How fucking pathetic.
“Fuck, it feels good out here,” Marcus said, reaching over to borrow Aberlour’s cigarette and taking a quick drag on it, then handing it back to him. Leaning against the brick wall of the bar, they watched people go by. It was still early, and the bar was in a popular neighbourhood, so it was an ideal location for people watching.
“What do you think of her?” Aberlour asked, because no matter how much they might pretend to enjoy the evening so far, they’d both come outside to bitch. Aberlour just needed Marcus to go first.
Marcus sighed. A deep, thoughtful sigh. Familiar and comforting.
Marcus was the team’s barometer. If things were going well, he was good. If things were going south, he would let them know. He knew each member inside and out. He could always tell when things were off. So, tonight, his expression said that things weren’t quite right with their world.
“She’s—” he sighed and broke off, as if he needed a moment to choose the right words. “I don’t hate her nearly as much as you do, but I’m not a big fan either.”
“Did I say I hated her?” Aberlour asked, trying to be an asshole more than anything.
“Your face certainly did.”
What was there to add to that?
Aberlour took a long drag, pulling the smoke as deeply as possible into his lungs. It felt safe under the cover of darkness, standing watch, like they had countless times before, smokingand talking in low voices, so as not to be heard by anyone more than a few feet away. Aberlour was compelled to admit that war and its deceit had become his idea of normalcy. Maybe that was yet another sad commentary on what his life had become. Best not to go there right now.
“She’s not you.”
Marcus was a perceptive asshole. Abe knew that. It’s the main reason he’d brought the subject up to begin with. There had been too much emotion revealed in Oliver’s gaze tonight. Like he’d known Aberlour was in—not pain. Not quite pain. He wouldn’t admit to that.
Grieving. Like he’d known Aberlour was grieving.
“’Course not,” he mocked. “I’d look terrible as a blond.” He forced himself to look out at the world. He noted a few passing women in short dresses and ridiculously high heels. Some of the guys were stumbling along, obviously drunk, arms wrapped around each other, singing offkey. Anything, he thought, anything to avoid looking at Marcus’ face.
Marcus responded with a half-hearted laugh but wasn’t distracted from the matter at hand.
“He’ll come around,” Marcus lied optimistically.
“See if I give a fuck,” Abe lied right back.
“He will,” he lied a bit more convincingly this time. Like maybe, if he said it enough, it would come true. “You’re Darling and Dumber. You’re meant to be together, always, you know,” Marcus added, with a forced laugh. He nudged Aberlour but failed to get any kind of response.
So, it looked as if Marcus knew the truth. It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to Aberlour. However, it was the first time that all doubt had been eliminated. Marcus knew. He knew what Oli meant to him. Hell, maybe he knew what they’d once meant to each other.
The idea was like a punch to his gut, not because he was ashamed, but because—whatever they’d had, it had been bold and real enough to be seen overtly.
He took another long drag from his cigarette, then handed it off to Marcus. Leaning back against the brick wall again, he pressed the top of his head against it, the tension easing out of him as he felt the rough bricks dig into his skull.
“When did you know?” Abe asked, because unlike Oli, he wasn’t ashamed of anything.
Marcus chuckled and shook his head.
“You guys are fucking loud. Or loudly fucking. We shared a wall last deployment; it wasn’t hard to figure out what the hell you were doing in there.” He laughed again. “Besides, I’ve known you for years. I noticed the way he looks at you—and the way you looked at him. There’s no mistaking that. It was—” Marcus shook his head. “It was always obvious, you know?”
Abe took back his cigarette and finished it off. He swallowed against the sorrow in his throat and pressed his head against the brick hard enough to make himself dizzy from the pain.
“There’s a jeweler’s box at the bottom of his duffle,” Aberlour confessed, not because he wanted Marcus to know, but because he needed to get the words out. They’d been burning holes in his tongue for far too long. They were festering in his mouth, and he wanted to scream.
That little black box haunted him. He could have drawn it from memory. It had scalded itself onto his brain. It was there, branded behind his eyelids so that it was all he saw when he blinked. A small black ring box. There was no mistaking it for anything else. He hadn’t dared to open it. The image of it—the shining band and the glittering diamond set off against plush velvet would have haunted him forever. He’d touched the box, having to make sure it wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Itwasn’t. It had been solid and all too real against his calloused fingers, but he’d resisted the urge to open it. Better not to see it and have the image stuck with him forever. Never his to wear, but forever his to bear.
Oliver was going to propose to Abby. He’d made his choice. He’d made his choice, and it wasn’t Aberlour. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t confused. He should have known this would be how they would end. He should have known as soon as Darling’s lips had pressed against his.
There was nothing for Marcus to say. They both knew it. That statement sat between them, like a hissing snake, crowding their thoughts with senseless noise.
There was nothing Marcus could say that would help. But he tried anyway.
