“I was hoping,” Oliver said, weakly.
“You lied,” Aberlour replied, and Oliver ducked his head, answering silently.
“I blamed me, too,” Oliver responded, playing with the blanket in his lap. It was fraying at the edges, and he was pulling the strings like a kitten. A sickly-looking kitten. “They’d have court martialed you.”
“They might have lived,” Aberlour replied, cold and angry. “They might have—their kids might’ve had dads,” he added, because it needed to be said, and Oliver had to hear it.
“You’d have been in prison,” Oliver replied, weakly.
“I’m in prison, either way,” Aberlour replied quickly enough that it couldn’t be anything but genuine.
Oliver stared at him like he’d never seen him before. Aberlour didn’t even bother giving him a smile.
He rose from his seat on the couch and walked over to the gargoyle. He picked it up, the weight of it unfamiliar and heavy. It had felt so much lighter before. Now it felt like every edge of the concrete was digging a hole into his skin.
“It’s a trap. It was always a trap.” Aberlour appeared to be speaking his thoughts aloud, not really directing them towardsOliver. “They make us care. Ask us to hold each other’s dick, watch each other’s six, make brothers out of strangers, and then they send us out there, knowing goddamned well most won’t come back, and that those who do will have lost a brother,” Aberlour said, shaking his head.
“It wasn’t your fault, Abe,” Oliver reassured him.
“It doesn’t help. Never made it better. I wish it had been my fault. I wish I’d taken the shot and missed. I wish I was in jail, rotting away for my crimes. Instead, I’m a free man imprisoned by my guilt.”
For some reason, Aberlour felt the urge to smash it. This ugly little thing that had somehow survived the test of time. It had been everywhere. Everywhere they’d been, it had been there, too. The desert, the rainforest, bars, strip clubs, hell, heaven. It had seen the world and made it back. He clenched his fist around it, not hard enough to break anything, but enough that it cut into his hand.
He turned, the gargoyle still in his grasp to show it to Oliver.
Oliver said nothing. He looked almost grey in the overhead lighting of the living room. Frail, pale, and fraying around the edges like the blanket wrapped around him.
“I never knew you were a poet,” Oliver said, with a hint of humour.
“You always knew me in secret,” Aberlour replied.
“I’ve already—” Oliver began to speak but Abe cut him off.
“It’s all in the past. I’m just saying.” He interrupted Oliver before he could issue an apology.
“This was supposed to be a celebration,” Oliver said, sounding tired.
“It is,” he replied, looking out the bay window at the kids still running around, high on sugar and the excitement offireworks exploding in brilliant colors in a summer sky. “I just have nothing to celebrate.”
And wasn’t that just the kicker.
“That’s not true,” Oliver denied quickly, another lie slipping past his lips with ease. Maybe he’d always been a damned good liar and Abe just hadn’t noticed it until now.
“No children, no spouse, no home, no nothing to take the edge off.”
“You have me,” Oliver stated with a faint smile.
Aberlour turned from him, unable to restrain the laughter that burst free. He placed the little gargoyle back on the shelf. It sat there, all alone, staring at him—eyes lonely and cold. Fucking cold and emotionless.
He huffed at Oliver’s words and turned. This wasn’t a romance novel, and he wasn’t a young kid. It was a stupid line. A meaningless line coming from a dying man who’d already gotten everything he’d wanted.
“You’re dying,” Aberlour said, as cruelly as he could. Oliver didn’t blink, maybe he was too tired to, or maybe he’d been expecting it. “You came back to me dying, having already lived,” Aberlour said like Oliver wasn’t getting the point.
“I’m still alive.”
“Yes, great. That’s exactly what I needed, Oli. Another guy to mourn.”
Maybe it was a step too far, or maybe Oli had gotten tired of his moping. Whatever it was, next thing he knew, he was smacked upside the head with a pillow.
