Had it already been four days? It felt like—
No.
There was no real way for him to quantify time. No reality to any of it. They were dead. They would always be dead. Days, months, years, the pain would be the same. He’d make sure of that. Time was irrelevant. He refused to think about it.
Instead, he said, “What else am I supposed to do? The time to act is gone, O. They’re already cold.”
If Aberlour had been a bit more like Oli, he might have admitted that he’d had trouble sleeping, too. No, trouble was not the right word. Actually, he was incapable of even shutting his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time. The haunting mental pictures had changed. Gone was the rotten image of their execution. Instead, they were there, all four of them, every time he shut his eyes, smiling at him. Sons of bitches, the lot of ‘em, grinning from ear to ear. He’d have preferred to see them miserable and afraid. He deserved to remember their pain and be haunted by it, but no such luck. Somehow he was plagued with images of them at their best. His men at their happiest and most content.
“What are we gonna do, Dumber? I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Aberlour was too, in a way, but he was used to the sinking feeling of losing his grasp on his sanity. He was used to this particular pitfall. The odd vertigo. But this was Oli’s first time.
He sighed and leaned forward to grab the arm of Oliver’s chair. He pulled it towards him so they could face each other, close enough that their knees touched.
“One fucking minute at a time, O,” Aberlour reminded him, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Exactly like before, one minute at a time.”
There was a broken sob. The kind that almost sounded like a hiccup at first. Then Oliver buried his face in his hands, harsh sobs shaking his shoulders. Aberlour doubted there would be any tears left, since it looked as if he’d cried all the tears a man could possibly produce in a lifetime. Aberlour knew this because he’d done the same. With a sigh, he pulled Oliver close so he could rest against Aberlour’s chest. Aberlour played with his hair, remaining silent while pain, regret, and anger wreakedhavoc on Oliver. He didn’t shut his eyes to weather the storm. The slide show of their faces would be there if he did. Just—waiting.
There must be words he should say. A smarter man would’ve had words. Good words. Smart words.
Marcus would have had words. The kind that made people smile through their grief.
Carlos would have had words. Funny words, intended to ease your misery, at least for a moment. Aberlour had none of those. All he had was rage and despair, and Oliver didn’t need those on top of everything else. So, Abe didn’t speak. He just continued to play with Oliver’s hair. Eventually, Oliver seemed to be calming down a bit, so he pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Maybe he didn’t have the right words, but touch seemed to do the trick.
“Your parents meeting you there?” Aberlour asked, as Oliver sat up. He didn’t mention Abby. He wanted to pretend she didn’t exist for as long as he could.
Oliver’s face was dry, not a tear in sight as he nodded.
“Yeah. They’re driving straight from the airport,” Oli replied, roughly clearing his throat as he lifted his head from Aberlour’s chest.
Aberlour glanced at the clock. It was only 7:00 a.m., and the funerals didn’t start until 1:00 p.m.
“Come on,” he said, as he got up. He grabbed Oliver’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
“Where we going?”
“To bed,” Aberlour said, tugging him towards the bedroom. Oliver didn’t struggle or resist, but his voice wavered.
“I can’t—it’s not—Abby . . . ”
So many damned words. Aberlour had always loved Oliver’s ability to talk—mostly because when he did, Abe didn’t have to. But just then, he wished Oliver would shut up.
“Sleep, Oli—we both need sleep, or we’ll never make it through, and four is enough Marines to bury for one day.”
The words fell like lead bullets to the carpeted floor, but he ignored them. What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Both of them were already riddled with bullets, only half alive. He wished his words were enough to take him out—take them both out and be done with it.
They weren’t.
Once in the bedroom, he dragged his shirt over his head, dropped his pants, and slipped under the covers of the bed. It was still freshly made. He hadn’t even attempted to get some sleep last night. He’d known it would be pointless. He didn’t wait to see if Oliver would join him. He knew he would.
As expected, Oli slid under the covers to lie next to Abe in his boxer briefs. Without a word, Aberlour rolled over and wrapped an arm around Oli’s torso. His hand connected with the edge of the small bandage he still wore over the bullet wound. It seemed like an eternity ago, yet it had only been a few weeks. No wonder he looked like roadkill.
He reflected again on the fact that he’d nearly lost Oliver. It seemed like a distant reality. Years ago—maybe even a lifetime, but no—it was fresh, just barely healed. It could very well have been Oliver’s funeral that day. Yet another wave of sorrow and anguish swept over him and Aberlour tightened his hold on Oli’s lean body, burrowing his face in that glorious mop of hair.
