Chapter Text
“Is that Gaz now?” you exclaim in delight, pointing to the man beside your brother—taller, broader and unmistakably grown.
He is distant from the picture you always had of him. Sporting the same tactical uniform your younger brother wears and the familiar union jack baseball cap that seems rather like an extension of him. Gaz smiles directly towards the camera with an arm enclapsed around your dearest Tom.
“Yes—and do not point out the height difference,” Tom half-heartedly warns from across the kitchen island. “Not while I already have him reminding me every chance he gets.”
You laugh lightly from the back of your hand. Enlarging the screen for a better view, you see traces of the boy you remember fondly.
“And yet you’ve made him best man for your wedding.”
“He’s a righteous prick, stubborn as hell, clever—in an irritatingly arrogant way—it was a no brainer truly.” Tom shrugs in passing before guzzling down milk straight from the carton. You grimace at your brother’s audible gulps. Turning your attention back to the screen, you return to your scrolling; the album full of Tom’s last deployment with his oldest friend.
“It is a wonder that you are getting married.” before me.
Your wry omission could be read on paper as Tom now boasts a gloatful smile and gives you condescending pats to your back.
“Don’t hold that against me.” He sighs wistfully. “Just because I am younger.. terribly handsome, charming.. in my peak years—”
“Where are you going with this?” You snap.
You swear one more wrong word from him and he’ll have to be reminded why you earned your title as the older sister.
“You’ll find someone.” Tom says in surprising earnest. “Truly; if I know any of my mates good enough for you I’ll send them your way.”
“Please—I see the company you keep.” You scoff dismissively. Tom doesn't fight your words on that, instead he looks off into the distance and sips into his milk in deep thought. You are only glad that he’s drinking like a normal human being now.
“Gaz has always been the best one of us.”
You eye him surreptitiously—but he says nothing more and tosses the carton back to the fridge.
There was once a time where Gaz would frequent your family home when you were all just kids. He’d often arrive in the pretense that he was there for your brother, but you knew that he knew your brother had football practice every Saturday. You’d play along to his act, feigning ignorance. He had a rather sweet disposition about him that you couldn't refuse.
Tom was right. He really is the best of all of them.
Gaz had always been so polite and mild-mannered, and despite his peers, he didn't succumb to their influences. In fact, you could say that he set a precedent for them. Always the first to call things out, never afraid to stand his ground. Even as a kid, he listened to his parents so well. You don’t ever recall him ever going through a rebellious phase.
A perfect paragon for the golden boy.
You also remember how sweetly he trailed after you when he was younger; tagging around you everywhere like a little puppy—which you had nicknamed him much to his chagrin—so much to the point Tom had to ban you from the living room whenever they played their video games, claiming you were distracting him.
Your friends particularly loved to joke about your little boyfriend—even your mother at times had to pull you aside to let you know if you knew how sweet that Garrick boy was on you. Of course, that was all very well and endearing. It is not unheard of for younger brothers’ friends to get enamored around older and seemingly ‘cooler’ girls.
However, you had not expected the sentiment to stick around that long.
As he grew older, he had never quite shaken off that propriety he’s reserved around you. You had always humoured him when he was younger—because the thought of him ever having a chance with you was absurd, but as the lines begin to grow obscure, you begin to worry that you are letting him believe anything could happen between the two of you.
The thought of it then made you blanch.
Back then you made great efforts to remind him of the exact image you have of him; your little brother’s childhood friend.
It brings you back to when he had first grown taller than you, overgrowing you like weeds. And yet you patronisingly brush his hair, call him puppy and ask him what classes he’s taking or how his grades were looking. There is a disappointment in his face whenever you dismiss him, and you are careful to pretend not to notice.
Whatever accomplishments or accolades he’s achieved, it has always been met with praises like one would give a toddler:
He’s received the Dux award?
Got his driver’s licence first time—oh! And a hunting and boating licence?
Recruited for the Special Air Service in the British Military?
Awarded the Operational Service Medal?
You congratulate him as if each achievement was somehow simple. You can tell he hates it when you do that.
Gaz would wince and bite his lip before looking to the side, hands tucking into his pockets as if he was embarrassed by his feats—that were no doubt exceptional—but you’ve always managed to reduce his wins to be so small.
However, nothing gets on his nerves more than when you talk about your current boyfriends you had at the time. He had never said anything outright—but that boy did wear his heart so clearly on his sleeve.
Like it was his right to be angry; Gaz would sneer at the sound of their names, his temper would uncharacteristically shorten, his replies would grow clipped—and most of all, he would waste no chance to point out the shortcomings they had about them.
That all fades whenever Tom lets it slip that you have broken it off.
In spite of all that, Gaz was so present in your life he has grown to be like family to you—a brother to Tom.
“My phone, please?” He breaks you out of your reverie, outstretching his hand across from you for his device. You roll your eyes and hand it in which he pockets easily.
“They’ll arrive early tomorrow,” he reminds you.
‘They’ as in the honorary guests—out of town relatives, the bridesmaids, groomsmen. In anticipation of the wedding, your family has taken residence in a charming country manor. It’s a bit out of the way, but you think the long drive makes up for the beautiful view you wake up to during sunrise.
“Can you help in the morning?”
You hum in agreement at his question, lingering in the kitchen long after Tom has gone upstairs to retire for the night. You look forward to meeting old and new friends. However, there is only one person that is on your mind. There shouldn’t be any apprehension when thinking about the past—but he is persistent in your head.
The feeling of unease settles into the depths of your pit once you’ve entertained the idea that it exists. It is unyielding in its own regard—even as you occupy yourself with the mundane: brushing your teeth, your hair, singing a tune that was stuck in your head all day before this, doomscrolling on your phone—none of it seems to work.
You are well settled deep into the comforts of your heavy quilted duvets, far past beyond the waking hours. And so you indulge. The memory you try to forget comes resurfacing back into your focus.
Gaz—however apparent he makes his feelings for you was—had never so much as uttered a single word of confession. Honestly, you were glad that he never did; it just made things easier. That is until the night before Tom and Gaz were set to be deployed right after completing the SAS selection.
The Garricks had extended an invitation to your family to spend dinner together before the boys were off to fight whatever evil they deemed sufficient for war. You must have cried for two weeks leading up to that day.
No amount of convincing could get your brother to desert his mission. You had probably exhausted your voice for how much you begged him to stay. The same sentiment had also reached his friend as well. Yes—it was noble, valiant, brave or whatever patriotic adjectives that they use to describe military propaganda, but you didn’t think it was worth the expense of theirs or others’ lives.
Your efforts were all in vain anyway; they all fell on deaf ears. Their core values were set in stone, and nothing could move them to see otherwise.
You recall mostly staying silent during the formal sit-down dinner, having spent all the words you could for weeks that you could find no other to spare during that night—not even small pleasantries. Gaz had noticed, pulling you aside after the meal had concluded—it seemed like you weren’t the only one with something weighing heavy on their mind.
That memory is ingrained in you like ink to skin—no matter how much you try to forget, it all comes crawling back to your mind:
“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man in love.”
Verbatim; like it was yesterday.
You let him down that night with care, knowing how fragile he was at that moment. The hurt on his face was unmistakeable; you think you made the right choice. That was the last you see of him. Funny how five years had gone without a moment's notice.
Though confronting, you play the memory on repeat until you fall asleep—until you’ve reminisced enough to know that the past can still ache and haunt you like the present. And again with time, it heals. Once you’ve acknowledged it again, it bothers you less knowing it’s still a part of you that cannot be forgotten.
Misty, low fog clouds the garden grounds when you overlook the windows. The flowers shrivel and closes up in the cold, awaiting warmth from the East expectantly.
It’s not long until you see the first fleet of cars rolling down the winding driveway. Tom is already by the gates in his thick fleece jacket, unlocking the heavy contraption and dragging it through the gravel. You see a hand emerging from the driver’s side encasing Tom’s briefly for a momentary exchange.
Taking off like a bird, you swoop down the flight of stairs to welcome the guests. There is excitement brewing in your chest, awaiting familiar faces you haven’t seen for some time and of course, acquainting new ones as well.
By the time you open the front door, your arms are at an immediate outreach towards your closest relatives. They release the most high-pitched sounds once you’ve called out their names before returning your hug with the tightest squeeze.
Your nonsensical and haste prattle to discuss what had happened these last few years since you’ve last seen each other was cut short by Tom’s narrow glance at your way. He is seemingly displeased by the rather loud chatter you’ve caused.
“Excuse me, groomzilla awaits my service.” You roll your eyes playfully as they snicker and promise to catch up.
Your eyes befell a woman in a blue blouse with her pale-gold hair tied neatly back in a bun opening up her boot. You don’t believe you know her—but you hope to be of some help; there seems to be some heavy suitcases in the back in which one would likely struggle with bringing inside in one trip.
“Good morning,” you chirp softly as to not startle her from behind. “Please, let me help you.”
“Thank you.” She gives you a small smile and a nod your way.
You successfully heave one luggage down from the vehicle as she easily manages the other. You think it is the proper time to make polite introductions; you start with your name.
“Tom’s sister—the groom to the unfortunate bride,” you murmur the last part teasingly, but when she only returns it with the same composed smile, you quickly add, “just joking!—of course, she is very fortunate. My brother, Tom, a-as you may know. He is—well was—in the SAS, the Special Air Service. Now he’s doing also very important work for the government—”
You are interrupted by her small laugh.
“Yes, I know Tom very well, we used to work with each other.” She picks up her black luggage and you do the same with the other. “Kate Laswell.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you say in delight. “He’s often told me the people he met in his service are often the closest friends he’s made in his life.”
“I’m sure. Trauma bonding has a way of bringing people closer together.” With her even voice, it takes you a moment to register that she has made a joke. You can only breathe out a laugh as she shoots you a slight grin your way.
Once you’ve assisted her to one of the many rooms in the wing, you venture out the front garden where many more guests come trickling in from their long drive on the country roads. The formidable rumble of an engine catches your attention. A sportscar pulls in with sudden precision and slows to a stop; Tom is already making his way over to the driver.
“Mate, that’s some car.” he whistles and grazes his fingers against the hood before knocking on it twice.
You hold your breath when the door opens. It’s Gaz. You don’t know but it all feels surreal to you; he is there. Gaz comes out from the driver’s seat positively beaming and embraces Tom with a firm grip in one hand and the other over his back.
They exchange greetings as if time hasn’t passed them by, casually going off about the morning drive and the weather. Granted you don’t know how far the space of time was between the two, but you find it all endearing to see them together again like old times.
Gaz momentarily looks your way and you take your chance to wave and smile from the distance. However, he swiftly looks the other way—entirely dismissing you as if just seeing you is insulting enough for him.
Your hand is frozen next to you before they slowly fall to your side. The hurt is felt just after a brief stillness in time; your breath falls short. Surely, he doesn’t mean to do that—perhaps, he didn’t see you or thought the greeting was not meant for him.
Excuses come rushing through your head. You are in denial of the worst case scenarios you’ve conjured and ruminated on just last night. He can’t possibly still remember—or be angry at all. There must be something else, you think. The Gaz you know wouldn’t act like this. Instead, he must be tired from his drive and simply didn’t see you in the midst of his brief look towards the building. You chalk it off and decide to leave it alone for now; there are other guests needing your attention.
The whole morning continues in joyous disarray. Your arms are getting quite sore from the luggages you’ve carried up the stairs. However, the good company alone makes up for the fact that you can’t feel your forearms for the time being.
You’re preoccupied with building a rapport with those you have not met yet, making sure they feel welcome and comfortable with their stay. Tom’s bride, Guinevere, is as lovely as ever. With the amount of stress and checklists that must be running through her head—she stays composed. Her family is also an extension of her; grace and sensibility.
Everything felt perfect and serene; everything you could ever hope for the couple.
So that little oversight for your regard shouldn’t bother you. Instead, you should focus on what is important to your family at the moment. You are to do your best to keep the peace; there is no problem—there never has been. Gaz has grown into his own person—even if he is someone you could not recognise anymore.
It doesn't matter how much both of your family values each other, nor does it matter the years you have known him. If he feels that he has outgrown you, you have no right to object to it.
Though you settle on your pragmatic assurances with confidence, your haste convictions waver when you see him warmly greet your parents. Embracing your mother and shaking your father’s hand as though they’ve always remained familiar—like the last time they saw him wasn’t when he’d been sent away for military training.
You couldn't help the sadness that seeps in. It is apparent that his warm esteem and consideration for your family is not extended out for you. You don’t know why you’re excluded; the small moments of respite you find yourself in the busy day, you find yourself mourning the fondness you feel for the wonder kid you once knew.
The next event is almost immediate. Even though most here are either jet-lagged, excited or anxious, time does not wait for anyone; rehearsals are in place. The event coordinators are going through the logistics for the big day. You and a couple of green volunteers are more than happy to support with any of the small tasks that may have been overlooked in the background.
You are relieved to see the venue finally taking shape. What once was an empty and barren auditorium has come alive in celeste and white in multiple forms: in blooming flowers, silks, multifaceted crystals, drifting veils and soft arrangements. It is entirely beautiful, and yet it is not entirely close to finish.
The event coordinator assiduously lists the items still yet to be crossed in his checklist: chairs, flower arrangements, plating and other small confirmations with Tom and Gwen. Seems easy enough. You all collectively think it could be done well before the day ends with the extra sets of hands the team had now at their disposal.
You see boxes of tablecloth yet to be folded for the tables along the vast colonnade hall, and endearingly, you spot Gaz struggling to set one despite the amount of times a staff has shown him. At one point, she deserts him after her third demonstration—returning to her other priorities that demand greater attention.
You abandon your previously declared faith and gravitate closer to him. You are a social creature and your sickening desire to be liked by everybody surpasses even your respect for others’ boundaries.
Gaz’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries desperately to emulate the pristine folded cloth in front of him. You carefully stand from across him and whisper a quick greeting. His eyes flick to yours before returning to his work.
At least this time, he nods to acknowledge your presence.
That is good enough for you. You keep a sheepish smile on your face and busy yourself with setting up with the same task he is otherwise so absorbed in. Once you have set up two, you look up briefly to see that he is struggling with his first; you could not help but laugh lightly at his unyielding efforts.
His fierce eyes shoots across to you, as if you had directly affronted him. You stop immediately but you could not help the smile that creeps up on the corner of your lips.
“Here,” you say graciously and take a cloth next to you and provide him with a step by step guide. He tries his best to follow silently, but it is as though his hands are too large and big for such a task that requires a delicate touch. And still, you enjoy gracing him with patience, unfolding your work to show him once more whenever he deems he is too good for your advice midway and finds himself lost again.
You figure this could be a step to bridging the gap he has created between you. The distance still feels far, but you are nothing if not resolute.
“No—like this.” You offer again and repeat the motion, he does the same but it is not quite right; still charmingly lopsided and crinkled at the edges. You laugh again—not at him—but at the stubborn imperfection he is so determined to overcome.
It seems as though he does not share the same humour as you as he sneers in frustration. Gaz unfurls his piece of cloth and tosses it back down sharply, undoing all his spent efforts.
“Right, you do it then.” he snarks dryly before storming off to heave a stack of chairs—only he grabs them too harshly and carelessly, making a sharp, jarring screech across the floor for a brief moment. The sound is enough to turn a few heads before they resume back to their tasks at hand. And yours, they pitifully still zero in on him.
You don’t understand; he might as well have told you that you’re dead to him. Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed at him, perhaps you’ve misread the situation—that you should have seen how much it offended him when you could see that he was trying so hard. Still—you can’t help but feel as if you didn’t deserve such an unwarranted response from him.
The dread that simmers just above the surface comes into the low light; it is now cold as ice inside your chest.
As pathetic and miserable as it might seem, you could not bring yourself to stop staring at his retreating back. Seeing him busy himself with whatever tasks that he could get his hands on—particularly with heavy-loading ones—your eyes continue to search for him.
He hates you; you are sure of it now, and you don’t know what to do with this profound information.
It burns in the back of your mind throughout the day; to have met a complete stranger when this person meant so much to your family. You begin to recount any misgivings you might have afflicted, any insults that you might have carelessly tossed as a joke—you play it all on repeat. Your movements are now slow, your face twisted in pensive consideration, your mind far off into the distance—you are too much preoccupied with your thoughts to be of any help.
This continues long after the day is finished, when everyone retires briefly into their rooms to recuperate before congregating again for dinner. You remain in a state of shock; you never did very well with direct animosity, always used to playing politics and avoiding direct confrontation, masking enmity for the sake of polite society.
When dawn settles, the ground level of the manor is filled with a cacophony of lively and generous conversations. Sharing past recollections over an equally hearty meal, and yet—you could not bring yourself to meet their level of enthusiasm. Your sudden quiet disposition does not go unnoticed, a few of your close companions whisper into your ear to check if anything is wrong—in which you fervently deny and placate with a disingenuous smile.
When their attention is elsewhere, you resume your pensive temperament; staring into your soup with a still and vacant look. The wounds you are nursing are rudely interrupted by a sudden raucous laughter by the end of the table where most bachelors sat by with Tom. You eye Gaz from the corner of your eyes with slight indignance.
At first you feel wronged—humiliated even. How can he toss his head back and laugh so freely? Grasping your brother’s shoulders in response to his quick, witty jokes—being so respectful and charming to all other guests and your family here? How dare he be such a well-rounded young man when he has been reproaching you ever since he’s arrived?
If he means to sentence you to exile you at least would like to hear the charges for it, though you make peace that you probably may never hear it.
You promise that you wouldn’t confront it, that you wouldn’t push for a closure or even a spare a thought more than what you already have; there is nothing wrong with not being friends, not everyone has to like you—
But the moment he stands to clear his plates, you quickly follow his steps into the kitchen.
You could not help it. He has taken an issue with you—you don’t know what—but you are older and thus, wiser by default. And so, you are determined to navigate his complexities and ire with you and make some kind of amends at the very least. He is your brother’s best man, and you are the good-natured, kind, most considerate and oh so mature sister. There is no pride or ego you hold onto when dealing with conflict resolutions, you are only focused on a solution.
There is a slight apprehension when you take a step forward into the separate, industrial kitchen with him; blocked off from the rest of the crowd. With the last vestige of courage and humility you have, you approach with your hands up in defeat, your white flags raised high—letting him know that he’s hurt you, and you are defenceless.
“Hey Gaz,” You offer almost whisper-like, afraid that even an octave higher would be misconstrued as an instigation for an argument. “How are you?”
You join beside him to put away your plate but he picks up his pace and tosses his into the sink, preparing to leave as if a moment with you longer is like torture he is unwilling to bear. This scares you to an endless week of suffering from a one-sided battle; a cold war, and so you catch his forearm—a grip that isn’t stringent or insistent, but not so wilted that you are giving him a choice either.
He relents and looks back at you—still as guarded as before, but there is a slight willingness now. You look up at him, wide and pleading. You only release your hold once you are certain that he is at least sparing you a few moments to hear you out.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, filling in the silence. “Please; talk to me.”
Gaz shrugs and looks away for a glance before returning to you. “Nothing.” he says simply. As if his fists aren’t clenched so tightly by his sides, opening and closing them in bristling restraint.
“Nothing?” you repeat back, entirely unconvinced by his answer. He frowns slightly and nods back at you in response. “Gaz, I–”
“It’s Kyle,” he interrupts. Making a low sound in his throat, he clarifies, “Kyle, now; to you.”
There is a pause in your being—as if time has stopped just for you and you are only caught up with the rest of the world when you have finally pieced everything together.
“You’re still punishing me?”
“After all these years?” you breathe out, trying to make sense of the situation. “Ga–.. Kyle, you are practically family, my brother’s best man. What happened years ago shouldn't affect us now; I haven’t thought about it for so long—”
“You never fail to remind me how little you think of me.” He laughs bitterly. “It meant nothing to you, did it? That you haven’t thought of me—that I meant nothing to you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that..” You try with utmost sincerity. He is visibly frustrated, prone to anger and nonsensical accusations—you are careful now in the way you talk to him. “I just meant.. “ you pause before selecting your words in a way that couldn’t be easily misconstrued. “I thought you would’ve forgotten about it.”
He is silent for the time being. Gaz looks at the ground and shakes his head while sucking hard through his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.. “ he admits, like he is ashamed—but his eyes are burning red with accusation. “Not like you.”
You move to say something but he backs away, hands in his pockets in defence. “I don’t need an apology or your pity—you’ve patronised me enough for what it's worth.”
“What do you expect me to do?” You whisper hopelessly. “Move on knowing that you are still angry with me? I’m supposed to act like I’m okay with being estranged? I want to make it right with you, Gaz—” you catch yourself slipping by calling out his name you’ve only known him by, and not the one he insists on to drive you further away.
“Why?” his brows furrow as he stalks closer, looming over you, stopping just enough to unsettle. “Why are you so desperate to mend it? You gave me your answer a long time ago.” He says; you force down a tight swallow. It takes every courage within you to look up at his fierce gaze—in which you can see through a thin veil, is withholding so much repressed resent and sadness.
“Because I care about you.. “ You say finally. There is no conviction in your words, or a pitch that means to be convinced; you only say the bare truth. “You know I do.”
“Come off it–”
“I do care; how can I not?”
He considers your words, mulling over them like he's trying to dissect even the slightest hint of deception—but you are steadfast and hold your ground. He can think what he likes; you are more than happy to repeat yourself a thousand times over until he’s finally convinced. Again, you don’t come here to fight, only to at least get some closure.
His voice softens when he asks, “have your feelings changed then?”
There is a sudden vulnerability he poses in his question. His scathing look remains, but there is patience now. You take advantage of the moments of reprieve he is giving you; a moment to mask the bewilderment you feel when you learn he’s still harbouring and holding onto what he's professed all those years ago. Perhaps you had taken him lightly; dismissed him so easily that you had overlooked the sincerity and the weight of his words.
You only ever remember it as a distant dream; now here he is in front of you, confronting you of the same difficult position you wormed your way out of a long time ago—only this time, you know that your fluff won’t suffice.
“My feelings?”
“Yes,” He moves nearer and you absentmindedly mirror his steps until your back hits the edge of the counter. “Is there a reason why you’re so desperate for me? To see me.. Talk to me?” he swipes his tongue over his lip briefly as he searches your face.
“If you’re so determined to ruin what little peace I have left at least justify it with a good cause.”
“I just.. I want us to be friends again–”
“I’m not interested in being friends with you.” Cutting you off sharply, killing any hopes on the idea of friendship you might have in your head. “I thought I made that clear last time.”
“.. I don’t want you to cut me off either.” Gaz considers you, and for the first time he lets his eyes wander, taking you all in from head to toe before flicking back to your lifted gaze up at him. You are trying—god, you are trying not to let your resolve waver by letting him intimidate you into quiet submission. No matter how formidable he’s built his walls up, you are determined to at least reach an armistice.
For a spell, he leans in closer; you think it’s a test and so you remain still. However, when he comes too close to comfort, so close you can feel his breath against your cheek—you subconsciously turn away. A flash of hurt flickers across his face before he returns to his hardened look; a dark, unforgiving resolve.
“You don’t care for me,” he utters your name bitterly. “Not in the way I need you to.” You open your mouth slightly to deny but he continues, “you’ve.. “ his breath shakes; he curses under his breath, “you’ve tortured me—all my life. You can’t even understand how much it hurts to see you right now—even being in the same room with you is fucking killing me.
“Now I’m doing my due diligence; my best behaviour out of respect for your brother, your family. I’m trying to stop thinking about you, that you’re his sister, or that you’re in the room above mine, move on, that back then I didn’t hold you above anyone else—or that you didn’t laugh in my face when I asked you to marry me.”
“Gaz–”
“God, I was so ready–” he steps back to drag his hand down against his face. “There was nothing I wouldn’t do for you—you understand? Nothing. If you asked me to rescind the offer from the military just to be with you I would’ve done it; I was ready to give it all up—throw it away. I would’ve done anything to keep you happy. You had no idea how much it killed me when you worried and cried for me—I would’ve pursued something else, anything else.
“—but I’m the fucking idiot thinking that it meant something.” Gaz bites his lip, his head hanging low as he takes an exasperated sigh. “And now you,” he holds out one arm with his index finger pointing loosely in your direction. “You come back and say that you want me around like before? Do you know what that does to me?”
There is no undoing the past. He has every right in his regard to vent out his frustrations. You are only blind to the depths of his feelings he’s held for you, and now you’re paying for it at the very moment.
“I’m sorry.” You say finally. You know he does not need it—nor does he want it—but you give it to him anyway. “Believe me, I am.”
You continue, placing a hand over your chest to convey some kind of verisimilitude for your earnest truth. “I’ve always felt the distance in the age between us, and I thought that one day—you would too.” His face is unchanged, unfazed with your reasoning; this prompted you to explain further.
“I couldn’t.. “ you exhale briefly, the words are all lost to you. “You have to understand, you were my little brother’s friend, I saw you in the way I see him. That doesn't mean I care for you any less—I’ve never stopped thinking about you—your safety, your health. I wonder for your happiness all the time, if you finally found your place in this world. You are someone important to me, Gaz.
Then; and still now.”
He is taking in your words, but you fear he is still holding onto that bitter resentment.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he murmurs your name lowly. “I haven't been for a long time.”
“I know that.. “
“Do you?” He’s holding his hand up before dejectedly throwing it down again at his side. “For years you’ve been reminding me, as if I already don’t know that myself. And for the most part, I’ve held my tongue—for your sake I said nothing; I’d suffer so that you’d feel more comfortable.
I know it burdens you, it’s-it’s hard on you too, I see it when you look at me but.. I-I can’t dictate what my heart feels for you. And that night—.. That night I came to you not as a kid, but as a man; I waited for my chance, long enough that even your parents were even asking for me, for my intentions with you. I love—I loved you so much I was willing to wait and do whatever it takes—but you wouldn't let me grow and I don’t understand why I have to pay for that.”
He takes a shaky breath. Brushing his hands through his hair.
There is not much you could say. You want to comfort him, but you fear that would also be the wrong move to make. So you watch pitifully at his raging self; the feeling of guilt gnaws at the pitt of your stomach, blissfully ignorant as to how careless you were to this boy.
“I’ve seen more than what most guys double my age will ever see in their entire life.” Gaz speaks again, albeit, calmer than before; dropping down his voice.
“I was the youngest commissioned. Fast tracked through selection with the highest rate. Decorated for operational conduct; received the Queen’s commendation. I’ve had multiple international deployments: counter-terror, urban warfare, classified theatres. I’ve buried friends. I’ve brought men home. Led operations before most of them finished desk training.
“But now I know I never had a chance with you,” he says tersely. “You will never give me a good enough reason to.”
There is this look in his eyes, a trace of hope. Perhaps he is willing you to stop him—to deny his perfervid claims but you could not even bring yourself to look at him. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, you shrink into your being from an impossible situation. You’re somehow embarrassed, not just because you’re being skinned alive by his words—but because they are all true.
It seems even painful for him to go on. His voice chokes as he decides pre-emptively against going further than what he already has. Gaz swallows tightly as he rubs his hand down his face.
“I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you this.” Muttering aloud, he shakes his head in disbelief.
Back then you found it endearing, the way he promises himself to you hoping you’d feel the same—but you couldn’t bring yourself to offer him the kindness of a lie; and now, with him baring his soul out to you, you still couldn’t manage to force out a white lie. Because you believe anything but honesty from you would be cruel.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” you plead in a voice above a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you, and I hate that this conversation might even risk that. I hate that I've hurt you. That you waited all those years to tell me. I wish I would’ve known what you were going through.”
Gaz listens in attentively as you inhale carefully.
“At the same time I don’t want to be unfair to you.. I don’t.. I can’t articulate what I feel for you at this moment, but I know that you’re someone important to me. I’d hate to see us drift apart. I just thought—you would find someone else that is so deserving of you. You’re an incredible guy—you always have been. So I couldn’t fathom that you would even spare me a second thought. You deserve someone who’s as incredible, so driven and-and beautiful—inside and out; And I can’t believe that someone like you isn’t with anyone yet.
You deserve someone who’s worthy and chooses you without all this.. baggage.”
Gaz bites the corner of his lip, nodding lightly while he looks the other way. You can’t help but feel that he is disappointed.
For what seems like an eternity, he finally breaks the silence.
“I’ve chosen you.”
Your heart drops.
His dry response leaves you even more uncertain than before; all you know is how much you want the earth to swallow you whole. Your flattery has no effect on him, in fact it might even be a detriment to this conflict resolution you were so hellbent on pursuing. You wish you could just say the right thing but you can’t risk another wrong word.
Gaz stares at your flustered self, trying to conjure something but failing to; in the end, it’s the same answer in of itself. He clears his throat and composes himself, averting his eyes from you as he gets ready to leave before speaking once more:
“Either you're mine or you're a stranger to me.”