out and sore from another sleepless night, and Ben got another three goals past him in today’s training session. He doesn’t quite have the emotional stamina to deal with anyone but himself right now.
“Roomie,”Ben calls again, catching up to Callum with a puff of breath. He’s all smiles, nudging Callum’s shoulder and almost tripping him up in his exhilaration. “What’re you doing?”
“Walking,” Callum says listlessly. “I thought that was fairly obvious.”
“Ha-Ha,” Ben sounds out, features simpering into that collected coolness he carries so well. Dappled sunlight filters down over them weakly, leaving Callum’s skin kissed gold. “Aren’t you so clever?”
“You’re the one who knows so much about me,” Callum says, lifting a brow. Maybe it’s his late evening terseness that’s allowing him to be so waspish, but he doesn’t miss the falter of Ben’s features as he lets the words go. “Maybe you can be the judge of that.”
“Oh, I’ve already taken care of it,” Ben continues, he walks ahead of Callum now, walks backwards to keep their eyes held together. “Consider yourself thoroughly judged.”
Callum can’t help the way his skin prickles, not when Ben looks him up and down, all exaggeration, followed by that wide, cheshire grin.
“I just needed to clear my head,” Callum mutters, open and honest for the first time in so long. Achingly long. “The lakes are a good spot to do that.”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” Ben breathes. “The world seems a lot nicer from up here, doesn’t it?”
“I like the quiet,” Callum agrees. Sighing, he lowers himself onto the pier, strips his shoes off and let’s his feet fall into the cool water.
Ben turns and follows suit.
As he lowers himself to the ground beside Callum, Ben catches his shoulder gently. Callum looks down at the delicate fingers wrapped around his arm, and then back up to Ben’s face. It seems within a split second, his heart rate has doubled. “Don’t let Fowler get to you, yeah? He’s an arse. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks,” Callum breathes, sure he’s gone embarrassingly pink. He doesn’t want Ben to pity him, but this doesn’t feel like pity. It just seems like genuine concern. Which, in hindsight, could almost be worse. “I’ll, um. I’m gonna go to the lodge.”
“Hey, Callum?”
Callum looks over his shoulder. Ben has his lips bitten into his mouth curiously, eyes trained on his.
“You should train with me and Jay in the mornings,” he says, pushing hair back off his face. “Consider this a formal invitation.”
“Cheers, but—,” Callum starts, insecurities rearing their ugly heads. “I wouldn’t want to drag you guys down.”
“Drag us down?” Ben questions, eyes softer than Callum needs them to be. “Why would you—”
“You’re miles above me, you and Jay,” Callum says, catching Ben’s eyes with a sad, half smile, before turning back to the rippling water. “I ain’t even sure what I’m doing at this bloody camp, really.”
“You’re here because you have talent, Callum,” Ben says, shrugging, as if it’s as simple as that. Callum feels like he has whiplash. Callum seems to mould himself to every tone, every timbre of their conversation, changing his posture, his voice, his energy, a this way-that way swing of emotion that leaves Callum’s head spinning. Now, their shoulders brushing as they kick at the water, things feel suddenly heavy. “We’re born stars, you and I. I can tell.”
Callum slowly stops kicking, struck by Ben’s words, and then by the look Ben casts back his way, the gentle expression he gives Callum over his shoulder slowly invaded by a smirk.
“So,” Ben says brightly. “What do you say?”
Callum just huffs a laugh and stands from the pier.
He does train with Jay and Ben the next morning. And it’s much more enjoyable than he’d ever admit.
The afternoon is drowsy, the sun a yolk, so bright that it’s surroundings, as his eyes water, go misty white instead of blue. There’s already an ache forming at his lower back, from the old wood on the pier digging into his ribs, but he couldn’t stand being shut up in that tiny lodge after another tough training session, so, as it stands, he’s lathered in sunscreen, dressed still in his football shirt and shorts, reclining under the heat of the sun.
Beside him, Jay is flushing a steady pink, and on his other side, Ben is stretched out on his back with his shirt covering his face, feet flat to the old wood, damp hair going absolutely wild from the lake water.
Jay has hooked his phone up to the shitty portable speaker they found after rummaging through Mick’s cupboards.
“Am I burning?” Jay asks, rolling onto his front as he tries to look at his shoulders, over along the backs of his arms. “I feel like I’m burning?”
“Like a lobster, mate,” Ben says, lazy, his entire face still covered by his shirt.
Jay brings his fist down into his arm.
“Prick!” he shouts, half a cough as he sits up. The shirt falls from his face, now entirely flushed pink, shaded red along his cheeks. There’s a smile on his face, though, pure amusement as Jay sits up and squirts an alarming amount of sunscreen into his palm.
As he’s busy applying the sunscreen, Jay’s phone buzzes. Ben, hands free of slippery sunscreen, lunges for it, shit-eating grin only growing as Jay whirls.
“Give that back!”
“Ooh, who’s Frankie?”
“I swear to God,” Jay warns, tight-curled fist smacking repeatedly into Ben’s arm as he tries to squirm away. “I’ll drown you in this lake.”
“Can’t wait to see you tonight,” Ben reads, in a deep, overly put on French accent. “You’re so—”
“Ben!” Jay screams, snatching the phone back and kicking him in the ribs, their towels tangled up between their bodies. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”
“Wait. Frankie… ain’t she Mick’s daughter?” Ben says, reclined back on his palms now. He looks the very way he did the first time Callum met him, giddy, sure of himself, all cool. “Does he know you’re wooing his daughter? Should I tell him?”
“No, he doesn’t know,” Jay says, glaring warningly. “And it’s going to stay that way, right?”
“Right,” Ben drawls out. Jay kicks him again.
“I’m serious,” Jay says. “Don’t even try it. I’ve got enough shit on you to have you out on your ass so quick.”
“I’d love to see that,” Ben laughs gleefully, lowering onto his stomach, head resting atop laced fingers angelically.
“Oh?” Jay raises a brow. “So Mick knows about Johnny—”
Ben’s face sobers immediately. “That ain’t funny.”
“Yeah, well,” Jay says. “Neither is this. So keep your mouth shut, alright?”
Callum isn’t quite sure if they’re still joking around with each other. He has a brother, we’ll—he has Stuart, but there’s a big age difference and they’ve never been close, at least, not like this. He doesn’t quite have a read on Ben and Jay yet. Across the rippled wood, Ben meets his eye briefly, almost to check if Callum’s already watching back. Ben is all flushed in a different way now, right down along his neck.
“What about you, Callum?” Jay asks. “Special girl back home?”
Ben rolls his eyes and turns onto his back, face hidden by his shirt again, but not before Callum sees his expression shift, jaw clenching up, eyes misty where the sun hits.
“Uh,” Callum says, feeling flushed himself, because there isn’t. There isn’t and there never will be. He’s kissed a few girls, sure, and there was that incredibly awkward blowjob that some girl called Crystal gave him in a closet — ironic — during some stupid card game they played at an end of year party, but that never turned into anything. Mostly, Callum just felt embarrassed by the entire situation. And then, then there’s been Chris, but that’s not something he’s willing to delve into now, or ever. “No.”
“Now, I don’t believe that for one second,” Jay says, and Ben groans, loudly. “Good looking lad like you.”
“Jay,” Ben snaps. “Shut up.”
They bicker, short, sharp little insults, and Callum watches on in mild concern, afternoon coming to a close.
Later, over dinner, Ben and Callum keep staring at each other, stealing glances, Ben raising a curious brow as he chews. He’s facing the windows and every time Callum looks up, he’s bathed in a new aura, some other tone of deep red, a brand new, burning gold, like the light is seeking him out. Freckles have broken out along the bridge of his nose, all moony eyes, sun-cracked lips.
Callum’s neck prickles.
Something shifts.
The nights spent by the open camp fire, once stoically quiet, now filter through soft murmurs of conversation. Callum thinks back to the first night, the stilled silences and forced questions, only whispering back and forth once the stars were out, words falling from their mouths only because the night had finally made them lax enough to do so. But now, sitting side by side on the grass, their feet kicked out in front of them, Callum almost forgets to take a breath.
“Hey,” he says, tapping Ben’s forearm with his finger softly. Ben glances towards him. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“What?” Ben laughs, brows coming together.
“Your favourite colour,” Callum says again. “I feel like—I feel like I’m starting to get to know you, but at the same time, I don’t.”
“And knowing my favourite colour is going to unlock all the mysteries of the universe, is it?” Ben teases.
“No,” Callum laughs, nervous suddenly. “Just answer the question.”
“Fine, fine,” Ben sighs, put-on, biting his lip and looking back up to the sky. “Blue, I guess. Yeah, blue.”
“That’s all you’re gonna give me?” Callum says. Ben glares. “What’s your favourite shade blue?”
“Chelsea blue, obviously,” Ben shifts his fingers through his hair. “And the lake, in the morning. When the sun’s hitting it, and even out deep it looks like you could see through to the bottom. That, I guess. What’s yours?”
“Yellow, I think,” Callum answers. “Sunsets and sunrises, all those yellows, burnt and bright. Reminds me of, like, a new day, new beginnings.”
“Siblings?” Callum continues with his onslaught of questions, hoping he’s not pushing too much.
“Three. I think.”
“Wow,” Callum says. “You think? I’ve just got Stuart.”
“It’s complicated.”
“What do you do in your spare time?”
“You already know that,” Ben says. “Play football, eat, watch football, hang out with Jay, talk about football. Annoy you.”
Ben watches him carefully, eyes knowing, and Callum leans closer. “And you?”
“I write, sometimes,” Callum says. “Poems, mostly.”
“Really?” Ben says softly, inclining his head.
“Yeah,” Callum twists his fingers together. “I don’t tell a lot of people that.”
“Oh,” Ben blinks. “Why not?”
Callum shrugs. His heart knocks against his ribcage, it feels huge, larger than life, sharing his side of himself with someone new. “I don’t know. It’s a sort of, like, private thing I do for myself, now.”
“I had no idea,” Ben murmurs. “You should show me sometime, if you want.”
“Maybe,” Callum says. But what’s thinks is, no, I can’t show you that part of my heart, is too deep, too scarred, too much.
The next morning, Callum wakes first, tucks his arms over his stomach as he slowly sits up and glances over at Ben’s bed. They left the curtain open, morning sun wilting through the window, pastel of it’s petals only just lilting over and brushing the edges of Ben’s slack face. There’s a crease in his cheek. At the end of the bed, his feet poke out from the sheets.
“You’re staring,” Ben says, sleep-thick, lashes long and spindly as he blinks his eyes open, always so upfront when he wants to be, but beneath the exterior, there’s the flutter of his chest, the shaky expanding of his fragile ribs.
“I thought you were sleeping,” Callum admits, feeling desperately young and found. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s alright,” Ben says, just as soft, bottom lip wet. “You ain’t got to stop.”
“Okay,” Callum says. He isn’t sure if either of them know what they’re agreeing to. It feels like something shifted between them, something dangerous and new. It must be almost five in the morning now. Maybe, come daylight, none of this will matter at all. “I won’t.”
And then Ben smiles, soft edged, like he’s reaching out and pressing his hand over Callum’s heart just with a look.
“Good to know.”
“You’re also writing,” Ben says then, edged rough from sleep. Callum flinches as he looks over, feeling caution out, fingers poised over the pen.
“You’re awake,” he says back. Ben slides further down into the sheets.
They’re silent for a moment, and then Ben bites down on what might be a smile as he looks away, the stilted flick of pages filling the space between them again.
“What are you writing?” Ben pushes.
“A poem,” Callum says, glancing over again, smiling when Ben rolls his eyes lightly and presses his forehead into his arm, hiding away.
“About what?”
“Nothing,” Callum answers, flushing cheeks. “Nothing at all.”
“Don’t be annoying,” Ben says.
“I’m not,” Callum scrunches his nose at him. “This is top secret.”
“Oh, come on,” Ben pouts, bats his eyelashes. “Just give me one line.”
“Nope,” Callum says flatly, bringing his pen back to paper. He does nothing but draw an aimless spiral in the corner of his page.
“Please,” Ben asks, quiet, soft. Breathy. Callum glances up at him, at the coy sharpness of his eyes.
Mostly, he doesn’t want to share because this poem is about Ben, kind of. Definitely.
“Um,” Calum says, fiddling with his page. He tears the corner off accidentally, rolls it into a tiny ball. “Okay.”
He holds the book towards Ben because the thought of saying it makes him feel like he’s turning inside out. Ben takes it with gentle fingers, elbows on his knees, and Callum pictures him sitting on a balcony like that, afternoon light wrapped around the delicate bones of his wrist. His eyes flicker over the words again and again, over the messy loops of Callum’s writing.
moonlight reflects your face in the lake,
you feel like the only one
i wasn’t even looking when,
i found you
He prays the other lines aren’t legible, that he did well enough to cover them over, the shaky slant of don’t be another almost, you can’t be another unspoken love.
“Wow,” Ben says softly, meets Callum’s eyes over the cracked cover. “That’s great, Callum.”
“Thanks,” Callum says, just as soft, because if he talks any louder his voice is going to do something stupid.
Ben hands the notebook back over slowly. “You should write a poem about me,” he says, grinning.
“You think so?” Callum says, smiling through the painful irony of his life, through the tidal wave of heat and panic that’s roaring through his ears, heart doing something strange and violent in his chest. If Ben turns the pages back, he’ll find hundreds of words there, all for him.
“Absolutely,” Ben nods, then lays himself back on the counter dramatically, a hand over his forehead. “Wax poetic about my cheekbones and my ocean-blue eyes.”
Callum bursts into laughter, legs folding down as he shakes his head, the two of them laughing together, free. “Sounds like a hit.”
“Obviously,” Ben says. “And you’ve got to fit my dashing smile in there somewhere.”
“Obviously,” Callum echoes. He’s all hunched over in his chair, back aching, but he’s not going to move, not when he gets to be this close, the warmth of Ben’s boy so close.
“Don’t my unbelievable football skills,” Ben flutters his eyelashes rapidly, going cross eyed.
“You’re full of yourself,” Callum laughs.
“You can write a poem about that, too,” Ben says, smiling down at him.
Mick comes back in, then, whistling along to Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, and Callum pulls away slowly, clears his throat and slips his notebook closed.
“You two going to shift it, or just sitting ‘ere all day?” Mick sighs, but he hooks his arms around the back of Callum’s neck and tugs him into his chest, Callum’s legs kicking out awkwardly.
“Callum’s writing me a poem,” Ben says. The look Mick shoots Callum’s way makes him want to bury himself in a hole.
“Cute,” Mick chirps. “I’d rather he be assisting you some goals, though.”
Homesickness is something Callum doesn’t feel often. He doesn’t know if he’s ever actually felt it. Normally, on sleepless nights, even when he’s in his own bed, he doesn’t feel like he’s home. He stares at the ceiling and presses a hand to that spot in his chest, that missing, undiscovered, part of himself, almost numbly. At his temples, sweat beads, light flickers again.
“Hey,” Ben says softly, strangely distant. “Are you alright?”
Part of Callum hates this bluntness. Another part of him, a far smaller, complex part of him, almost spills his guts out onto the sheets at the very question.
“Yeah,” he lies, head lolling onto his shoulder. Ben is already facing him, the book is his hand now flat to the sheets. “Just tired. Thinking.”
“Sure,” Ben says. Callum hears him run his finger down the spine of his book. Something wet swells at the back of Callum’s eyes.
“What are things like for you at home?” Callum says, then, borrowing Ben’s bluntness as he looks over again. “Do you even think of it like that?”
Over the weeks, Callum has learnt all these little things about Ben. He knows his favourite colour is blue, he knows he doesn’t have a favourite album or song because he can’t choose, Harry Redknapped has been to his house for a Sunday Roast, and he likes to dance more than he lets on.
But they’re just little things, just these tiny pieces of information, and Callum begins to realise that as much as he’s learning about Ben now, he doesn’t know anything about his past. Not really. There’s a whole eighteen years that Callum really has no idea about.
He has no idea what, or who, made Ben who he is now, and even though he has no right to pry, no right to know, he can’t help but wonder when Ben will suddenly go quiet, suddenly shut down just for a moment, before he comes back to himself.
“As a home?” Ben questions, and Callum nods, eyes hot. Ben scratches at his jaw, shrugs. “I dunno. Sometimes it’s good. Jay makes it bearable. I don’t have many friends, though.”
This, to Callum, is a surprise, both the remark and the vulnerability that’s starting to shadow across Ben’s face as he draws his finger back up the margin. He’s Phil Mitchell’s son, Callum imagines he has more friends than Callum’s had hot meals.
“You don’t?” Callum says softly.
“Not real ones, anyway,” Ben says, offhand.
Callum understands, though. He has his brother, thank God he does, and he had Chris, but even still, he craves that connection with someone; a friend who knows him, knows him and still loves him. The people from his college feel like caricatures of real life, like each day he walks through the halls he’s walking through the set of a soapy–drama, all bright lights and fake smiles.
“I get it.”
“To be honest, I sort of hate everything about it,” Ben says. “Home. I always feel selfish when I think that, but I do. I have everything other people can only dream of, right? But living up to those expectations, it’s exhausting.”
“Your dad? You’re doing all of this—the football, because of him?”
“For him,” Ben corrects, more bitter than Callum expected. Bensits up, then, slow, rubs at his eyes tiredly. “But I’m sure you understand all that, what being the son of a footballing legend, too. I just—I love football, I do. But I wish I’d had the chance to figure that out for myself, y’know? Instead of being forced into it. I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t. I understand,” Callum says, eyes tired. “My dad’s the same. Whatever he says, goes.”
“It’s such bullshit,” Ben laughs under his breath.
“What would you do, then, if not football?” Callum continues, curling onto his side, that hollow feeling spreading down to his stomach. “Rugby?”
“Fuck, no,” Ben says, smile lopsided, sweet. “I can’t think of owt worse. Dancing. Broadway, I think. Tap, ballet; the complete opposite of this game. I used to take lessons, my Nan and Aunt would sneak me out of the house when my dad was off playing or whatever, we had so much fun, y’know?”
Callum doesn’t know. He tried to learn a dance routine for hairspray once, but ended up spraining his ankle in the process. It’s fair to say his dad and coach weren’t best pleased.
“Maybe you’ll make it in another universe,” Callum says. “You’ve got the name for it, Ben Mitchell, all up in lights.”
Ben’s smile is strangely sad, crumpled as he picks at a loose thread.
“What about you?” he says then, bottom lip bitten down. “If you weren’t born a Highway.”
“I want to help people,” Callum says, hushed. “I want to make people feel safe, valid. Loved. Like I ain’t ever.”
Ben nods. He’s just wearing boxers, sheets pooled around his hips. Callum can see the entire line of his spine, the soft swoop of his shoulder blades, soft hips flushing over the top of his waistband. A strange moment of sentimentality passes between them, makes Callum’s eyes water like he’s ten years old all over again, tearing up because someone down the street was baking his Mum’s favourite lemon cake.
“I think you’d be great,” Ben says.
“Really?” The word is so earnest it aches in Callum’s mouth.
Like a cat waking from sleep, Ben slips his legs from the sheets and crosses the short space between their beds on clumsy feet, knees bundling up in Callum’s own blanket, and his body is so warm. Callum can see everything this close, the sleep by the corners of Ben’s eyes, the splatter of his freckles, the lake-blue of his eyes.
Callum sits up, maybe as a reflex, maybe to get even closer. Ben is cross-legged in front of him and the temptation is too great.
“Really,” Ben whispers between them, mischief-tongue and feline eyes, slits when he smiles close-lipped, chest fluttering. “We should run away.”
Callum blinks at him. “Run away?”
“Yeah,” Ben breathes. He pushes his palms along the tops of his thighs, curls his fingers over his knees as he releases another long exhale. Callum stares, swallows thickly at the shadows Ben’s hands make in his skin, wonders what he’d do if Callum were to leave his own, slip a soft thumb against the place Ben. boxers fall away from the skin of his inner thigh. He feels worlds away but like nothing could ever move him from this point in time.
“How?” he says. “Where?”
“When the camp ends,” Ben says, leaning closer, whispering like their parents are hiding under their bed, eyes watching on, and nobody else in the world can know. To be trusted this much has Callum’s heart thumping. “My parents will send me away, back to college, fighting for every premier leagues team’s scholarship program and so on, but I’ll never get there. I’ll take a train, or I’ll fly. By the time they realise I’ll be worlds away.”
It sounds so like a dream. A faraway dream. Callum can’t help but be awed, can’t help but want to grasp onto whatever magic Ben has managed to capture, but then the breeze blows somewhere deep in his chest, icy and sharp, and his eyes go hot.
“What about your family?” he says weakly. “Jay?”
Ben shrugs and reaches for a loose thread by Callum’s knee. The brush of his knuckles is intoxicating.
“Nobody will miss me,” he says quietly. Their faces are close.
I would, Callum almost says, flushing at the thought. I will.
Ben’s mouth lifts, a tiny quirk as he pulls at the thread, thumb pushing into the underside of Callum’s calf through the sheets. “You’ve never wanted to run away?”
A hundred times. A thousand times. Too many times. How easy it would be to miss his stop on the way back from his weekly training, to keep going and going to the end of the train-line and get off and go further, taxis and buses and planes until he reached the edge of the world, wherever that is; and what’s stopped him? Fear? Guilt? The unknown? Certainly not love.
“I have,” Callum admits, meek, that slow swirling starting low in his belly.
Ben’s hand cups his jaw.
“Don’t worry,” he says, their noses close, Callum frozen as he registers the warmth in Ben’s palm, the place he can feel his pulse thudding, the flecks of blue in eyes, the lamplight flickering as the moths scurry for escape. Between the sheets, Ben finds Callum’s pinky with his free hand, links them together gently. Another inch and their lips would brush, dry, summer-cracked, wet inside like honey. “You’ve got me, now.”
Callum shuts his eyes for what feels like the fiftieth time that night. He tosses and he turns endlessly. As far as he knows, it's two in the morning, and nobody's awake at two in the morning. His eyes roll up to stare at the ceiling; he finds when he looks there for too long murky blots seem to scar his vision. It doesn't stop him from curling and uncurling his toes, squeezing his fingers, reaching over to check the time once more.
The red gleam hurts his eyes, when he turns the bedside digital clock on to read 02:59. Nobody's awake at three in the morning.
“Callum?”
The voice catches Callum off guard, because there is no warning, no tossing and turning or frustrated sighs from the other side of the room.
“Why are you still awake?” He asks, voice thick with sleepiness. He sounds like he’s just on the verge of being awake himself, but he pulls himself back properly, and fixes his eyes on Callum’s own.
“I dunno,” Callum shrugs, although he definitely does know. He traces the shape of his Mother’s face, photograph clutched right in his hand. “Can’t sleep.”
“Who’s that?” Ben asks, as he flick the lamp on. Soft spilling in across the sheets, slanting into his eyes. “In the photograph?”
“Mum,” Callum says, thumb brushing her face as he takes the photo from Ben’s hands, fingers brushing electric. “That’s my mum.”
“She’s beautiful,” Ben says, voice soft, attentive. “I can feel her warmth.”
“She was,” Callum whispers, stomach curling the longer he looks, and then he feels Ben’s fingers at his wrist, tucked up on the floor against Callum’s bed, knees creaking on the hard wood.
“I remember taking this,” Callum continues, and his voice is wet, thin. “Me and Stu had just had a race up the beach. I won, of course. She couldn’t stop smiling, told me this story about how she used to run the beach until she dug down to the sea with her footprints.”
Ben smiles softly. “She reminds me of you.”
“She’s got miles on me.
“No.” Ben shakes his head, gentle, thumb at Callum’s knee. “She does. Eyes brighter than the lake first thing in the morning, smile like no other. And the way you talk about her, Callum. You’re her, inside out.”
Callum tucks his face into Ben’s shoulder, then, all hesitation washed away with the lull of Ben’s voice, and gradually, he lets himself lean into Ben’s body, urging Ben to pull himself up onto Callum’s own bed. The two of them rest together, eyes wet, the pair of them quiet as they breathe slow and measured.
“And I think she’d be proud of you,” Ben continues quietly. “The way you’re still going, still pushing for your dreams. That you could have given it all up, but you’re still here. Still trying to be the best version of yourself. And you should know that I admire you for that. It sounds silly, and I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks—but you make me feel like I have something to belong to, and to become. I can’t let you think nothing of yourself when I think so much of you. When I know she’d think more than the world of you.”
He finds Ben’s hand, rests his fingers in the gaps between Callum’s own.
There’s a mosquito, a bug, a something, buzzing in Callum’s ear. His head feels like it’s full of lead, waking from a dark and heavy dream. He swats at the air, or tries, at least, arms stuck under his sheets, sweat-slick.
“Callum.”
Frowning, Callum gets his arm loose from the sheet and tries again, searching for the bug in the dark.
His knuckles brush skin.
“Cal. Wake up.”
When he tilts his head back, eyes still adjusting to the dark, Ben is looming over him. Immediately, Callum feels his face flush pink, swallows thick and heavy as he takes in Ben’s figure, knees either side of Callum’s body, one hand braced by Callum’s head, the other curled tight on his shoulder.
“Finally,” Ben sighs, and Callum can feel the warmth of him, can smell his skin and the lake water and something like still-damp shampoo. “I thought you were dead.”
Still speechless, Callum rolls slowly, Ben moving with him, sitting back on his haunches and blinking sleepily at Callum through the shadows.
“‘M sleeping,” Callum mumbles, scratchy, still waking up. His mind is reeling, skin tingling from Ben’s touch.
“Well, get up,” Ben says, whisper soft as he stands and tugs the sheet off Callum’s body.
“Hey!” he whisper-shouts, heart pumping. He’s just in his boxers, all thin-twig legs and gangly arms, but Ben is nothing but amused as he throws a pair of shorts and a jumper at Callum.
“What the hell are you—”
“Sh.”
“Ben—”
“Sh!”
Ben presses a finger to Callum’s lips. Callum wants to grab his wrist and keep it there.
Finally, after minutes of quiet rustling, Callum is dressed and Ben turns to him with a giddy smile. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going, then?”
“Nope,” Ben says, winking as he ushers Callum out the door. “Trust me.”
Outside the air is cool and sticky, the lingering heat turned into humidity, and Callum licks at his dry mouth as it hits, feels the hard, uneven ground under their toes as they wobble down towards the water. Still lake, bright moon, the blue skidding out along the glass-water like a pebble skipping waves.
Finally, when they reach the edge of the pier, Ben holds out his hand.
Reluctant, Callum takes it, and together they sit at the piers edge, soles of their feet brushing the water, that single touch enough to spark a shudder of ripples. Ben glows here; the light seeks him out, day or night, it seems, and Callum watches
“I wish we could stay here forever,” Ben says into the dark.
We. Us. You and me. Just us? Forever?
“I don’t want to stay anywhere forever,” Callum says, words shy.
“Why’s that?” Ben says, head lolling onto his shoulder, brow all furrowed like he’s surprised that Callum doesn’t agree.
“Because I’ve already spent long enough stuck where I am now,” Callum says. “Where I’ll probably stay until I die.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ben says, rolling onto his side, up onto his elbow to stare down at Callum fiercely. “You’ve got the world at your fingertips, Highway.”
“You have too much faith in me,” Callum says, lifting his hand. “Why?”
“Because you're bright Callum,” Ben says, earnestly. “You’re kind and observant, you notice all these things that others are moving to quick to notice. I’ve seen the way you think you’re nothing. It’s not true. It’s just not true. You feel so far away from nothing, Callum.”
“Oh, and you’re a bloody good baller.”
They’re both silent for a moment, the words settling heavily between them. The night is quiet, barely even the chirp of bugs, and in the heat Callum can hear Ben breathing, feels the steady inhale before he stumbles to his feet, looming over Callum with his hands on his hips.
Callum blinks up at him, wild hair and his flushed cheeks and the moonlight bathing him, reaching for him, still.
“We’re gonna conquer the world!” Ben shouts, hands cupped around his mouth, and the words echo, shudder the trees.
“Ben!” Callum says, heart thumping.
“Our names up in lights, just like you said,” Ben continues wildly, beaming, teeth shined as he smiles, and Callum’s heart expands, all his fear seeping away, mixing with heat. “We’ll be stars, Cal. Me and you—our very own stars, forever.”
His chest is heaving, both of them shaking from the excitement, and then Ben finds Callum’s eyes in the dark, and nothing has ever felt more clear.
Forever. Forever. I could do forever if it was with you.
“Come swim with me,” Ben urges, coming closer, grasping at Callum’s. “Cal, come on.”
“I ain’t sure—”
Ben blinks up at him. His lashes have clumped together. The moon is sinking steady and slow. Morning is coming.
Stepping into the water feels weightless. The way the water cups his ankles makes him shudder, the slow lick of it crawling up his calves as he wades inch by inch through the thick water.
He’s thigh deep when he stops, the bottom of his shorts sticky and damp with the first brushes of the lake, and he looks up to find Ben staring back across the stretch, covered up to his shoulders with dark-blue.
“C’mon,” he whispers.
Finally, just a few feet away, Ben stops and holds his hand out between them.
“You trust me,” he says softly, a quirk of his brow, “don’t you?”
The world is a blur but through it all Ben’s eyes are gentle, and his fingers close, familiar, and Callum’s helpless but to shift through the water towards Ben.
“Fuck, it’s freezing,” he breathes out. Ben laughs under his breath, spreads his palm so that Callum’s fingers follow suit, and then Ben links them and pulls, stepping back.
Once the water reaches his shoulders it feels strangely like he’s being enveloped in something familiar, like if he remained still for long enough he’d start to warm. And then there’s Ben, who this close radiates warmth through the water, warm breath, warm eyes, warm where their hands are still linked beneath the lake.
Ben’s eyes are wet. He’s coming closer. They’re drifting. Callum can’t feel the bottom of the lake anymore.
It’s all so familiar yet so far away, the hot cry of want, a child with crocodile tears, teenage angst and lost love and hidden fears, and then Ben touches—
They fall and knock together painfully. Ben’s mouth tastes like strawberries and summer and just like Callum’s own. They start to go under, and Callum is gasping for breath, clinging to this, to Ben’s shoulders, arms around his neck, chests bumping and tears melting into the lakewater like they never even existed.
Ben makes this sound, this soft moan that sends Callum reeling. There are hands on his hips, fingers in his hair, on his chest. Ben is everywhere. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to keep kissing, each crush of their mouths bruising but so gentle.
When they finally break away, ragged breathing and eyes wide, Ben’s hand finds Callum’s cheek, keeps his mouth parted with his thumb as they stare at each other. Everything is wet and dripping and brilliant and Callum doesn’t want to let go. He doesn't want to go home tomorrow. Even in the dark he can see the flush of Ben’s cheeks, can feel it, how much warmth is radiating from him. He can’t look away. If he looks away, he might wake up. This might all be some strange figment of his imagination, a dreamworld he’s made up to escape.
In the thickness of the water it feels like their bones are melting together, like they’re becoming one.
You’re changing me, Callum thinks, eyes hot as Ben kisses him again, both hands cupping roughly at Callum’s jaw. Every time you look at me, you reveal a new part of me. You’re doing it now.
“Will you call?” Callum whispers, almost lost between their mouths, between the ache in the words, how thin they tumble out.
“Every day,” Ben promises.
“I think I love you?” Callum says, feeble, tears spilling over, so impossibly, stupidly young, time freezing between them, each of Ben’s slow blinks chisel and carve chunks from Callum’s marble heart, carving out a space there, in their own version of forever.
He wishes he could catch this moment in his hands, keep it always, but moments, like time, are made up of sand, of water, air, things that can never last. It’s slipping. The sky is growing orange and it’s all slipping away, the shadows are shifting, and day is breaking, the sun is rushing closer, closer, faster-faster-faster, frantic and pushing through the trees to find them.