Oliver gave a chuckle, but his entire body seemed riddled with tension. Aberlour ran a delicate thumb over the bare skin of his arm.
“You afraid I’m gonna punch you for liking dick, Darling?”
Oliver looked over at him. He’d hoped to see humour in his eyes—or relief. But he saw neither of those. Instead, there was fear. Genuine fear.
“No—” he answered, shaking his head. He swallowed once, tension rising again. “I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same.”
Gavin Aberlour was an absolutely stellar marksman. He could shoot anything, from any distance, without ever missing. He’d built his entire military career on the steadiness of his aim, the unshakeable accuracy of his hits. He never, ever missed. Yet right then, had he been asked to shoot, throw, or aim anything, all of them would have missed. For the first time in his entire life, he felt unsteady. Rattled. Profoundly so, by the words of his best friend, because, for the longest minute of his life he wasn’t sure what he needed to say in response.
Aberlour broke it down objectively while lost in that intimately familiar blue gaze. Oliver. Oliver fucking Darling. Thecharming motherfucker who led Team Specter by Abe’s side. With his unruly hair, his bright eyes, his charming personality. Oliver fucking Darling who was everything Aberlour had ever needed and craved. Who was the only one Aberlour ever turned to, needed, or wanted around. The first and perhaps only person who’d ever reallyseenAberlour clearly, not for his capabilities, but for who he truly was. Oliver fucking Darling, who now stared at him, waiting to know whether Aberlour felt the same way he did.
And God, it was such a stupid fucking statement. Aberlour struggled to form a reply.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same.”
As if there was an emotion Aberlour didn’t feel when it came to Oliver. As if there was anything Aberlour wouldn’t give him. As if—as if Aberlour could ever turn him away when Oli so earnestly trusted him with everything he was.
Aberlour didn’t have the words to aptly describe his epiphany, so he didn’t bother replying verbally. Instead, he reached for Oli, piss drunk, half naked in a hotel room. He reached for Oli with a drunken smile, but the wisdom of a sober man.
He hesitated only for a moment—and only in case Oli might want to pull away. But as their gazes met, and Oliver licked his lips in nervous excitement, that sliver of doubt dissipated and was replaced by renewed certainty.
There was no odd moment, no pause, no what ifs, as his lips met Oli’s. They felt soft, and gentle, and as familiar as only home could feel. Abe’s head swam with the reality of the moment—overwhelmed at once by the intensity of the emotion, and the dumbfounding simplicity of it all. They came together like they always did. Their bodies melting against one another until neither knew where the other began or ended. It was too much, and never enough, and soon, Aberlour found himselfreaching for Oli. His large, calloused hands, gently running over the body he knew so well, yet had never explored before. He worshiped him as best as he could, tracing every scar, learning every curve, and losing himself completely to his moans and pleas. He pulled away only once, as Oliver leaned back in the bed, hitching himself up to catch his breath. His lips, bruised and swollen from the intensity of Abe’s kisses, were parted as he took several ragged breaths. Messy hair, chest covered in stubble burns and traces of Aberlour’s hands, he looked otherworldly. A piece of art Aberlour was surely unworthy of ever possessing. Never intending to be labeled a martyr, Aberlour planned to claim him as his very own. Reaching for Oliver once more, he let his hands roam freely. Allowing them to dig and test the pliable flesh, listening to Oli panting, letting the hesitations and softly whispered moans guide them. He never doubted it. Never questioned it. Not even when his hand wrapped around an unfamiliar dick. Not even when it sat, heavy and full in his hands. He never hesitated. Never second guessed how natural it felt to have Oli’s hot breath against his ear, begging for more, pleading for Aberlour to keep going. Never to stop. Never to quit.
And then, when it was Oli’s turn to explore the lengths of Aberlour’s body, he never cowered beneath that intense, searching gaze. He smiled, stretching like a cat in the summer sun, as Oli’s hungry gaze took in every inch of Aberlour. He chuckled and smiled as his favourite person in the world pulled him apart like no one else had ever done before. And when Oli’s mouth found his tender erect flesh—it was like swimming for the very first time. Weightless, unburdened—moved by a freedom and an ecstasy that couldn’t be named.
God.
Aberlour reached for Oli that night, and Oli held on to Aberlour.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same.”The words echoed like a song in his ears as he came—fell apart completely beneath his best friend’s hands.
As if there was a version of Aberlour that wouldn’t tear itself into pieces to belong to Oli.
In the end, they were simply Oliver and Aberlour, Darling and Dumber.
And piss drunk in a hotel room. It felt like forever.
Chapter 6
Present day
May 2020
After rapidly walking away from his booth at the fair—not even bothering to close it down properly—Aberlour hopped in his truck and took off down the road, his gut feelings guiding him to his next destination. In silence, he drove his old truck towards the city. His father had given him the truck when he’d turned 17, and these days it was held together mostly with duct tape and willpower. He’d changed out every part over the years, from the engine to the transmission. The windows were getting nearly impossible to roll down, and one time he’d gotten stuck inside until he’d managed to unjam the door lock. It had taken nearly two hours. None of that mattered though. It was his truck. The same one that had taken him down to the recruitment office at 18. The same one that he’d driven cross country when he’d needed time and space. Although he didn’t much care for his apartment, he determinedly hung onto his truck with absolute dedication. It had always taken him where he’d wanted to go, and times when he needed to make a run for it, it had given him a reliable means of escape.
The truck’s cab remained silent until he reached the city, and then he heard his cellphone ringing from his back pocket. It was driving him insane. The tune was faint, muffled by his jeans, but it was still too loud. It might as well have been ringing inside his head, for all that he could ignore it. He took a deep breath and punched the stereo on—quite literally, because it wouldn’t work otherwise—impatiently waiting a few seconds as the CD moved into place, and the first song came on.
It began with violins. Then melancholic and soft, the sound of Charles Aznavour’s voice began softening the ring ofhis cellphone. He knew this song so well, having fallen in love with it long before he’d fully grasped its meaning.
Hier encore, j'avais vingt ans, je caressais le temps
J'ai joué de la vie
Comme on joue de l'amour et je vivais la nuit
Sans compter sur mes jours qui fuyaient dans le temps
His mother had cried every time it had played on their old record player. At first, he hadn’t really understood why. It had seemed like such a simple song. It spoke of heartbreak and the passage of time, but it hadn’t warranted tears. Not to him. Not back then.
