Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This wasn’t his, he had to remind himself. It was temporary. This man, this feeling, this warmth. Never to be hisagain. He squeezed Oliver a little tighter. His friend’s lean torso, muscles lithe and powerful, still familiar under his arm. They’d done this so often. The six of them. All the guys on Team Specter had been full-on cuddle bugs. Initially, Aberlour had been the only exception, but over time he’d eventually given in and joined their puppy piles. There was nothing quite like it. When the world went dark, and the weather was harsh, they’d found each other in the dark. Burrowing faces into each other’s chests, seeking warmth and comfort in places that were otherwise bereft of light and love. Before the team was formed, Aberlour had never been one to cuddle, but they’d corrupted him. Forced him into it. It got lonely, and scary, out there. And sometimes—well, fuck, men needed to cuddle sometimes. Once they’d broken through his defenses, he was forever changed.
This was the last time. The last of it. He cleared his throat, fighting off an impending sob.
He felt Oli shift slightly, relaxing into his hold naturally and easily, as he always did.
Then he sighed, like a man about to walk the gallows.
Aberlour felt instant dismay at what this interruption might mean.
“Abe—”
“No.”
“I need—I wanted to tell you—"
“Shut up, O.” Aberlour cut him off, shaking his head and burrowing himself deeper under the covers. “It’s not the time. Not right now. Sleep,” he ordered.
Oliver gave another defeated sigh, but rather than arguing as Aberlour had thought he would, he nestled deeper into Aberlour’s embrace.
It was the first time either of them had slept in days, and when they woke at midday, they only had 20 minutes before they had to go bury all of their friends.
It didn’t rain. Aberlour kept looking up at the sky, waiting for some dark clouds to roll in and obscure the sun’s bright rays. But they didn’t. Instead, they were stuck with blue skies as far as the eye could see.
It pissed him off.
The suit was scratchy. Dress blues were never comfortable, even at the best of times, but today they felt like his own personal prison.
They’d walked each coffin down from the church. Aberlour and Oliver had been pallbearers for each one.
They’d insisted, even though Oliver wasn’t in top form yet. His heart and pride demanded that he carry his fallen comrades right alongside Aberlour.
The wives had decided to have one common funeral. They’d be brothers until the end, Marcus’ wife Sabine had said in her speech. She’d been the only one to speak, and was well into her third trimester, still as lovely as the day she’d wed their friend. The others had lost their voices to grief and simply didn’t have the strength to contribute.
Selfishly, Aberlour had been relieved. Watching Sabine had nearly killed him, he wasn’t sure he’d have withstood hearing what the other wives would have to say.
They lowered all the caskets at once. Empty caskets. That haunted Aberlour more than anything. They were burying empty caskets, because the headless bodies of his brothers were still overseas, lost to those who loved them.
The thought was enough to break him.
Major General Baron gave the order, having graced them with his presence, and the three-volley salute went off. Aberlour hadn’t bothered going up to salute him. He was a mere vestige of a world Aberlour was leaving behind. Fuck him. Fuck all that he was and stood for. He prayed Baron would burn in hell for what he’d done.
As the casket met cold, dark earth, Ghost’s daughter wailed loudly. Something far beyond a cry of pain. The little girl screamed bloody murder. Her mother picked her up. The nine-year-old clung to her mother’s dress and was inconsolable.
Aberlour had to look away.
Oliver stood beside him. His shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, tears streaming down his face.
“I still can’t believe it,” he said, staring at the four graves, voice wavering.
Could Aberlour?
Aberlour wished he knew the right words to say. There must be some out there somewhere. But he supposed anything he could come up would still fail to alleviate the bitterness of their death, the unfairness of the loss, and the guilt that nailed Aberlour’s shoes to the floor. So, with a broken sigh, he, a faithless man, just closed his eyes and prayed silently for their souls.
“Oli?”
