"He did expect decency," he said finally.
"And you have never lacked that," Theodore went on. "I don't think you realize how much you are like him."
"I am nothing like him," Oliver replied. It was a surprise to him to hear his brother speak so candidly in his favor. The two had more of a relationship where they related to one another with humor and jest, but never did they outrightly praise one another like this.
It was a welcome surprise.
"You are," Theodore insisted, though his voice was quiet. "Not in every way, no one could be. But when you care for someone, you'd burn down the world before you let them come to harm. You think that's a flaw, but it was the best thing about him."
"He was better at it," Oliver's gaze fell to his hands.
"He had Mother," Theodore said simply. "That made all the difference."
The words hovered between them. Neither of them pretended not to hear the implication. Oliver pressed his palms flat against the desk, trying to conjure up an answer he did not have. Theodore let out a breath and moved to the chair opposite. He sat down, stretching his legs out.
"Do you remember," he said after a moment, "the evening before they left for Bath that last time?"
"She was fussing over his packing."
"Yes," Theodore said, a faint smile appearing. "She kept telling him he would forget his cufflinks. He pretended not to hear, so she scolded him for it. But she still tucked them into his case herself."
"I remember," Oliver murmured.
"She scolded because she loved him," Theodore said. "I think that is the part most people didn't understand. To them, it must have looked like she was forever correcting him. But it was her way of caring."
Oliver looked down at the dark surface of the desk. "He never seemed to mind."
"No," Theodore agreed. "Because he never doubted what was beneath it."
Theodore spoke again. "I think she loved that he never questioned it."
Oliver felt something in his chest tighten, an old, familiar ache he had never quite learned to be rid of.
"They were a good pair," he said, quietly.
"They were," Theodore said. "They didn't pretend to be anything they weren't. She was strong-willed. He was stubborn. But they were better together."
Oliver swallowed, wishing his throat did not feel so raw.
"They would have wanted that for you," Theodore added. "You now, a love that outlasts them. They have been gone for years now, and we are here still talking about their love."
"It isn't as simple as wanting," Oliver said, letting himself be earnest.
"I know." Theodore leaned back in the chair, studying him with clear eyes. "But it was never simple for them, either. They just chose each other anyway."
Oliver looked over at the portrait again. For once, he let himself remember it fully: his mother's laugh, his father's wry patience, the way their voices softened when they spoke each other's names. The ache was still there. But so, too, was something gentler.
"They would have liked her," he said suddenly. He did not have to say who.
"Yes," Theodore said, without hesitation. "They would."
Oliver did not trust himself to reply. Theodore rose and came around the desk. He rested his hand lightly on Oliver's shoulder.
"Do you ever wonder," Oliver began, his gaze fixed resolutely upon the grain of the wood table, "if there are parts of oneself that are simply unsuited to being loved?"
"I wonder many things," Theodore did not withdraw his hand. "But that has never been among them."
"Then you are more fortunate than I," Oliver admitted, a sad smile forming on his lips. He was never one to wallow, but in this moment, he realized that he needed a listening ear more than he thought.
