“Sure I am. You’re playing that stupid fucking game again. You’re suddenly straight, and I have to leave,” he said, rolling his eyes, angry and saddened. “I don’t give a shit anymore. You want me gone? Then fucking kick my ass out!” Aberlour dared with a snarl.
Oliver cracked a smile. He hadn’t intended to, but nonetheless he did anyway.
“Yeah?” Oliver said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Aberlour repeated. “I’d like to see you try.” Because there was barely any trace of muscle left on Oli.
“You’re not listening,” Oli repeated.
Aberlour looked at him again, taking in every inch of the fading man. It was a terrible sight. A heartbreaking sight.
“I don’t want you here when I die,” Oliver said, voice firm with conviction.
Aberlour got up, the anger pushing him into motion. This again. Why didn’t they ever get past this? Aberlour wasn’t going anywhere. He’d pretend to be just one of his friends if he had to, but he wouldn’t be dismissed.
“Fuck off, O!” he said, not caring how harsh he sounded. “I’ll be silent, but I’ll be here.” He gave Oli a stern look.
Oliver gave a brilliant smile. It didn’t fit with his earlier dismissal. Was this some kind of test?
“You’re not listening,” Oliver repeated for the third time.
“Not listening to what?” Aberlour exclaimed, both outraged and annoyed.
Oliver’s hand, frail but still surprisingly strong, grabbed Abe’s forearm as he stared down at his beloved.
“I—I don’t want you to be here. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to see.”
Aberlour understood a little better now. It wasn’t about pride, or about reputation. It was about Oli’s innate desire to protect Aberlour.
“I can take it,” he said with false confidence.
Something odd happened then. A strange expression came over Oliver’s face in a mask of love, stupor, and horror all at once. Oliver reached for Abe’s hand, as he had been doing more and more. The grasp was strong, although the fingers were weak, and Oliver’s blue eyes bored into him.
“This guilt—you don’t need this—I don’t want you here. You deserve not to be here,” Oliver said.
Although he didn’t want to admit it, Aberlour finally understood.
He’d already seen too much. It was all right there, behind his eyelids.
A volley of bullets piercing the bodies of those two frail children, their flesh like damp paper, all but disintegrating beneath the assault.
Then, one man going down the line, long, sharp blade in hand, swinging in clean strokes over the necks of their men. Heads rolling and hitting the ground with a wet thud. Their eyes, still open, still scared, still lost. Their bodies never buried.
Oliver was the last. He was the only survivor other than Aberlour. Perhaps, Aberlour shouldn’t have to bear the images of his demise.
“That’s not necessary,” he objected, shaking his head.
“Do it for me,” Oliver pleaded. “Because I couldn’t have watched anymore—and I—I—” he stopped. His eyes dropped to his hands where he’d been playing with the fringe of his blanket. “Remember me at the beach,” he said, looking up again at Abe with hope in his eyes.
Aberlour knew this feeling. He watched Oliver, his eyes dark, the bags under them even darker. His hair was thin and short, his muscles had shrunken terribly. He looked so very frail and broken. So far from the man Aberlour had known, and yet—yet no further from the one he loved.
“This is goodbye?” he asked.
Oliver smiled, a broken, heartbreakingly familiar smile, and Aberlour looked away, because otherwise, he’d never make it out of the room.
“It’s really just see you later,” Oliver replied, like an idiot. Like a moron. Like a fucker. Like a motherfucker. Like everything Aberlour hated. Like—Like—
“Lie down with me before you go,” he asked, forcing Aberlour to face him once more.
