Chapter Text
There had been a time when he was younger, about three or four, when Calum fell off of his bike. Fortunately he hadn't been injured badly, but the fall had left him with a pair of scraped knees and tear tracks running down his face. In all honesty, Calum didn't remember the actual event much - just a flash of red from the paint of his bike as he fell off, followed by the image of the sky imprinted in his mind when he had stared up at it from the ground when he had been sprawled on his back. No, what he remembered so vividly that made him recall the actual trigger had been what had followed.
His sister had been the one to pick her bloodied brother up from the ground while he cried. With both their parents at work, she had taken it upon herself to take the sobbing boy home, whispering sweet things into his ear in an attempt to pacify him. Nothing had worked until she hit upon a topic which probably would have made other boys stick out their tongue and make some in-eloquent sound of disgust: soulmates.
The thing about soulmates, she had said, was that you just knew them when you saw them. Sometimes it was a pouring over of strong emotions. However, other times it was subtle warmth - the feeling of home which not even four walls and a roof could replicate. That had caught the young boy's interest while she had set herself to work cleaning his knees. Later, while she dried his cheeks, Calum asked to hear a bit more about the soulmates she spoke of, if she had been really, really serious, and if he had one. Years later, he could still recall how she had stopped, looked him straight in the eye and spoke softly, "Calum, if you don't have one, no one deserves one. I think they're real."
Well, that had been enough for him.
--
Many years had passed since he had fallen from his bike, taking Calum from age five to age sixteen. A number of things, looking back, had changed over time. For one, he had been able to get over his fear of getting onto a bike once more, and no longer shook when he fought to hold back tears and keep pedaling. He had made many friends, and three he had come to call his best friends. There was Luke, who was a few months younger, but who seemed to be growing taller and taller with every day. There was Ashton, who was the oldest of the group, but who acted as if he was the youngest. Then there was Michael. While the four were certainly all best friends, Calum couldn't even lie to himself that he didn't prefer Michael over the pair of blondes in their group.
He had met Michael when they were still kids in primary school, unsure what the world really was. They had been seated next to each other during school for the daily snack-time, and ever since Calum gave the slightly-larger boy his spare juice box, they had been joined at the hip ever since.
Michael, while other things changed and new friends made, had remained a relative constant for Calum. Despite the boy's tendency to change the color of his hair every few months, he was generally the same from the boy who had forgotten his juice on his kitchen counter once more. It was impossible for Calum to count the number of things Calum liked about the colorful boy. His voice always felt smooth, even after they had both just awoken during one of their numerous sleepovers. His skin was always warm whenever they made contact, their legs tangled together while they were "studying" on Calum's bed one lazy evening after school. His hair was always soft when Calum ran his fingers through it, feeling him hum in contentment with only the light from Michael's television illuminating the room while they were watching some B-list movie Ashton said they just had to watch.
It wasn't something Calum thought about often, but it was within those moments that Calum could reach towards what he had been told years ago about soulmates, and he could feel the warmth which he could only describe as a feeling of home. A feeling which only came when Michael was nearby.
--
Another year had gone by and Calum was seventeen, barely making it through high school. He had spoken to Michael several times about simply dropping out and starting a band. It could work, he had said then when his best friend offered only a laugh. The conversation had been recent, in fact.
"You play guitar, Ashton knows how to play the drums, and Luke could sing," Calum had pointed out indignantly from where he was sprawled on Michael's bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sure, they had homework they should have been doing, and tests they should have been studying for. But they wouldn't have to if they dropped out and started a band. That was how the conversation began.
Another laugh left Michael's lips, his eyes focused on the screen of his television which displayed the video game he had been playing when Calum came over. Coming over unannounced was nothing new in their friendship. "Yeah? That makes perfect sense," he mused, humoring the dark-haired boy. "What about you?"
"I can play guitar. Bass can't be too hard," Calum answered, not needing to take a moment to ponder it. Another laugh was the only reply he received, and in exchange he huffed. "Fine, you come up with something better."
The next several moments passed in silence, save for the sound of gunshots from the video game. At last, Michael paused the game and turned to face Calum. "Why do you always do that?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked in question.
Brown eyes fluttered open from when they had been closed, meeting a rich and steady green gaze. "Do what?"
"You always take on the hard things yourself. Like, you'd be willing to learn an entirely new instrument for the rest of us."
A shrug was all he could manage before he sat up, brow furrowed in thought. "It was my idea. It wouldn't be fair to make you or Luke learn bass when I might be able to." Another reason had come to mind, but it was one he dared not say aloud, not willing to face what might come as a result: he wanted to make Michael proud.
Their relationship was rather lax, completely friends in every sense of the word. They had kissed once, only in Ashton's basement at the blonde's birthday party, and only after they had each consumed a fair amount of alcohol. They had never spoken of it, even if Calum could feel the soft press of his friend's lips against his own at the very thought of that party. The younger boy would be lying if he made the claim he didn't have a crush on his best friend. It was no middle-school crush either, he might even dare to call it a damaging four-letter word so many felt so passionately about.
Michael didn't answer, instead turning away long enough to shut off his television before crawling onto the bed, settling down beside Calum. "Cuddle?" With the single word, the conversation ended, both knowing that the tanned boy would never turn down a cuddle. Not ever, and especially not when it came to Michael.
--
Several months short of a year later found Calum standing outside Michael's house at two in the morning. It was raining lightly, the raindrops falling onto tanned skin when he knocked softly on the door. He had received a text from his friend, asking him to come over in the dead of night. Seeing as he had been awake watching a movie and because it was Michael, Calum couldn't help but to sneak out of the house and cross town on-foot to reach the familiar residence.
No lights were on when the now-soaked boy arrived. His phone was like a block of lead in his pocket, an unsent text still remaining. Calum had been watching a movie in an attempt to clear his mind, settle his nerves. He had planned on sending a text to Michael, but it hadn't felt right at the time. Perhaps, he thought, it would be better telling his friend in person. Certainly that would be better.
It felt as if only seconds passed between Calum's knocking and when he was literally pulled inside by his friend. The house was dark, so he could only assume the Clifford-parents were asleep in their bedroom. "I've got to tell you something," Michael said, voice kept low as to not break the silence.
In response, Calum nodded, putting his arms around himself in an attempt to keep warm, making no argument when he was herded up the stairs and into Michael's bedroom - a path he was know with his eyes closed.
"Shit, you're soaked, Cal. Did you walk here?" Came the question after a moment, the volume raised slightly. Receiving a nod of affirmation, Michael swore once more, shaking his head. "Take your shirt off," he requested, grabbing one of his own sweatshirts, giving Calum no time to argue, pulling it over his head as soon as the wet shirt was removed. "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"
"You could tell me what was so important," Calum answered, slipping his arms properly through the sweatshirt which was one size too big, but warm enough to keep his teeth from chattering, the air conditioning making the water against his skin cold enough to cause him to shiver.
Michael nodded, taking the discarded shirt and hanging it up to dry. "Right," he murmured, a grin lighting his features. "I asked the girl I was telling you about if she wanted to go out with me, and she said yes!" With that, Calum felt his heart break, his jaw loosening, his lips parting slightly.
The single sound of "oh" fell from his mouth flatly, and he took a step towards the door. "I should go," he mumbled, his hand finding the doorknob easily, his shirt forgotten.
"What? Why?" Michael asked, his grin replaced with a look of hurt. Though nothing matched what Calum felt, his stomach churning, and he felt suffocated, whatever sense of home he might have had replaced with emptiness, cold and harsh.
Calum shook his head, refusing to meet Michael's gaze, even when the older boy came closer, nearing his space. "I have to go," he choked out.
A hand, warm as ever, landed on his when he turned around to open the door. "Calum, what the fuck?"
Thoroughly agitated and plenty hurt, Calum pulled his hand away and faced Michael, taking his phone out of his pocket. He opened up his messages and sent the one from earlier. "Check your phone," he managed, voice strained as he fought to hold back tears. "I think you got a text."
It was then that he opened the door, running down the stairs and out of the door, back into the rain. He didn't receive a reply until ten minutes later, when he had reached his house.
To: Mikey :D
Sent: 2:16 am
I love you. I love you more than a friend should.
From: Mikey :D
Received: 2:27 am
I don't love you. Sorry
It was the next morning that Calum walked outside the check the mailbox that he found his shirt from the night before on the front porch, slightly damp. It was folded nicely, a piece of paper settled on top of it, kept there by a small piece of tape.
Leave my sweatshirt on the porch later? I won't be home. Please don't text me again.
- Michael.
Calum did as he was told, leaving no note taped to the sweatshirt. He deleted Michael's number from his phone - as painful as it was - and never went down his block.
He stayed away and lost his best friend, and his home.
--
It had been a week later that Calum relayed the story to his remaining pair of best friends. The blondes had been shocked, but had pulled him into a crushing hug. Just as the three were pulling away, tears streaming down the dark-haired boy's face, a text lit up Ashton's phone.
"Michael's gone," he whispered, Luke handing a tissue to the crying boy.
"What?" Three pairs of eyes settled on the screen of the eldest's phone, reading the pair of words a number of times over and over again, waiting for a signal that it was a joke. No other text was delivered that day.
From: Michael c=8
Received: 12:08 pm
I'm gone.
And Calum's heart broke for another time when the trio embraced once more, all three trying to come to grips with what it possibly meant.
--
Another span of years passed and Calum was twenty-two, living in an apartment with his best friends and juggling working at the local record-shop and classes at university. He stayed away from anyone with the name he had come to hate, and found himself despising the idea of love. For years he had struggled, not sleeping right and spending more time crying than not. His sister had found him one day when he thought she was at work. He had been in his bathroom, a sharp piece of metal gripped firmly in one hand and a number of lines crossed over his opposite arm. Once more she bandaged him up, coaxing him out of a numb state until he broke in her arms. Words did not come easily, but she understood. He thought he didn't have a perfect match as she had claimed so many years ago. All she could do was rock her younger brother back and forth, and tell him that he hadn't found that person yet. "You just need to find your home," she said, withholding her own tears when Calum shook his head. "No, Mali, Michael was my home."
Since then, Calum supposed things got better. It wasn't a sudden shift, but he managed to get better. He could sleep through the night, and his chest didn't ache as much some nights. Sometimes he could pretend he was all right and that everything was going to be fine.
No one he knew had heard from Michael since the text he had sent Ashton all those years prior, but he didn't like to linger on that. If anything, he hoped the once-vibrant boy was happy. Maybe he found some girl and they were happy together, happier than Calum ever could have made him. That was how he liked to think of his once-friend.
Things seemed to be looking up around Christmas, and Calum noticed a number of things. The biggest thing was the band between his best friends; the lingering looks they sent each other. Calum had made plenty of jokes that they were like a married couple, fresh from their honeymoon, watching how Luke's eyes got big and how Ashton blushed, looking everywhere except at Luke. The looks turned to an increase of them watching movies on the couch, cuddled together, which evolved into holding hands when they thought Calum wasn't looking. Everything after that only made the tanned boy happier for his friends, and it went without a comment when they shared soft pecks or even a bit more in front of their friend. Calum knew that they loved each other as he had once loved, and he understood that.
He was okay. Not healed, not perfect, but he was okay.
--
Calum was okay until he heard a short, hushed conversation between his two friends.
"-he's back-" That was Ashton.
"Are you sure?" Luke.
"Yeah - and Jack said that he saw him -" Who was he?
Calum was in his bedroom, assuming that his friends were in their room across the hall, based upon how close they sounded. He didn't dare move, straining to make out more.
"No!" Ashton again, the single syllable louder than the rest, and Luke shushed him before the older spoke again. "No, we can't tell..."
That was the last part Calum heard before the sound of a door closing shut him off. Exasperated and confused, sure that he was involved somehow, he rested his head back onto his pillows.
--
Exactly a week passed before Calum was able to piece together the conversation between his friends. It started with a knock on the door, when he was in the apartment alone. Netflix was playing on the television in the living room while he struggled to get the microwave to pop a package of popcorn. "C'mon," he muttered, frustrated. The knock was what caught his attention, bringing him away from the microwave long enough to go to the door.
Ashton, he knew, was working his shift at a coffeeshop down the street. Luke, he supposed, was either visiting one of his brothers or his mother. Either way, Calum was alone and hadn't been expecting any company. All the same, he didn't bother looking through the hole in the door before he twisted the doorknob, opening the door. As soon as he caught sight of blue hair and green eyes, he gripped the door with one hand, his knees buckling while a familiar voice spoke his name, filling his ears. "Cal?"
Calum could do nothing to stop himself from otherwise crumpling to the floor, not believing the sight in front of him. "Michael?"
The boy before him was tall, perhaps even taller than he remembered. His hair was dyed blue, framing an eyebrow piercing. "I'm back," the figure said, dropping to his knees to be on the same level as Calum. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
The younger boy shook his head, tears stinging his eyes but going unshed. "You're not supposed to be here," he managed to choke to words out, dropping his eyes to the floor.
"I know," Michael returned, sounding more vulnerable than Calum had ever heard him before. "I can leave if you say so. Do you want me to leave?"
He wanted to say yes, to tell Michael he could fuck off. That after all these years Calum finally felt okay and if he thought he could come back and ruin everything again, well, he couldn't.
But Calum couldn't say any of that, unable to ignore the fact that, for once, he felt whole again. It wasn't the same as it once was, but it was better than he felt in years. The feeling only increased when he managed to shake his head and whisper the truth - that he didn't want Michael to leave - and when his former best friend put his arms around him, bringing all of the pieces together, even if only temporarily.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't all right. It wasn't okay.
It was home.