He shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts.
“A full fucking year, O!” Aberlour yelled angrily, barely able to stay seated with all that rage flowing through his veins. It was the wrong thing to be mad about. But he had to find something to focus all his anger on. “Do you know how much you can do in a year? Do you know—” he sobbed, gulps of air, gulps of tears. He was drowning. Was that even remotely possible?
“I don’t know if I’d ever have found the courage—but if I had—would you have said yes?” Oli asked with a little familiar smile that Abe still saw in his sleep. Ignoring Abe’s attempt at distraction.
Abe sighed, the answer sitting on his tongue like lead in his shoes, sinking him deeper in the floor.
“Any day,” Aberlour answered, with a nod.
Sunshine on a cloudy day, that was Oli. Yet, now, his expression had an underlying seriousness to it.
This was not a proposal. Neither of them would leave happy and delighted. This was grief, Abe realised. It was grief spelling out its name in the middle of the goddamned afternoon. Forcing you to bear witness.
“I was a fucking fool, Abe. Such a fucking fool for so many years,” he confessed shakily, shaking his head. There were tears in his blue eyes. They pooled at the corners, but just hung there.
“I told Abby everything, you know. I told her—I told her when the doc told me I was dying,” he chuckled as if finding the memory amusing even now. “The words just flew right out,” he said, smiling faintly while using his hands to mimic birds takingflight. He stared out the window as if visualizing them doing exactly that and then continued without any prompting from Aberlour.
“Neither of you deserved that. Neither of you—” Oliver shook his head. He chuckled again, then snorted.
Aberlour could barely see him through his tears. Oliver was now a vague shape. A familiar shape, blurry around the edges, disappearing slowly, both literally and figuratively. An iron band tightened around Aberlour’s chest.
“I’m so tired, Abe. So fucking tired. I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep since—” Oliver shook his head, swallowing against built up grief and age-old heartbreak.
Aberlour ached as he studied Oliver. He looked so familiar. He looked exactly as he had that morning in Aberlour’s hotel room, struggling to keep it together. Fuck, he reminded Aberlour so much of himself.
“I’m so fucking tired, I don’t know how to keep going,” Oliver whispered, like he was ashamed.
That spurred Aberlour into action. He’d always wanted—no, needed—to fix things for Oliver. Today was no exception. He wiped his tears away and pulled Oliver’s chair closer. Wrapping a hand around the back of Oliver’s neck, he pressed their foreheads together and stared directly into his eyes.
“One minute at a time, O. One fucking minute at a time,” Aberlour said, softly and reassuringly.
“It’s all I’ve got left, I suppose,” Oliver replied with a tired shrug and an entirely unconvincing laugh.
“That’s all anyone’s got, Darling,” Aberlour answered far more gravely than he’d intended.
Oliver wrapped his arms around Abe’s shoulders to pull him closer.
Aberlour couldn’t help noticing how frail he’d become and how much smaller than the fit, sleekly muscled Marine he’donce been. Aberlour wrapped Oliver up like he’d never let go and kissed the top of his head. A short, sweet caress that was nothing like the kisses they’d once shared, but nonetheless motivated by love.
“Abe,” Oliver began.
Aberlour was fairly confident that he knew what Oliver intended to say next.
“Not right now, O. Please. Not right now.”
Oliver responded by simply placing his head on Abe’s shoulder and burrowing into him like a snuggling puppy as he’d done years ago when they were lovers.
Aberlour held him close for a long time. When Oliver said something about going home, he hugged him closer to his chest, refusing to let go.
Oliver had chuckled and smiled.
“I’m still a father,” Oliver replied softly.
Aberlour silently loosened his hold on Oliver, who gradually eased back and stood up.
“I’m not walking away from what we have,” Oliver stated firmly.
“You can try—pretty sure I can catch up with your gimpy ass,” Aberlour had retorted quickly.
