But that was not his reaction. Understanding. That’s all Abe saw.
“I’ll—” Aberlour swallowed. “I’ll keep up with them. Make sure they’re happy and thriving, but—” he shook his head.
“I won’t stand in her way,” he finally managed to articulate. How could he possibly do more than that? They weren’t his. Never had been.
It was on Oliver’s mind to protest, surely, but there must have been some of that Marine mentality still remaining, because he simply nodded in understanding.
“They don’t deserve this,” he whispered, voice tight with emotion. “They deserved to grow up with a father. To feel safe and—” he shuddered. He wasn’t breathing right. His hands clutching the throw blanket.
“Hey—” Aberlour said, sitting up and grabbing Oliver. “I know. You’re right, you’re right,” he repeated, grabbing the side of Oli’s face and pressing his forehead to his. “You’re right—” Aberlour said, one more time, trying to keep his own tears are bay and calm Oliver at the same time.
“I didn’t mean for them to have the same faith,” Oliver sputtered out after a moment.
Aberlour shook his head, eyes narrowed in confusion.
“I just wanted to honour them—” he added, and Aberlour caught on, piecing together the familiarity of the names for the first time.
Ali and Mia—like the two girls they’d watched get gunned down as they’d reached for their father. God how long had it been?
“They won’t,” Aberlour said, shaking his head. “I can’t promise anything—I won’t—Ican’t,” he admitted, “but I’ll watch over them. Make sure they’re—” he hesitated. What would be the right word here? Secure? With a dead father? “Keeping their heads well above the water,” he finally managed to articulate.
It wasn’t much. Wasn’t anything, really, but Oliver nodded, his smile thankful. Whatever for? Aberlour thought. The bare minimum? Fuck.
Aberlour gazed at the man he loved more than life. At this beautiful, wrecked, and broken man. Part of him wanted to promise him everything. Wars and tidal waves of fortitude. He wanted to ache with a need to care for his children, but Abe couldn’t. They were nothing to him. A passing thought. They were actors in Oliver’s life, and the only reason he’d ever care for them.
Once Oliver was gone—Aberlour would be as well.
Abe was many things. An idiot, not the least of them, but he wasn’t a bleeding heart—nor a martyr. He would not promise to care for those who meant nothing to him. Nor would he wage a war for a cause he did not believe in. Perhaps it made him a cold man. But at least he was a self-aware one.
If Oliver processed any of those thoughts, he let nothing show. Instead, he nodded and took a deep breath.
“Merry Christmas, Dumber,” Oliver said after a moment.
“Merry Christmas, Darling,” Abe said, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against Oli’s dry, chapped lips.
They stayed there all night, just the two of them, breathing in every second, watching the flames dance until they had faded to gray ashes and could dance no more. Time ticking by, like an old friend waving goodbye.
And goodbye came far too quickly.
Chapter 41
April 2020
“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’tfine.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. Abbyhad 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.
