Abe nodded. Slowly, carefully, he climbed into the bed, and wrapped Oliver up for the last time. He listened to his laboured breathing as Oliver faded bit-by-bit, using up the last of his minutes.
“Abe—” Oliver began, and God, how many times had Aberlour found himself in a similar position, with Oliver cradled in his arms, needing to tell him what Abe was so unprepared to hear. Every other time, Abe had shut him down. But they’d had time before—not anymore.
“Hmm?” Aberlour replied, hating the way his heartbeat sped up like a horse taking off.
“I love you.” Oliver declared, with fitting finality.
They were disarmingly simple words, and yet, Aberlour couldn’t have withstood them before. Not at their brothers’ funerals—nor when he’d been told of Oliver’s fate.
“I love you more,” Aberlour replied, an instant later. Like stating the weather. A fact. Yet carrying the weight of so many sleepless nights.
“It was always you—” Oliver added, like he knew Abe would be quick to dismiss the sentiment delivered from his deathbed. “That’s what I wrote that one time—I knew I’d lost you, but—I loved you, and I needed you to know in case you didn’t make it back,” Oliver said, breath hitched with emotion.
Aberlour made a noise he could not describe and kissed the base of Oliver’s neck. He remembered all too well. That single piece of paper he’d stashed in his BDU’s, as he’d been incapable of throwing it away.
“I should have told you—I wished I’d been strong enough to tell you,” Oliver admitted. Aberlour hated the thought that this would be their goodbyes—teary regrets and confessions.
“I love you,” he whispered instead, done with grief and sorrow for now. They both lingered in his future, he refused to give them a head start.
“I love you more,” Oliver answered, echoing Aberlour with a teary snort.
At last, they both agreed. How was it the first time they’d said as much? They’d loved each other for too long and certainly long before it had meant anything more than friendship, yet this was their first time admitting it.
They said nothing else, and Abe listened to Oliver’s breathing intently until he found it evening out with slumber.
“I’ll see you later,” Aberlour said, needed him to hear him one last time. God—his best friend. His—fuck—there wasn’t a word powerful enough on earth to describe what Oliver was to him and always would be.
“Yes,” Oliver quietly promised, as he drifted off to sleep in Abe’s grasp. He should have walked out then, but he wasn’t strong enough. Instead, he shut his own eyes. Soaking in every last bit of Oliver he could.
And there they all were, behind his eyelids. All five of them. Happy, healthy, with shit eating grins, and careless attitudes. When Aberlour shut his eyes, he was the only one—the only one with a broken smile. The only one who didn’t see it quite right. The only one whose sight wasn’t 20/20. The only one whose aim wasn’t quite right. When Aberlour shut his eyes—Oliver had a heartbreaking smile that reminded him life was waiting to get him back.
When he opened them back up, a few hours later, Oliver was still sleeping deeply. He left him behind for the very last time.
Chapter 42
Present day
May 2020
His phone was buzzing again. He slipped his hand in his left pocket and took the phone out. He dropped it on the table and watched it vibrate and dance across the surface like a trapped snake trying to wiggle its way out. He pondered its existence for a moment. If he answered, he'd be forced to acknowledge the cold, hard reality of things. If he didn't, then he was officially a coward.
He threw back the last of his drink in one go and then swiped to answer the call.
"Aberlour." His voice was rough from the burning liquor he’d been pouring down his throat for the last hour, his breathing raspy and labored from what he knew was coming.
"Hi, Gavin," she said, voice little more than a whisper over the line. Feeble and frail, both things he'd never associated her with before.
"Abby," he responded, unable to say any more than her name because of the huge lump of emotion strangling his vocal cords.
She took a shaky breath and delivered the words he’d never wanted to hear.
"He died this morning. It was quick and painless." It was such a clinical explanation. It wasn't the first time she'd said those words today. He could hear that in her flat, toneless voice. She was keeping the words tight and simple, so she could deal with the chaos of their reality. He couldn't blame her.
He couldn't blame her, but he couldn't help hating her for keeping it together so well. He couldn't help hating her for making him feel weak.
"Good—" he answered, though he wanted to say so much more. He just wasn't sure he could. Not without breaking apart and taking her with him."Glad he didn't suffer," he finally breathed out, steadying himself.
He picked up one of the two darts on the table and threw it at the board without hesitation. It sank into the bull's-eye just as he had known it would.
