In that case, we're meant for each other.
There was a long silence, during which John had the oddest sense that life was resetting itself, that the gears which had previously been slipping and missing had once more locked into place.
And here it was again, the Shitstorm Survivors' Club.
Christ, for all the crap that the people living in the mansion had been through, maybe V should design a tat they could each get on their asses. Because sure as shit, the bunch of them had won the lottery when it came to hard knocks.
Or, God, maybe this was just life. For everyone on the planet. Maybe the Survivors' Club wasn't something you "earned," but simply what you were born into when you came out of your mother's womb. Your heartbeat put you on the roster and then the rest of it was just a question of vocabulary: The nouns and verbs used to describe the events that rocked your foundation and sent you flailing were not always the same as other people's, but the random cruelties of disease and accident, and the malicious focus of evil men and nasty deeds, and the heartbreak of loss with all its stinging whips and rattling chains. . . at the core, it was all the same.
And there was no opt-out clause in the club's bylaws--unless you offed yourself.
The essential truth of life, he was coming to realize, wasn't romantic and took only two words to label: Shit. Happens.
But the thing was, you kept going. You kept your friends and your family and your mate as safe as you were able. And you kept fighting even after you were knocked down.
Goddamn it, you dragged your ass off the ground and you kept fighting.
I've been awful to you, John signed. I'm sorry.
Tohr shook his head. "Like I was any better? Don't apologize. As my best friend and your father always told me, don't look backward. Only forward. "
So that's where it came from, John thought. The belief was in his blood.
I want you with me, by my side, John signed. Tonight. Tomorrow night. For however long it takes to kill Lash. Do this with me. Find the bastard with me, with us.
The sense that the pair of them would work together seemed so right. After all, for their individual reasons, they were united in this deadly game of chess: John needed to avenge Xhex for obvious reasons. And as for Tohr. . . well, the Omega had taken his son when that lesser had killed Wellsie. Now the Brother had a chance to return the motherfucking favor.
Come with me. Do this. . . with me.
Tohr had to clear his throat. "I thought you would never ask. "
No knuckle-tap this time.
The two of them embraced, chest-to-chest. And when they pulled apart, John waited for Tohr to throw on a shirt, get his leather jacket, and grab his weapons.
Then they went downstairs side by side.
As if they had never been apart. As if it was as it always had been.
Chapter Sixty-four
The bedrooms at the back of the Brotherhood's mansion had the benefit not only of a view of the gardens, but a second-story terrace.
Which meant if you were antsy, you could step out and grab some fresh air before you faced the rest of the household.
The second the shutters lifted for the evening, Qhuinn opened the French doors by his bureau and walked into the brisk night. Bracing his palms on the balustrade, he leaned in, his shoulders accepting the weight of his chest easily. He was dressed for war in his leathers and shitkickers, but he'd left his weapons inside.
Staring out over the battened-down flower beds and the spindly fruit trees that had yet to bloom, he felt the cool, smooth stone under his hands and the breeze in his still-damp hair and the tight pull of the muscles across the small of his back. The scent of freshly roasting lamb was floating up from the blowers on the roof over the kitchen and lights were glowing all over the house, the warm golden illumination pouring out onto the lawn and the patio on the lower level.
Pretty fucking ironic--to feel so hollow because Blay finally got fulfilled.
Nostalgia dropped its rose-tinted lens and through it he saw back to all those nights at Blay's, the two of them sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, playing PS2, drinking beer, watching vids. There had been serious and important shit to talk about then, things like what was doing in training classes and what game was coming out over the human Christmas season and who was hotter, Angelina Jolie or anybody else in a skirt.
Angelina had always won. And Lash had always been an asshole. And Mortal Kombat had still ruled back then.
God, they hadn't even had Guitar Hero World Tour out in those days.
The thing was, he and Blay had always seen eye-to-eye, and in Qhuinn's world, where everyone hated his ass, having someone who understood him and accepted him as he was. . . It had been a shaft of tropical sunlight in the North fucking Pole.