Chapter 7
They woke still lovers in the early morning sunlight streaming through the cheap hotel room curtains.
Aberlour held his breath, fully expecting an expression of regret to wash away the contentment in Oli’s expression, but it never came.
They said nothing. Nothing that wasn’t whispered directly into the other’s flesh and lost to the world nearly instantly.
Perhaps too afraid words would break the enchantment, or simply because words were unnecessary.
They stretched in the double bed, and pawed at each other, their gazes soft and sparkling with humour.
Aberlour felt absolutely giddy with it. The ghost of Oliver’s hands still lingering on his skin sent goosebumps running across his body.
They dressed in companionable silence, Oliver humming La vie en Rose as he picked their discarded clothing from the floor.
Slowly, as slumber faded from their eyes, they came back to themselves, sharing soft touches—almost shy ones, and speaking in low voices about missed texts and horrid hangovers.
It still hovered between them, though. Not tension but want—an ache for the other that their kisses had breathed to life and that would no longer be ignored.
It never left. Not as they left the room, nor as they drove back to base.
Neither of them spoke of what they’d done together the night before.
But Oli’s hand had rested in Aberlour’s all the way back to the base.
Until they finally parted—unspoken and necessary time and space to turn themselves back into who they had to be—Marines.
Aberlour had dropped Oliver off at the house with a whispered promise to come by a little later.
Oliver had looked worried for a second, but he'd nodded. Aberlour needed fresh clothes, and a shower, and, well, maybe, a little bit of space. Oliver had known as much of course. He’d smiled, that tender beautiful smile that Aberlour liked to think of as his, and jumped out of Aberlour’s truck without another word. He didn’t need to say anything.
So, Abe had showered. He’d changed. He’d eaten a protein bar and had spent four hours staring at his four walls, trying to figure out what to do next.
It wasn’t his style—not at all. He didn’t ponder, regret, or reconsider—he aimed and took his shot, trusting his aim to set him free.
Yet Oliver seemed to be the exception. Here he was, bow drawn, tension cast, waiting to launch his next arrow, unable to steady his aim.
What did Oliver want? What was there between them?
It was impossible to hit the target—even for an infallible aim—if he ignored what he was aiming at.
In the end, though, his instincts told him to pick up his truck keys and drive to Oliver’s house. And it was only once he’d arrived that Aberlour had realized he hadn’t planned what he’d say, or what he’d do.
“Did you lose your key?” Oliver asked with a chuckle as he came up behind Aberlour.
Aberlour had been standing there in front of Oliver’s front door, for some reason incapable of reaching for the handle.
He’d been here hundreds of times. He had a key.
Hell, he had a room where he always slept.
He was pretty sure the bed was still unmade from when he’d slept in it four days ago.
He’d never hesitated before. He’d never considered whether or not he was welcome here.
“Hmm?” he asked, turning to face Oliver, his question having gone in one ear and out the other.
“What the hell are you standing there for? Go on in,” he said, nodding towards the door as he frowned, looking at Aberlour as if he’d lost his mind.
Hadn’t he? Oliver Darling looked gorgeous.
He’d just come back from a run, his blond hair was dark with sweat, his blue eyes were bright from the exercise, and his smile was cocky, and bold, and all Abe’s.
In what world—how—he couldn’t be Aberlour’s.
Not in everything from friend to lover. It was too much.
Like a homeless man, handed the key to a kingdom.
He swore there was a brilliant shimmer to Oliver’s skin that hadn’t been there before.
“Right,” he said, turning back to the door and hesitating just a second before he turned the handle and let them in.
Oliver waited until they were both inside before he grabbed the back of Aberlour’s neck, and smiled up at him, closer than before, cerulean irises shining with pure, unadulterated joy.
“Hi,” he greeted, before he leaned forward and kissed Aberlour soft and fast.
“Hi,” Aberlour answered, something thick caught in his throat.
Oliver cocked his head, still holding the back of Aberlour’s neck gently. He ran his thumb along the skin, and his smile widened, somehow. It shouldn’t have been possible, but it did.
“I need a shower,” Oliver said.
Aberlour felt his gut tighten, he blinked quickly, the thought in his mind feeling funny. Was that an invitation? Should he be–
“I’ll be right back,” Oliver added, ripping the choice away from him, before pressing one more kiss to Abe’s mouth. He pulled away quickly and ran up the stairs, halting only once to shoot him a deviously charming look before disappearing down the hall to the bathroom.
Aberlour had been here countless times. He lived here most of the time, so why did it feel so alien all of a sudden?
He glanced around the room, breathing in and out slowly, trying to ease the flutter in his chest. Everywhere he looked, there were pieces of him.
His coat hung beside the door. Oliver had borrowed it yesterday.
His spare watch was on the kitchen counter, where he’d left it, setting next to his coffee mug, an old one that he’d taken from his parents’ house.
He belonged here. He was in the walls and in the paint.
He was everywhere. He’d always been everywhere.
None of that would change. It didn’t matter how they’d evolved.
He would always be part of this place—of Oli.
Aberlour forced himself to relax. It was the first time he’d panicked about the—situation. The physical part had been a no-brainer. Abe had never had hang ups with sex. It was something he enjoyed—and craved, but it was only part of it. It was the emotional aspects that were daunting.
He got himself a beer from the fridge, grabbing one for Oli.
The Budweiser, not the Miller—because the man had lousy taste—and sat down on the couch.
He turned the TV on and found a football game.
He couldn’t quite get himself invested in the game, but he sipped on his beer and relaxed into the familiar leather cushions, trying to ease the tension from his body.
A few minutes later, Oliver came down the steps, his hair still wet, wearing a pair of workout shorts and a grey t-shirt.
“One of those for me?” Oliver asked, as he walked over to the couch.
“Cat piss just for you,” Aberlour acquiesced, holding out the beer in invitation.
Oliver snorted and dropped down to the couch right next to Aberlour. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and grabbed the beer with a nod of thanks.
“Are you done freaking out?” Oliver asked, his eyes riveted on the TV.
Aberlour should have been disappointed at how pathetic his attempts had been to hide his feelings from Oliver, but he couldn’t quite muster up the energy.
After all, Oli knew him better than anyone.
It was the reason this whole freaking out thing was happening in the first place.
He sighed and cleared his throat, biting the inside of his lip as he nodded.
“Had one too?” Abe asked. He draped one arm around the back of the couch, his thumb brushing the corner of Oliver’s shoulder as he turned to read Oli’s expression.
“Four or five,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Most of mine were before, though.”
“Before?”
“Kept wondering how it would play out. If you’d kick my ass, or push me off a cliff,” Oliver said.
“You were afraid I’d kill you?” Aberlour teased.
Oliver shook his head.
“I was afraid you’d leave me,” he admitted.
The football game got loud. They both turned to watch a beautiful pass fly through the air, and the receiver jump to catch it. The ball landing perfectly in the palms of his hands and he flew towards the end zone. Touchdown! The spectators screamed and the victor’s teammates jumped him.
They both turned to look at one another again.
“I can hear you think,” Oliver said, softly.
“Actually, I don’t know what to think,” Aberlour admitted.
“What do you mean?”
He worried his bottom lip, thinking about how to answer Oli, and looked around the room. It was all the same. He kept expecting the world to change. For the sky to be pink, the water to be blood red, the house to burn. He kept waiting, at every turn, for something to be different, and it never was.
“I want this—” Aberlour said, reaching for Oli’s hand.
“But I don’t know what to change to make it—more,” he said, although it didn’t come out right.
That wasn’t really what he’d wanted to say.
It came out sounding odd and uncertain. It was all wrong, his head was swimming with it.
With all the words he couldn’t pin down.
They nagged him. Flying around his mind, tongues sticking out, baiting him into anger. He felt as if he was going crazy.
Oliver snorted and shook his head. He leaned back against Aberlour’s arm, and smiled at the ceiling, head tilted back.
“That’s exactly why it works,” Oliver said. “We’re already Darling and Dumber, so there’s nothing to change. We just—we get to fuck now,” he said, turning to Aberlour, a brilliant smile on his gorgeous face.
“We’re really good at that,” Aberlour said, unable to restrain his own smile.
“Fucking? Hell, yeah, we are!” Oliver agreed. Aberlour shook his head.
“Being Darling and Dumber,” he replied.
Oliver held his breath for a minute. Then he laughed, as only he could. Head tilted all the way back, mouth wide open, the laughter booming and unrestrained.
When he stopped, he turned to Aberlour and kissed him. It wasn’t soft and sweet this time. It was heated, passionate. He pressed against Abe’s lips and kept coming back for more.
There was heat in every nerve ending of Aberlour’s body.
The smell of Oliver, intoxicating and familiar, filled his world.
Aberlour reached for Oli, grabbed his leg and hoisted it up.
There was nothing between them, and when Oli pulled away to smile against Abe’s lips, they were both delirious with joy.
“We’re idiots,” he whispered softly.
“Morons,” Aberlour agreed, whispering against Oli’s heated skin.
He found himself trembling slightly as he lifted his hand to cup Oliver’s jaw.
He couldn’t stop the tremor, nor the rapid heartbeat in his ears.
They were so sudden and so foreign to him—expressions of doubt and nerves he’d never experienced before.
He swallowed against them as he fought to settle his breathing.
Oliver didn’t tense against him, but he held himself back from leaning into the touch, appearing to be ready to move away.
Abe had never understood the hang-up with sexuality.
A body was a body. Why should it matter who you loved?
But oddly enough, perhaps he understood it then for the very first time.
There was something inexplicably more vulnerable about being here, like this, with Oli.
Even fully clothed, touching rather innocently still—it felt a whole lot more precarious than it ever had with a woman.
To be a man—God, to be a man was such an odd and tricky thing.
Aberlour wondered if he'd ever truly been himself—or only ever a cloaked-and-carefully-shaped version of himself. Something that looked like a man ought to. Sitting here, with Oli—losing himself in that blue gaze—didn’t feel wrong, but it didn’t feel like something a man ought to do.
Therein, he supposed, lies the issue. Not the reality of the emotions—he couldn’t deny his love for Oliver any more than he’d deny that the sky was blue.
But because in this moment he was subject to a vulnerability that wasn’t considered manly—he felt like he ought to be resisting it.
It was silly. Silly enough that he nearly laughed.
Nothing had changed. Oliver was right. They were the same, in every way—they’d simply added a layer of caring for each other that had escaped them before.
Aberlour chuckled at the idiocy of his own confusion as he shed his nerves and leaned forward to kiss Oliver once more.
Letting the feeling—the almost tangible evidence of his desire—drown out the inside noise that would keep him from being happy with this man.
And God, was he ever.
With Oliver by his side, Aberlour was happy.
“You taste like fresh cat piss,” Oliver said, after a moment, the fallout from his overwhelming feelings having settled around them.
Aberlour snorted and shoved him playfully.
“That’s cause I drank some of your beer while I was waiting,” he lied quickly.
Oliver chuckled but settled against him. Not quite as close as before—but the position was more relaxed than the one before.
“Guess you probably have a point—probably don’t have good taste if I’m hanging out with the likes of you,” he said, as he snuggled against Aberlour.
“At long last you see sense—was starting to worry about you, Darling,” Aberlour answered as he draped an arm over Oliver’s shoulder, letting it dangle across his chest. Oliver toyed with Aberlour’s fingers as he mumbled an unintelligible response.
This too was familiar. The way they touched each other like a cat plays with balls and milk jug caps. Lazily, but with obvious fondness.
Happy. Content. At peace and fulfilled.
It was so rare to be so aware—so enamoured with one’s life. Short of screaming it from the rooftops, Aberlour didn’t quite know what to do, so—he hummed, and tried and failed to focus on the game. How could he when he’d done it—found home and love under one roof.