Chapter 5
December 2012
There was a version of Aberlour—before everything went to shit—that was a little less naïve than the 18-year-old Marine who got on that bus heading to Parris Island, South Carolina. It was a version that had seen terrible, horrible things, but whose very existence remained balanced by the utter joy he experienced every day. The pride, the ego, the companionship.
Looking back, it was perhaps Aberlour’s favourite version of himself.
After returning from his parents’ funerals, the team had taken off. Carlos had gone to see some family in Mexico, Marcus had gone to meet his new in-laws, and Dave was driving to New York to spend time with his wife’s family. JD had offered to hang around, but then Caroline—the brunette he'd met in a bar—had called him up and he’d been on the first plane out. That had left him and Oli hanging out alone on base. Aberlour had told Oli to go home several times, but he’d consistently refused and stood his ground. He wouldn’t leave Aberlour alone during the holidays.
Besides, Oliver didn’t want to go home. He was killing two birds with one stone. At least, that’s what he’d told Aberlour to shut him up.
With that matter resolved, they’d moved on to debating what to do with all that free time. They’d finally settled on heading to the beach for a day, and had taken Aberlour’s truck, neither of them bothering to check the weather beforehand. Of course, by the time they got there, a cold December wind brought clouds and pouring rain. With hitting the beach no longer an option, they’d found a nice, local bar to spend theafternoon and evening, shooting pool, drinking pitchers of beer, and keeping up a running commentary on football games.
Now, they were both completely hammered. More than they’d been in a long time. Fortunately, there was a motel across the street, so they’d gotten a room for the night, unable and unwilling to drive the hour back to Oli’s place. The girl at the front desk had looked them up and down, unimpressed, but slightly amused by their drunken nonsense as she handed over their key cards.
So yeah. They were pissed out of their minds. They were ecstatic and happy. They were Oli and Aberlour, Darling and Dumber. They were everything Aberlour had ever wanted.
Oli opened the door, pushing much too hard on it, making it slam hard against the wall. With the lateness of the hour, their neighbours were sure to complain about the racket, but neither of them really gave a shit.
Aberlour hopped to get his boots off, then pushed his pants down. He pulled his shirt over his head, struggling for a moment when he got tangled in the material. Finally, he pulled it off and tossed it to the floor next to his pants.
“Master Sergeant Myers would have your head,” Oli commented as he sidestepped Aberlour’s jumbled pile. He’d made a neater pile on the room desk. Not folded to Marine standards, but certainly less disgraceful.
“Master Sergeant Myers cansuckmy head,” Aberlour said, crashing onto the bed, gracelessly. The frame rattled and the headboard knocked against the wall. The neighbours would definitely have their heads.
“I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Oli chuckled, right before he hiccupped. He dropped onto the bed next to Abe. Crossing his arms behind his head, he looked up at the ceiling, humming something beneath his breath.
“Getting my dick sucked? Sure am!” Aberlour replied, he turned his head to the right so he could watch Oliver. His dirty blond hair was in complete disarray. It was getting too long again. He’d get yelled at when they had their next morning PT formation, but Oliver didn’t give two shits. He liked his hair long.
Aberlour kind of liked it long, too.
“Even by Master Sergeant Myers?”
“Mouth’s a mouth,” Aberlour replied with a cluck of his tongue.
Oliver chuckled but didn’t sound convinced. Then he said, “I fucked a dude once.”
That was not where Aberlour had intended this conversation to go. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to ask Oliver such a thing. But this totally out of nowhere confession had been handed to him on a silver platter.
Aberlour gave a surprised snort.
“Did you like it?” Aberlour asked his best and oldest friend.
“Yes.”
It was oddly simple as far as answers went. Did you like fucking a dude? Yes. No hesitation about it. Nothing to do at this point but just keep going, right?
“Just once?” he asked, feeling the heat of curiosity pool in his gut. He was far less lethargic now—fully awake and sobering up fast—at this strangely exhilarating change in their conversation.
Oliver hummed noncommittally, giving Aberlour a funny little smile. Not his usual one. A more bashful kind—accompanied by distinctly rosy cheeks.
“You bastard!” Aberlour accused with a laugh. Without thinking he reached over and ran his fingers through that overgrown, wheat-coloured fringe, twirling it around aimlessly.“Not just pub girls that aren’t good enough for you, huh?” Aberlour laughed, his other hand resting an inch from Oli’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers achingly close to all that pale, smooth skin.
“Not really into them,” Oli admitted.
Six years. Aberlour had known Oliver for six years, yet this was the first time Aberlour was hearing about this. They were best friends, weren’t they? Why the fuck did it take six years for Oliver to admit that?
“Definitely explains your lack of game,” he muttered, face halfway buried in the pillow.
