I own neither the characters from Glee nor the characters from CP Coulter's Dalton.
Sometimes Charlie looks at people and sees something else - the same someone, but from some other place and time. Which sounds crazy, Charlie knows, but he thinks he's just going to have to get used to that. Because he's been seeing people all wrong for months now.
The twins carrying rifles with long wooden stocks instead of bright plastic nerf guns. Wes and David with light brown vests tied about them that look bulky and homemade. Drew and Satoru are especially hard to ignore and Charlie always has to stare for a few minutes to decide if the dirt on their faces is real. And then Charlie sees Justin with a rough beret hanging balanced and perfect on the side of his head and he wonders how many people have caught him staring.
It starts on his family vacation to Algeria, the summer before his senior year. One trip to see the Casbah and that marketplace people are always singing about and Charlie's certain the sand must have gotten stuck in his head because he can't remember the last time his dreams weren't clouded in brown dust.
When it's just the dreams, Charlie thinks about changing his diet or watching fewer war movies or maybe getting his parents to excuse him from the rest of his history classes. But dreams of talking to his best friends sitting outside in the desert heat - weighed down by things he can feel but can't see – seem impressively normal when he goes back to school.
The first time it happens, he's doing his rounds greeting everyone for the new school year and sees Blaine digging in his armoire for something. And suddenly he's not in a dorm room - not inside - not in Ohio.
The lower half of a man sticks out of the side of the camouflaged machine in front of Charlie. He has to squint to see him in the bright sunlight that seems to come from every direction as it reflects off of the fine sand. It's hot, but the knowledge seems like background noise to the rest of the picture.
With a cough, the rest of the man emerges from inside the tank and turns to face him.
"Chain's too weak for the crap fan. Third time I've replaced it this month. Shit Brit tanks using a fucking engine from the Great War," spits the short brunette boy.
When Charlie had first met Blaine, he had brought a new sense of naivety to being polite and Charlie never would've guessed the quiet youth to be the hands-on mechanic that he now knows him to be. And the language? Well, the other boys in the unit improved Blaine's vocabulary within weeks.
But something about the way Blaine says "How have you been?" sounds more like the sweet kid from Ohio than the brash mechanic. Maybe it's because "How have you been?" is followed by "How was your vacation?"
"Vacation?" Charlie asks.
"Yea, your summer vacation?"
And Blaine's back in his dorm room, holding a belt from the back of his closet instead of a chain from the engine of a Sherman tank.
"Oh, yea," Charlie stumbles over the words. "It was fine. How was yours?
And that's only the beginning.
Charlie drives the tank, Blaine rides beside him, and two other guys sit up behind them in the turret. Ethan and Evan. Brothers – identical twins. The tank's supposed to have more open space, but the desert changes that quickly and they wind up with two extra jerrycans of water and a bit less wiggle room.
Wes and Satoru, two other men in their unit, catch a lot of shit from other troops because of the war in the Pacific, and Charlie won't stand for it. Wes isn't even Japanese, and, sure, Satoru is one of the few Japanese Americans serving in a diverse formation, but Charlie can't tell if "nisei" is derogatory or not and he probably starts more fights than he ends over it.
"Stop being an ass; we're on the same side you idiot," is his attempt at peacekeeping. So maybe Charlie shouldn't be a mediator.
"What are you, his mother? Besides, how am I supposed to know he's not a Jap when he's not in uniform?" Charlie's not sure if the man he's speaking to intends to sound so ridiculous.
"We're in North Africa." Charlie rolls his eyes and the offender in question takes this as an opportunity to turn the fight physical. He's in Charlie's personal space before someone yells.
"Calm down! We go to the same school!"
School? What?
"We're supposed to be talking smack to the kids from other schools," Bailey insists, using his arm to separate the young Stuart from Charlie's face and Charlie wonders whether the boy would've hit him if Bailey hadn't.
Charlie's only vaguely aware of the boys wandering away when a hand falls on his shoulder and he turns to see Justin in a thick wool uniform. As Charlie gazes over the light brown beret, the matching tie that's neatly tucked under an unlined bomber jacket, and the perfectly pressed pants, he thinks it's strange because he hasn't seen Justin out of his Mess Dress since he first met him at Tafraoui.
Charlie has to remind himself that he met Justin at school in Ohio.
"You okay, mate?" the Brit asks and Charlie has to blink four times before Justin's back in his Dalton uniform.
"Uh, yea, just another house fight. But I'm fine." He doesn't even try to sound convincing.
"I couldn't help but notice that North Africa looks a lot like the outside of St. Patrick's."
"What?"
"You said we were in North Africa. I mean, you were mumbling and I don't think anyone else heard you…" Justin trails off and is staring at Charlie like he's an optical illusion that you'll only see if you look just right. And then, because he's wondering if it's the right question to ask, he does just that. "What's in North Africa?"
"I…North Africans?" Charlie tries to joke.
Justin lets out one quiet laugh and waits for Charlie to say more.
"I don't know. I…have no idea why I said that," Charlie mutters. And if Justin notices that he spends the game staring into space, he has the decency not to question it.
For a while, it's the last time he gets caught. Most of the time the visions are simple. People are just wearing the wrong clothing or carrying the wrong things. Charlie can ignore that entirely. But he's having trouble ignoring the sensation that the visions and dreams are right and that his "real world" is wrong.
And as soon as Charlie thinks he's free of the worst, the visions launch their final halting attack.
"I'm hit!" He can only see the orange foam darts that land in the hallway, but he can tell that the voice is David's.
Charlie is down in the front of the tank, so his view is pretty terrible, but he can see that there's nothing in front of them. They weren't even in combat until they heard the roar above of planes above them. The Luftwaffe.
The bombs fall from the sky, but it's the echoes of a fired M3 that ring in his head. A shot from one of their tanks. Charlie looks to Blaine and shouts, "Who the fuck is shooting at the planes?"
He tries to poke his head out for a better view, ignoring the risk that he'll be hit by the turret. The smoke is coming from the tank to their immediate left. Charlie thinks to who is in the Sherman beside them - Josh drives next to Dwight, his machine gunner, and David sits at turret with Wes, his gunner.
He sits back down pulling his hatch closed. "It's David."
Blaine nods in acknowledgement but keeps his hands and attention firmly on his A4. Charlie rolls his eyes and wonders whether Blaine's going to try his machine gun on the German planes that are too high above. Charlie shifts into action, knowing there's not much they can do besides get out of the line of fire.
"Mad Hatter's hurt," Charlie hears from behind him – from one of the twins.
"What? But –"
His yell comes crashing down around him as shrieking metal does the same. The shell crashes with a loud thud instead of a bang and Charlie feels it more than he hears it. He's never tried to imagine the force it takes to disturb a 67,000 pound tank before, and he'll later joke that now he never has to. He feels the tank shake in every bone.
Nothing has exploded; this much Charlie is sure of. He struggles to take a breath and has to blink slowly to get his bearings. His arm feels like it's on fire, which Charlie supposes is probably a comparison in bad taste since there's a very good chance that his tank might actually catch on fire soon.
It isn't until he blinks twice more that his senses settle. He's pinned to the side of his compartment by the armor of the tank itself and he can hear Blaine screaming his name. It's probably a bad sign that he can't see Blaine.
"Fuck," he tries to yell. It's closer to a wince.
If the only place they're hit is the front, Charlie thinks that it's unlikely he'll have to worry about explosions or fire. But Charlie's pretty certain that Blaine has a better view of the greater picture – what with Charlie's excellent close-up view of the metal that used to sit feet in front of him – and Blaine's yelling seems pretty insistent. He should get out of here.
Trying to dislodge his arm from the crushed metal is more painful than Charlie thinks he can articulate. It doesn't budge the first time. The second time he manages to get his arm free from the twisted armor, but the armor claims some of his skin in exchange. His sleeve is still caught in some of the metal and Charlie thinks it's a testament to his stoic temperament that he tears the sleeve off without a single complaint.
Blaine will later attest that Charlie is blatantly lying to himself about his temperament. His impressions of Charlie's foul protests of pain at this moment become famous throughout the brigade.
With his arm free, Charlie looks up to his to see his hatch open and Blaine's face appear. He shifts uncomfortably toward it and Blaine moves to let him out. If anyone expects grace from the injured driver, they don't see it when he climbs out of the tank and tumbles clumsily down it, bypassing the ladder altogether.
He passes out before anyone can make a comment.