Love Like War (LGBT) ✅

Chapter 6

6.

The worst thing was probably the guilt.

Maybe he could get a little reprieve on the basis that he wasn't actively trying to be a screw up but that didn't change the fact that he was having nightmares, sleeping rougher and, also, as of tonight, into attacking his boyfriend. He stopped that thought as soon as it started because they hadn't talked about it yet, not really, but Aiden liked to think that he wasn't so bad at reading body language that he was wrong. After all, movie dates and kisses still meant something, right, even to university students?

That said, maybe it was a bad thing to know Carl so intimately because, right now, he could see the fear, the betrayal in his eyes as he moved back and it hurt to think that he had been the one to cause that.

He couldn't remember the rest of the night, just that Carl had left quickly, muttering some excuse about his sister needing him—which was such a lie despite how desperately he wanted to believe it—and his breathing had seized up and his vision had blurred and, suddenly, John was by his side, talking him down from a panic attack. Because, apparently, the guy before the amnesia had had some serious issues and Aiden was starting to regret remembering.

"It's not your fault," John said, rubbing a soothing circle into his back, "it was an accident."

"I can still see their faces, all of them, and I don't know why I was the one to survive."

"You survived to live for them, don't waste it."

The words stuck a chord in him and he realised that, while he couldn't control what he did while he was sleeping, he could while he was conscious.

The next morning, he woke up a little later than usual, at around ten, to find John had already left and Derek had taken Tyson down to the station which was fine because he had a long shift at the library anyway. He texted them in his break, telling them that he was going to cook dinner and, while his culinary skills weren't anything to write home about, Carl made obscene noises over his creamy sweetcorn pasta and it didn't take an expert to stick a chicken in the oven.

He ended up sharing a table with Tyson.

Derek had left a note on the kitchen counter, telling him that he wouldn't be coming for dinner because of something urgent down at the police station and, the rest of them, well, they hadn't replied to any of his texts. Maybe it was the crappy coverage in a backwater town but, realistically, what was the possibility of that?

"Looks like it's me and you, bud."

Tyson woofed delightedly, placing his paws on the table and staring longingly at a hunk of chicken. Never one to resist his charms, he placed it on the floor on his kibble and Tyson attacked it with passion.

Aiden smiled slightly. "As least someone appreciates my cooking."

He tried to wait up for John, on the basis that it was just good manners and maybe also because he couldn't close his eyes without seeing the fire, reliving it again, but, when he heard the click of the door, it was morning and the sun was starting to stream into the living room.

"Good morning." He dragged himself off the couch, wincing at the dull ache in his right leg. "How was your night? I assume you got suitably wasted."

"Not that kind of wasted," John said, a wry laugh spilling from his lips as he walked into the room.

His uniform was ripped and bloody and he seemed to be keeping the weight off one ankle—Aiden would know, he'd spent the last however many months doing the same—but, once he got past that, he didn't look too worse for wear. It was a shock, though, to think that Keeter could be dangerous at times.