Chapter 41
“I don’t want you here.”
Abe took a deep breath and spent a moment admiring the panoramic view.
The sky was blue, the ocean was clear, and the sand was hot.
It was everything a summer day could be.
Everything Aberlour had ever dreamed of, and if he shut his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still see Oliver, muscles rippling with sweat, overgrown hair blowing in the wind, like it had been that day on the beach with Team Specter in Hawaii.
Oliver was in hospice now. A small, private hospice right on the ocean.
It had been his mother’s choice, and Oliver hadn’t dared to argue.
He was too weak to argue. Too weak to enjoy walks on the beach.
Too weak to make it another month, according to his doctors.
Things had taken a turn for the worst right after the holidays.
January had flown by in a blur of decision making and catering to his every need.
Eventually, Oli had told them it was time.
He didn’t want his family dealing with his medical and personal needs any longer.
It would be easier in a hospice. Aberlour hadn’t said anything.
He understood. It was his choice. As long as he could stay by his side, then it was fine. All fine.
Except it wasn’t fine. The frail man Oliver had been two weeks ago was nowhere to be found. In its place, was a corpse bearing the heart of his—his darling.
“It’s a little late,” Aberlour said, not looking his way. “You said you’d marry me and everything.”
The room was cool. They hadn’t left it. Oliver couldn’t leave it.
When there was too much heat he puked, and then passed out, and it made Aberlour feel like his whole world had ended.
For now, it was just the two of them in the room.
Abby had taken their kids home for the evening, and Mrs. Darling had gone back to Alabama for a few days.
It was just them, and yet, the room felt too big to Aberlour.
They needed to be closer, always, but at least they were together.
“You’re not listening,” Oliver said, shaking his head.
He looked terrible. Eight to ten months had been a terrible estimate.
How many of those would be lived? They’d barely gotten six months of proper life before he’d started to dwindle like an unkept fire.
There were bags under his bags, no matter how much he slept.
There were bruises all over his body. Death hung over his shoulder, and Aberlour couldn’t look away, too afraid that it would snatch him away in the instant it took to blink.
“Sure I am. You’re playing that stupid fucking game again. You’re suddenly straight, and I have to leave,” he said, rolling his eyes, angry and saddened. “I don’t give a shit anymore. You want me gone? Then fucking kick my ass out!” Aberlour dared with a snarl.
Oliver cracked a smile. He hadn’t intended to, but nonetheless he did anyway.
“Yeah?” Oliver said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Aberlour repeated. “I’d like to see you try.” Because there was barely any trace of muscle left on Oli.
“You’re not listening,” Oli repeated.
Aberlour looked at him again, taking in every inch of the fading man. It was a terrible sight. A heartbreaking sight.
“I don’t want you here when I die,” Oliver said, voice firm with conviction.
Aberlour got up, the anger pushing him into motion. This again. Why didn’t they ever get past this? Aberlour wasn’t going anywhere. He’d pretend to be just one of his friends if he had to, but he wouldn’t be dismissed.
“Fuck off, O!” he said, not caring how harsh he sounded. “I’ll be silent, but I’ll be here.” He gave Oli a stern look.
Oliver gave a brilliant smile. It didn’t fit with his earlier dismissal. Was this some kind of test?
“You’re not listening,” Oliver repeated for the third time.
“Not listening to what?” Aberlour exclaimed, both outraged and annoyed.
Oliver’s hand, frail but still surprisingly strong, grabbed Abe’s forearm as he stared down at his beloved.
“I—I don’t want you to be here. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to see.”
Aberlour understood a little better now. It wasn’t about pride, or about reputation. It was about Oli’s innate desire to protect Aberlour.
“I can take it,” he said with false confidence.
Something odd happened then. A strange expression came over Oliver’s face in a mask of love, stupor, and horror all at once. Oliver reached for Abe’s hand, as he had been doing more and more. The grasp was strong, although the fingers were weak, and Oliver’s blue eyes bored into him.
“This guilt—you don’t need this—I don’t want you here. You deserve not to be here,” Oliver said.
Although he didn’t want to admit it, Aberlour finally understood.
He’d already seen too much. It was all right there, behind his eyelids.
A volley of bullets piercing the bodies of those two frail children, their flesh like damp paper, all but disintegrating beneath the assault.
Then, one man going down the line, long, sharp blade in hand, swinging in clean strokes over the necks of their men. Heads rolling and hitting the ground with a wet thud. Their eyes, still open, still scared, still lost. Their bodies never buried.
Oliver was the last. He was the only survivor other than Aberlour. Perhaps, Aberlour shouldn’t have to bear the images of his demise.
“That’s not necessary,” he objected, shaking his head.
“Do it for me,” Oliver pleaded. “Because I couldn’t have watched anymore—and I—I—” he stopped. His eyes dropped to his hands where he’d been playing with the fringe of his blanket. “Remember me at the beach,” he said, looking up again at Abe with hope in his eyes.
Aberlour knew this feeling. He watched Oliver, his eyes dark, the bags under them even darker. His hair was thin and short, his muscles had shrunken terribly. He looked so very frail and broken. So far from the man Aberlour had known, and yet—yet no further from the one he loved.
“This is goodbye?” he asked.
Oliver smiled, a broken, heartbreakingly familiar smile, and Aberlour looked away, because otherwise, he’d never make it out of the room.
“It’s really just see you later,” Oliver replied, like an idiot. Like a moron. Like a fucker. Like a motherfucker. Like everything Aberlour hated. Like—Like—
“Lie down with me before you go,” he asked, forcing Aberlour to face him once more.
Abe nodded. Slowly, carefully, he climbed into the bed, and wrapped Oliver up for the last time. He listened to his laboured breathing as Oliver faded bit-by-bit, using up the last of his minutes.
“Abe—” Oliver began, and God, how many times had Aberlour found himself in a similar position, with Oliver cradled in his arms, needing to tell him what Abe was so unprepared to hear. Every other time, Abe had shut him down. But they’d had time before—not anymore.
“Hmm?” Aberlour replied, hating the way his heartbeat sped up like a horse taking off.
“I love you.” Oliver declared, with fitting finality.
They were disarmingly simple words, and yet, Aberlour couldn’t have withstood them before. Not at their brothers’ funerals—nor when he’d been told of Oliver’s fate.
“I love you more,” Aberlour replied, an instant later. Like stating the weather. A fact. Yet carrying the weight of so many sleepless nights.
“It was always you—” Oliver added, like he knew Abe would be quick to dismiss the sentiment delivered from his deathbed. “That’s what I wrote that one time—I knew I’d lost you, but—I loved you, and I needed you to know in case you didn’t make it back,” Oliver said, breath hitched with emotion.
Aberlour made a noise he could not describe and kissed the base of Oliver’s neck. He remembered all too well. That single piece of paper he’d stashed in his BDU’s, as he’d been incapable of throwing it away.
“I should have told you—I wished I’d been strong enough to tell you,” Oliver admitted. Aberlour hated the thought that this would be their goodbyes—teary regrets and confessions.
“I love you,” he whispered instead, done with grief and sorrow for now. They both lingered in his future, he refused to give them a head start.
“I love you more,” Oliver answered, echoing Aberlour with a teary snort.
At last, they both agreed. How was it the first time they’d said as much? They’d loved each other for too long and certainly long before it had meant anything more than friendship, yet this was their first time admitting it.
They said nothing else, and Abe listened to Oliver’s breathing intently until he found it evening out with slumber.
“I’ll see you later,” Aberlour said, needed him to hear him one last time. God—his best friend. His—fuck—there wasn’t a word powerful enough on earth to describe what Oliver was to him and always would be.
“Yes,” Oliver quietly promised, as he drifted off to sleep in Abe’s grasp. He should have walked out then, but he wasn’t strong enough. Instead, he shut his own eyes. Soaking in every last bit of Oliver he could.
And there they all were, behind his eyelids.
All five of them. Happy, healthy, with shit eating grins, and careless attitudes.
When Aberlour shut his eyes, he was the only one—the only one with a broken smile.
The only one who didn’t see it quite right.
The only one whose sight wasn’t 20/20. The only one whose aim wasn’t quite right.
When Aberlour shut his eyes—Oliver had a heartbreaking smile that reminded him life was waiting to get him back.
When he opened them back up, a few hours later, Oliver was still sleeping deeply. He left him behind for the very last time.