Chapter 1 #4
“My baes,” Marcus said fondly, as he sat down on Oli’s right. It was a tight fit for all three of them, but they’d certainly shared smaller spaces on Navy ships during deployment.
“Oh? We’re cool again?” Oliver asked, between bites of his pizza.
“Can’t stay mad at you, dawg. Not when you supply pie,” he said, with a wink.
Oliver chuckled—the sound resonating through Abe’s entire nervous system.
“Nice place, Darling. You did a good job with decorating and shit,” JD said, between mouthfuls of pizza.
“Decorating and shit?” Marcus asked, mockingly.
“What? I’m not on fucking Queer Eye,” JD replied, shrugging, beer still teeter-tottering on his knee.
“What’s Queer Eye?” Ghost asked, clearly confused. He’d made his way over from the kitchen, plate in hand, and was leaning against a wall as he ate.
“Gay TV show,” JD said.
“Like dudes kissing?” Carlos asked, even more confused than Ghost.
“You mean porn,” Ghost said, trying to be helpful.
“No, it’s like—these five guys go in and they give makeovers and renovate and stuff,” JD explained.
“And you watch this regularly?” Oliver asked, curious.
“Fuck off,” JD muttered, chugging his beer.
“Religiously,” Aberlour corrected, toasting his beer against Oli’s.
“So, there are no dudes kissing?” Carlos asked for further clarification.
“Not really,” JD said.
“Ah! Then there is some gay kissing, just limited amounts of it?” Marcus asked, teasingly.
“Fuck off!” JD growled.
“I’m confused,” Ghost said.
“I’m curious,” Carlos confessed.
“Bi-curious?” Oliver asked jokingly.
Carlos shot him the finger.
Then there was a beat of silence, everyone ate and drank, and something hung mid-air—
“No, really, I’m curious. Any way we can watch that shit?” Carlos asked, and suddenly, everyone was on the move, jockeying for a position in front of the TV.
Carlos sat on the floor at Aberlour’s feet, Ghost right next to him. JD stayed parked in the Chesterfield and had angled it so he could watch TV. All eyes were now glued to the screen.
“Damn—that’s a fresh beard!” Marcus commented admiringly.
“Really made a difference, didn’t it?” Carlos said, clearly amazed.
“Think it does the same thing to pubes?” JD inquired.
“What?” Oliver asked, looking baffled.
“Like, do you think a good pube trim can make your dick look longer?”
“Is that a concern of yours?” Oliver asked, trying to keep a straight face, humour glimmering in his eyes.
“Shut up, they’re about to do the house reveal,” Ghost muttered, almost too low to hear.
In no time at all, Oliver had convinced JD to fill them in on the deal with Queer Eye. They were now up to Episode 3, and the only thing they agreed on so far was that it accurately reflected the dynamics of a group project, which always results in unequal workloads.
“Does that cooking guy do anything except make guacamole and sandwiches?” Ghost complained.
“He makes up for it by being the handsomest,” Carlos replied.
“You’re out of your damned mind,” Marcus said, shaking his head emphatically at Carlos. “The black guy’s the real stud here,” he argued, prompting an all-out war about who the handsomest member of the team was, and whether ethnicity and skill made a difference in the final determination.
Aberlour shook his head at how ridiculous they all were. If only their old drill sergeant could see them now: The Few, The Proud. More like The Dumb, The Loud.
His Dumb and Loud, he thought, rather fondly. Aberlour didn’t know if he’d ever loved anything or anyone as much as he loved his team. The thought hit him square in the chest. Like an arrow hitting the bullseye.
“Oli can settle it,” JD decided, loudly, pulling Aberlour out of his thoughts.
“I can?” Oliver asked, surprised and amused.
“Your house, your rules,” Marcus agreed with a shrug, quickly endorsing JD’s plan.
“Well—” Oliver said, turning back to the TV.
The episode was almost over. They were hugging the participant, saying their goodbyes, and wishing him luck.
Aberlour wondered if anyone stuck with it after the show, or if once the gang had left, the people went back to their old habits.
Their comfortable habits. Their easy habits.
Oliver cocked his head, as though giving it some thought, then he turned to Aberlour in sudden panic.
“Help,” he whispered, as though the others couldn’t hear him.
“Not Abe! He has terrible taste!” Carlos protested loudly.
“The man walks around looking like the bottom of an old ashtray,” Marcus agreed.
Aberlour could have pretended to be wounded by their words, but he didn’t. He didn’t care what any of them thought about his looks. Hell, it was a pretty good description if he was honest.
“Have ya’ll looked into a mirror lately?” Oliver chastised jokingly. Then he turned to Marcus, having finally made up his mind.
“Dumber’s the handsomest,” he said with petulant confidence.
Aberlour barked out a laugh he hadn’t known was in him.
“Oh, fuck off, Darling,” JD exclaimed angrily, while the three others looked equally outraged.
“Marcus and Carlos are objectively better looking than Abe,” Ghost muttered under his breath.
“Oliver’s house, Oliver’s rules!” Aberlour interjected loudly.
More protests, more shouts. Justified ones, too.
It wasn’t that Aberlour wasn’t good looking, it was simply that he didn’t give a flying fuck.
His chestnut brown hair was currently three weeks past needing a good buzzcut, and showing all the uneven cuts of the rusty sheers he’d used the last time he’d cut it.
His dark grey eyes were set beneath heavy brows that made most people feel uneasy when they looked at him.
His expression was shadowed by his constant frowning.
His smile was uneven—a small white scar from falling out of a tree as a kid cutting across his top lip and pulling it crookedly upwards on the right.
He’d always been a bit scary, even as a child.
Something was off about the twinkle in his eyes or his perpetual smirk—but now that he’d bulked up, he was downright menacing.
He had the frame of a swimmer with a thick neck setting squarely on heavily muscled shoulders.
Handsome was not a word anyone would have used to describe him. Dangerous, perhaps.
“Yo, hold up! The dude just proposed,” Carlos announced, instantly halting the debate as everyone turned to stare at the screen again.
“The blond one,” Aberlour whispered once everyone was staring at the screen again.
“Huh?” Oliver asked. In the light of the TV screen, his blue eyes turned greenish, and his blond hair was messed up. He was smiling though. That same familiar smile that Aberlour secretly thought of as his.
“He’s the handsomest one,” Aberlour said with confidence.
Oliver cocked his head.
“Really?” he asked.
“I dig blonds,” Aberlour replied with a shrug, before turning back to the show.
The credits were rolling, indicating that the next episode would start in a minute, while Oliver stared at his profile searchingly like a puppy who’d lost his ball under the sofa.