Had he been on this self-destructive behavior because he was lost without him by his side?
Had he never moved on?
Like he had?
That floored him.
How could this man have pined away for him for all of these years?
That befuddled him.
And made him question everything.
For all of this time, did Michael think he was the one hurt the most, and instead, Graham had been paying for each day, each year, and each moment that passed with pieces of his soul?
God.
He’d never thought he would.
Honestly, when he walked out, he figured he was the one who was broken by their breakup, and him refusing to come to the US with him.
And here, that wasn’t the truth.
This had hurt the man too.
From the age on his face, and the worry lines at the corners of his eyes, someone had suffered.
Gently, he touched his face, and there was so much pain there—even in his sleep.
He looked…lost.
It hurt Michael to know that Graham had been hurting for all this time—as the darkness came for him.
A darkness he’d dodged because he’d not been alone out there.
He’d had a family.
The Blackhawks.
“Why didn’t you just come with me?” he whispered. “We could have had it all. We had so much love between us. I would have taken care of you until the day I died. You were my person.”
Of course, there was no reply back.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t a question that Michael desperately wished he could answer.
It plagued him.
To.
This.
Day.
With featherlight fingers, he brushed some of the hair from the sleeping man’s face, and sighed.
“Graham, M'eudail,” he whispered, remembering the one word that his lover called him.
He was his darling then, and now…
