Work Text:
The envelope arrives mid December.
Elegant, creamy paper with just a thin golden line along the edges, his address written on the front in a slanted handwriting Austin doesn't recognize; on the back, just two initials, curled together like Austin's own intestines when he understand exactly what he's looking at.
A part of him wants to throw it out, maybe even burn it. Pretend he'd never gotten one, feign surprise when someone calls, when he calls, say he's sorry, it's too late now. Congratulations, wishing you a lifetime of happiness.
He leaves it on the mantle, instead. Unopened, the paper still perfectly smooth like nothing happened.
Because nothing, indeed, happened.
Nothing at all.
*
Two days pass, then three. Five. A whole week and three days more and the envelope is still on the mantle, still unopened, still burning a hole in Austin's mind even if he tries not to think about it with all his might.
Ten days after the letter got to him, Austin's cellphone lights up with a message. A voice message, to be precise, which shouldn't surprise him since that's typical Callum; and yet Austin's heart leaps in his throat when he sees the notification popping up on the screen, and the whole beer he drinks to wash it down doesn't dislodge it the slightest.
The last time Callum had texted, months ago now, he'd left him on read. He could do the same now, say he'd archived the chat and didn't notice the little 1 popping up among all the other conversations, but his thumb's hovering on the screen before Austin can really think about it and in just a second the chat's open, the message starts.
“Hey Aus,” says Callum, the sounds of a busy city behind him. “How are you? Hope you're good. Listen, we've just sent out the RSVPs for the wedding. I know I said it would be in September but we had to move it to June instead, you'll see all the details in the invite. Let me know if you don't get anything, we can resend it if it gets lost in the mail. I hope you'll manage to come, I'd really love to have you there. Kay, bye Aus.”
Austin clutches the phone, the nonchalant, constant use of we making him seasick on land. It takes him three tries before he manages to text back a concrete answer — Hello, I'm fine, hope you're doing well. I've not been home this past week but I'll let you know if the letter's arrived when I get back. I still don't know my schedule for June, hopefully I can make it. I'll text you. Bye. — and after he sends it he hides the phone at the bottom of his gym bag and works out until his body rebels against him, thighs shaking, muscles aching, a vague taste of blood at the back of his mouth.
He can't help but check it once he's back home, freshly showered, alone again in the ominous company of the envelope. The message's been read, but there's no response.
Austin tries to feel relieved, but without an audience he's not that good of an actor.
*
He hadn't really liked Callum, at the beginning. The ease he had in reaching out made Austin weary, those voice messages he'd sent him to introduce himself and to ramble on about the show, the upcoming boothcamp, their characters, made him want to throw away the phone and crawl back into bed.
But then he'd met him in person, and that changed everything. Callum was larger than life and not just physically — he had but a few inches on Austin but his shoulders seemed twice as wide, and so did his legs, his everything. He had a smile that could light up the whole room, never forced, so wide it crinkled his eyes into thin slits, and a booming voice with an accent that wasn't the British one Austin had heard in his voice messages.
“I'm staying in character,” Callum told him when asked. “John had a very particular accent, I want to give him justice.”
And he did, in every sense. He rallied the other guys, guided them through boothcamp just like a true Major would, and Austin with him. He'd felt untethered, after Elvis, after the breakup, after the pandemic; in Gale Cleven, USAF Major, he found his balance. And in Callum, his anchor.
*
The invite is written in the same slanted handwriting of the address on the envelope. Austin's warmly invited by the couple to celebrate their wedding in Palermo, Italy, at the beginning of June next year. One night of partying and then the ceremony the next day. RSVP no later than the end of March, please indicate any dietary preferences, and if a plus one is to include in the count or not.
No plus ones for Austin, unfortunately. He hasn't been particularly lucky in that field, and the letter in his hands is yet another proof of that.
He doesn't text Callum to say he got the invite. He puts it back in the envelope and the envelope back on the mantle, the paper now wrinkled just enough to remind him he's opened Pandora's box and whatever happens next is his fault.
Like everything else in this story, after all.
*
It should've been nothing, there was no reason for it to be anything at all. Austin was a professional and so was Callum, it wasn't that kind of story, it was violence and grief and the indomitable human spirit, nothing of it was about love.
But.
There was something in their characters. The way they'd been written, or maybe it was their fault for how they'd read them.
Callum was the first to bring it up, one evening they were out walking his dog. “Sometimes I feel like I'm playing a love story,” he said, in passing, like it was something they'd discussed before.
“How?” Austin asked — he meant it, because sometimes he'd feel the same and couldn't understand why.
Callum shrugged, ash falling from the cigarette between his lips. “I don't know how to explain it, but sometimes I feel like Bucky is written like that. Like he's doing it all out of love but not love for his country. For his Buck,” he said and Austin's pulse quickened at the use of the possessive, only to scold himself immediately after because Callum wasn't talking about him, about the two of them. He was talking about Buck and Bucky, although recently it had become harder and harder to split the four of them into separate people.
Something of Bucky had bled into Callum and something of Callum had bled into Bucky, and it had spilled onto Buck and onto Austin, and now boundaries were blurred, confusing. Austin felt the urge to do something about it, it prickled his skin like a thousand tiny needles, but he didn't know what.
And then a pause during shooting came, someone testing positive for COVID and the whole set shutting down for two weeks.
Austin stuck cotton swabs up his nose until he was sure he wasn't getting all false positives, and got ready for two long, boring weeks in the gorgeous London house they'd gotten him. Callum's text came as a blessing a couple hours into Austin's isolation, a reassurance that he was negative as well, an invitation to spend those two weeks together to work on their characters and keep each other company.
Austin should've said no. It was a stupid risk to take, maybe they were sick but it was too soon for the tests to show it. And spending two weeks together just the two of them felt risky too, but Austin didn't want to think too much about why it felt that way lest the tether came loose, and he went back to floating into a dreadful void.
They were professionals, navigated actors. They should've been able to keep things separated — only, they weren't.
It wasn't a love story. It was kisses, and whispered conversations, and sweaty bodies reaching for each other. It was hands, and mouths, and tongues. It was laughters in the dark, and sounds smothered in pillows and flesh.
It kept going even after the two weeks ended and Austin went back to his place. It was less often, but it was something.
It was nothing, absolutely nothing. It was the best thing that had ever happened to Austin, and it scared him senseless.
So when the sky cleared, the shooting ended, he ran away.
*
He texts Callum happy birthday in February.
Callum responds almost straight away, a text message in which he thanks Austin and asks him if he's figured out his schedule for June yet — no hurry, there's still a couple weeks left before the date in the RSVP, but just to know.
Austin apologizes, he still doesn't know. He's already said no to Callum's bachelor's party, a night out in London drinking and playing poker with a handful of close friends; as weirdly touch as he was to know he was among them, Austin said no, he had to work.
He probably should've said yes to that and no to the wedding, the envelope reminding him about it every single day Austin walks past it in his house. The paper's all ruined now, Austin's taken out the invite and pushed it back dozens of times but he hasn't put his pen to it yet, hasn't crossed out NO to send it back to the senders.
He just holds it in his hands, smearing it with sweat, trying not to think about what would've happened if he'd let himself be happy.
*
He heard almost nothing from Callum after Masters ended.
No, that's not true. Callum did call him, and text him, asked him questions about his daily life and the projects he had lined up. He never talked about what had happened between them, never confronted Austin about his fugue, and while Austin was grateful for it a part of him wanted Callum to ask. To be angry at him for how he'd ended things without really ending them, just removing himself from the equation.
He rarely answered to these texts and while they didn't see each other for over a year, Callum kept sending them. It was reassuring, somehow. It meant that Callum wasn't going to let go of him so easily, that he cared for Austin, about their friendship or whatever.
It gave him the illusion of sureness that if he wanted to pick up where he'd left them, he could've.
It was, as most illusions are, wrong.
*
Austin remembers when he met the Bride for the first time, only back then she wasn't even really a girlfriend then, just someone Callum wanted to introduce to him like he needed Austin's approval, or maybe just to throw in his face how well he'd moved on.
She was gorgeous, and fun, definitely more famous than Callum, more than Austin, too. She made Callum happy, it was written all over his face at the Masters' premiere, so Austin had to give his seal of approval. Said she was perfect for him, that he was lucky he'd found her.
He didn't say he hoped it was a fling, something that would burn bright but just as fast.
And yet, less than one year after the first time Austin had met her, news of the proposal broke out. Austin called Callum to ask if it was true, congratulated him when he told him yes, it was. A dream come true.
Austin told him he was happy for them. Sent his congratulations. Then he archived his chat with Callum and spent the next few days feeling sorry for himself and so, so fucking stupid.
*
A year or so later, the envelope arrived.
Austin never sent it back.
*
Callum gets married on the last Sunday in May, in London. Austin sees the pictures online first thing in the morning, bride and groom ridiculously beautiful and shamelessly happy as they walk down the stairs, rice grains thrown at them for good luck.
The party in Palermo starts a few days later, people online speculating about the guest list, a few of them mentioning Austin's name from their Masters days. Austin who's at his place in LA, still staring at the now useless, battered envelope upon his mantle when his phone rings.
Austin knows who it is before glancing at the name on the screen. He's tempted to let it go to voicemail but then decides, he can be brave this time. Just enough to pick up the phone thousands of miles away.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Aus.”
Callum's voice is quiet, the accent British once again. Austin can hear the muffled sound of people partying behind a closed door. “Where are you?”
“LA,” Austin says. “Congratulations on the wedding, I saw the pictures.”
“You never sent back the RSVP,” Callum continues. “You never even told me if you were coming or not, why didn't you tell me?”
“I'm sorry. I was working, I lost track of time and I figured since I hadn't responded in time, it was irrelevant whether I could come or not.”
“You're not irrelevant,” Callum states and this time Austin picks up a slight slur in his voice, sign that the partying got to him. “Why aren't you here? You are- we were- we're friends, Austin. Friends go to each other's weddings, or at least they respond to a fucking question.”
“You're righ. I'm sorry,” Austin responds, his heart beating deafeningly in his ears.
“Why didn't you come?” Callum prods. “Don't give me the work bullshit. Why?”
Because I knew you first, and she had no right to replace me.
Because I kept hoping you'd break up even if I knew how happy you are with her.
Because it wouldn't have been fair to drag you down with me.
Because it would've killed me, seeing up close exactly what I gave up when I decided it was better to run than to try.
“I just- I just couldn't,” Austin says, eyes squeezed shut against all the other, truer answers pushing to break free. “I'm really sorry, Cal. I wish I could've been there but I just-”
“You couldn't, yeah,” Callum finishes for him. “You already said that. You know all night I kept hoping you'd appear, that you'd be in the next round of incoming guests. But you weren't there. I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised, mh? You do have a tendency to stay away from things, sometimes,” he says and the sting is there, the pointed finger. Austin accepts it.
“I'm sorry. It's the one thing I know how to do,” he says — it's a pattern now, he ran away to Australia then to England then back to the US, always leaving something, someone, behind. Callum simply got caught in it, even if he didn't deserve it.
“I really hope you're happy. I wish you nothing but happiness, today and every day forward,” Austin tells him and he prays Callum can tell that he's saying the truth. No matter how much it hurts, if Callum's happy then Austin will be happy for him, today and every day forward.
Callum sighs in the phone, alcoholic resignation. “Thank you, Austin,” he says and vertigo fills Austin's stomach because it sounds like farewell. “Bye.”
Before Austin can put a word in, the line goes quiet.