Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
Physics is simultaneously the most complex and boring subject in their final year. It finds a way to somehow both baffle the hell out of Tristan and make his eyelids feel like lead.
Eventually, his whole head's heavier than it should be, and he slumps down to the floor, head thunking dully against the carpet. His back's still to the bed, and the textbook's fallen off his lap. He can hear Duke snort, drawling sarcastically, "Is it easier to see your book from down there?"
Tristan rolls his eyes and stretches out, shifting onto his back and lining up with the bed, feet to the front of it. Duke's lounging leisurely across it, resting in all of Tristan's pillows. Tristan can't see him over the edge of the bed anymore, which is a shame, because seeing Duke Devlin stretched out across his mattress was the best thing about this study session.
After a minute, Tristan grumbles, "It is," in a very delayed response. He knows he should pick the book back up, but he doesn't.
Duke's face appears over the side, his black ponytail tumbling attractively over his shoulder. The haughtiness all over his face is almost nauseating, and Tristan would be throwing Duke out if he didn't really need to pass his exam. ...And if Duke didn't have a way of looking so incredibly delicious, even while being an intolerable smart-ass. Fishing a few spare dice out of his pocket, Duke proceeds to start dropping them onto Tristan's forehead, as though torture will make him more inclined to study hard. Tristan just scrunches his eyes closed and takes it, not wanting to give in.
On the fourth die, the light bulb flickers out. Tristan hears the click and opens his eyes. The room is plunged instantly into total darkness—the door is firmly shut and he doesn't have any windows. Tristan blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust, and Duke makes a sudden, high-pitched noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
Rubbing his forehead where the last die hit him, Tristan mutters, "Well... that was unexpected."
Duke snaps immediately, "Go change it."
"What?" Tristan says dazedly, rolling his head to face the area where he last saw Duke. It is his room, but he doesn't particularly appreciate Duke talking to him like that.
"You heard me, moron. Change it," Duke repeats, sounding bizarrely cagey. But still demanding. When Tristan doesn't make any move to do so, Duke hisses, "Taylor, you fuckwit, change the light bulb!"
"You change it," Tristan counters childishly, not at all pleased with being bossed around.
"It's your house!" Duke growls indignantly.
"Go straight forward with your hand outstretched, until you hit the door. The light in the kitchen should be on, so the hall won't be completely dark. The bulbs are in the closet by the door on your right-hand side, top shelf."
"I am not creeping about in the dark," Duke grounds out. He sounds either appalled or terrified at the very idea of it, and Tristan isn't sure which. Then Duke sniffs, and Tristan thinks it just might be terror.
But the idea that Duke Devlin is afraid of the dark is just plain unbelievable, so he assumes he's imagining things. When Tristan doesn't say anything, he hears a knocking sound next to his head—Duke's probably thrown another die at him. Stifling a chuckle, Tristan says, "You missed me."
There's a moment of silence, in which Duke makes more small noises of frustration and maybe-fear. Then he says, a tad frantically, "We'll decide this with a game." It's a flat statement; there's no room for Tristan to argue. "It's so simple even you can handle it." Tristan frowns automatically—what's that supposed to mean? "First person to talk loses. Loser changes the bulb. Okay?"
Tristan says, "Okay," because that sounds easy. Duke's got a bigger mouth than him, anyway, and Tristan could use a break. He stretches his hands back behind his head, fully prepared to get comfy.
Then he promptly resumes doing what he's wanted to do all night long; picture a sexy little Duke Devlin stretched out on his bed, not bugging him about homework and not pelting him with insults and dice. ...A part of him knows it's wrong to think of his rival and maybe-friend like that, but the other part figures that half the school has a crush on Duke. It's not Tristan's fault if Duke looks like pure sex on legs. He's a shameless flirt, anyway. So Tristan can guiltily convince himself Duke wouldn't mind.
The quiet atmosphere lasts several minutes, in which Tristan tries very hard to not let his mind go too far—he can't, after all, capitalize on his daydreams with Duke in the room. After a bit, he hears shuffling noises above him—Duke must be fidgeting on the bed. Then there's the light spring of the mattress and the clunk of feet on the floor—Duke's either fallen off the bed or climbed off. The next minute, something heavy is pressing down on Tristan's legs—Duke's sitting on him. He can tell from the distinctly leathery feel of Duke's pants. He opens his mouth to ask what Duke's playing at.
Then he promptly shuts his mouth; he almost forgot he can't talk.
Really, changing the bulb isn't that big a deal, but it's the principle now. If he talks, Duke wins. And as sexy as he is, Duke's a snarky little asshole that shouldn't ever win anything, even if he was the only one to come to Tristan's rescue with exams coming up.
There's a pause. He can hear Duke breathing, a little erratic and heavy. Then there's more shuffling, and Duke's legs shift to cover his—a hand hits his chest, slides off, and he can feel the air move as another goes to his other side. Duke is leaning down over him, their chests lining up, Duke's breathing getting closer. Tristan's frozen solid, stuck like a statue. Duke's full weight is on him, warm and surprisingly light. Duke's hands slide up his sides, running over his shoulders.
Duke's breath ghosts over his neck—some of Duke's longs bangs dip down and tickle his chin.
Being quiet has quickly gone from peaceful to maddening.
A jolt runs up Tristan's body when something wet and spongy touches his throat. He instantly knows what it is, and the very idea has his mind reeling. Duke licks a hard line down the side of Tristan's neck, leaving a slick trail of saliva. Tristan's not sure if he's still breathing. Duke presses his lips against Tristan's blushing skin, right below his jaw. They're soft and plush, and they linger. There's an infinitesimal, wet popping sound as they pull back, and Duke seems to hesitate.
Tristan's hands are in tight fists beneath his head. He's afraid to move, lest he shatter the dream. He's acutely aware of every centimeter of their bodies that are touching, of every area that's lined up. Duke's lithe chest is hard against him, Duke's long legs are completely atop his, and Duke's crotch is right against Tristan's. Tristan's isn't nearly as flat as it was a few minutes ago, and there's no way Duke won't notice that.
Duke goes in for another kiss and then another. He litters the side of Tristan's neck in small, lasting kisses, and he trails up the side of Tristan's face, teeth tracing the shell of Tristan's ear. Duke nibbles on it gently, his fingers running down from Tristan's shoulders. When Duke's fingertips reach the bottom of his shirt, they slip tantalizingly underneath it—Tristan arches upwards and bites his lip to stifle a moan. He can practically feel Duke's smirk against him, but he can't bring himself to care.
Duke's hands snake between them, hiking up Tristan's shirt and trailing a heated blush everywhere they go. Duke gives a final lick to Tristan's ear and kisses back down to his neck, biting lightly and starting to suck. Tristan can guess Duke's avoiding his mouth so he can talk at any moment, but Tristan is resolutely not going to make a sound. He isn't stupid. He knows exactly why Duke's doing this, even if it is an insane, completely unexpected measure, and he's very sure that the minute he loses their little game, Duke will be off him in a heartbeat. And that's the absolute worst thing Tristan can think of right now. He grits his teeth together while Duke gives him a hickey and starts to play with his nipples. Tristan's in heaven, and he might be pulling out his own hair with the force of not moving.
Then Duke ruts their hips together, and Tristan goes insane. That single movement drives him wild, and he doesn't at all miss that Duke is sporting almost as big a bulge as him. All the blood rushes down to his crotch, and Tristan's hands shoot out. He throws one arm around Duke's waist and grabs a fistful of his hair—Duke gasps, but doesn't say a word. Tristan abruptly rolls them over, forcing Duke back into the carpet and landing right atop him, their bodies still flush together. If Tristan's going to be ravished in the dark, he at least wants to be on top. He doesn't move either hand as he goes in for a kiss, missing at first and hitting Duke's cheek. He aims lower down, but Duke shifts his head—Tristan growls and tightens his grip on Duke's hair. Duke whimpers beautifully, erotic and gorgeous. Tristan holds Duke in place and goes in for another kiss, snaking his tongue inside as soon as he hits Duke's soft lips.
Duke kisses just as fervently as Tristan does. Their tongues battle between them, lips shifting, noses bumping; it's warm and it's perfect. Tristan doesn't have the room to breathe and doesn't care. Duke's hands return to exploring his body, slipping over every muscle and leaving shallow scratches. When Duke tries to pull his head back, Tristan won't let him. Duke bites Tristan's bottom lip and jerks away, nipping at his chin. Tristan moans loudly but can't think to complain—Duke's fingers have run down to his belt.
Tristan tilts his head back, mouth opening in a silent plea, and Duke undoes his belt with expert skill, slipping it out of the loops. Duke goes back to kissing and sucking at his neck, tongue laving over every bruise. Duke grabs Tristan's zipper and slowly pulls it down; Tristan arches into and groans, "Devlin..."
Fuck.
Duke's fingers stop abruptly. He rolls them back over and bolts up, legs shifting so that he's straddling Tristan's body, sitting upright.
His hands steady on Tristan's bare stomach, and he purrs happily, "Wow, you lasted much longer than I expected. Congratulations! ...Now change the light bulb." ...He doesn't move, though, which makes it very difficult for Tristan to process his defeat.
Tristan, even with his bubble burst, is still very much hard. He can feel that Duke's hard too, and it's taking his brain a minute to acknowledge that that won't be getting him anywhere.
After a minute, he breathes, "...So... we just made out on my floor... after years of rivalry and borderline friendship... and now all you have to say is 'change the light bulb?'"
Duke says, "Yes," without missing a beat. When Tristan doesn't move, Duke gives him a little shove, ordering sternly, "Move." When Tristan doesn't respond well—or at all—to this, Duke sighs in aggravation. Then he grumbles, "What? So you're hot... I couldn't help myself. Now seriously, go and change it before I find where my dice went and make a few square-shaped holes in your skull."
Tristan is too busy reeling over being called 'hot' to roll his eyes at the insult. Although, after Duke just did... that... finding out Duke finds him attractive shouldn't be that huge a surprise. ...It still is.
Because Tristan's feeling fuzzy-headed and mostly good, despite the abrupt stop, he's willing to put up with more than usual. He pushes into a sitting position, and Duke doesn't get off of him until the very last second. When Tristan gets to his feet, he can feel Duke following suit beside him, and Duke reaches out to feel for Tristan's arm. Duke latches tightly onto Tristan, and Tristan just sort of accepts it. Because now doesn't seem the right time to refuse Duke anything. Tristan drags him along to the door, where he finds the doorknob without too much trouble. The hallway is a dusty grey with a sliver of light down at the end. Tristan finds the hall closet and opens it—Duke disentangles himself long enough for Tristan to pull down the box of spare bulbs.
Fishing one out, Tristan puts the box back, trails back down the hall, and switches on the hall light. The he realizes his shirt's still rolled up, and he pushed it back down with a furious blush. Duke takes up a more respectable distance, now that the darkness isn't an issue. Tristan leaves his door wide open and drags his desk chair into the middle of the room, standing on it to twist out the old bulb. He screws in the new one, withdrawing his hands quickly when it comes on. He climbs down and puts the chair away. He closes his bedroom door. He looks at Duke.
Somewhere during Tristan's efforts, Duke has managed to replace himself on the bed, lazily stretched out as though none of this ever happened. He has his book open in his lap and is pointedly not making eye contact. More than a little confused, Tristan goes back to where he was originally sitting. He doesn't pick up his book again.
He breathes an enormous sigh of relief when Duke grumbles, "What're you doing all the way over there?" Tristan shoots to his feet immediately, and Duke, clearly trying to stifle a smirk, says, "We have to study. ...But... if we happen to finish this chapter..."
"We should celebrate," Tristan finishes, already climbing onto the mattress.
He doesn't wait, though. He crawls right on top of Duke, right over the book, and Duke doesn't stop him. He takes a minute just to look, the new light source illuminating every perfect centimeter of Duke's mouth-watering figure and face, shining off his emerald eyes.
Then Tristan can't wait anymore, and he kisses Duke hard.