God knew why he did it. But there Tristan stood outside the airstrip, cold, tired and leaning against the hood of his old dually pickup. He watched the personal aircraft zipping in and out of Amarillo International Airport. It was late afternoon, per the information Duke emailed not long after his brief phone call. Little tinfoil airplanes dove over the edge of a corroded eight-foot chain link fence and touched down, almost lost under the cover of unkempt grass.
It had snowed – an unexpected blip on the radar screen – and quite a lot, actually, for Texas. Here in the lukewarm south, two inches of powder mixed with road dirt and salt and sloshed into half-frozen puddles the exact shade of a Coca Cola.
Duke explained that he'd take a transfer from a major international airport miles away in Houston, and catch a 'puddle jumper' from there to the smaller airstrip just on the eastern outskirts of Amarillo. Tiny was the better word. Amazing how a mile and a quarter of asphalt could come to mean so damn much in just a handful of hours.
He hugged his jacket closer and checked his watch. It wouldn't be much longer, now, before the northbound-airliner came plunging overhead…
Tristan ran a nervous, calloused hand through his hair. High school was over, and so were the four years of tech school - he'd long since given up on the military-style crew cut. Now his real hair…rich sable curls - the bane of his early existence - tumbled down to his shoulders in waves. Tristan was twenty five. Old enough to stop giving a damn about whether people thought he looked 'tough enough.' He owned a chop shop, for heaven's sake. Nobody screwed with bikers.
Especially not gay bikers.
Heh.
Could he handle this? Duke wasn't expecting anyone to come and pick him up…Tristan could always just leave now…or wait to see him safely on the ground, and then go…
He won't know me. God knows I've changed. Plus, he'll probably expect me on that damn Yamaha. I wonder if I should tell him that I totaled it.
Maybe he would. Just to see what kind of a reaction he'd get. Despite the sober gray afternoon, Tristan snickered.
I guess I'm staying, then.
Soon the air hummed with the buzz of the small craft's prop wash, announcing its presence as it made a beeline for the main runway.
It touched down, bounced, and touched down again, following the leaping pulse of Tristan's heart. A year had passed. A year was a long time…
The radio broke back into music after the commercials were over, and Tristan caught a few familiar strains from the speakers as he walked around the driver's side of the truck to lock up before heading out to meet Duke.
Richard Marx wailed the first few lines of his trademark tear-jerker. Of all the days to leave it on the soft rock station…
The music arrested him, midreach for the ignition to pull out the key in disgust. Tristan paused, leaned an elbow hard against the seat, and listened, eyebrows raised skeptically. What…was Marx some oracle, now? Or was Tristan's anguish something that happened every day?
He choked. All of this was too close, too immediate, and too right now for him to deal with. Just the thought of Duke headed his direction again was enough to make him hypersensitive.
With every fiber of his being, Tristan wanted to just reach out and flick the radio off…make the year-old pain stop hurting with the same intensity as it had the night Duke left him. It was winter, then, too.
A year ago…
"I can't do this anymore, Tristan! I can't!"
Tristan stared in disbelief at the dark tee shirt of the man at the window. Duke leaned heavily against the panes, back turned coldly on the apartment they shared, palms pressed against the frosty glass.
What was wrong now? As far as he knew, everything was perfect…he'd never been so happy before…never…
"Dev…what's going on?"
Tristan used the affectionate form of Duke's last name. He'd adopted it when Duke professed to secretly hating his given name. Blue-black hair swished as Duke turned. He swatted away Tristan's hands before they could wind their way around his lover's waist in apology for whatever he'd done. Tristan knew it was his fault. It had to be.
"Do you love me at all?" The brilliant green eyes blazed with supernatural fire, and a burst of anger that threatened to consume both of them if unleashed. "Or are you just with me because you're scared of something changing?"
"What?"
"Love. Me. It's a simple question. Do you?" Duke's words were slow, deliberate, and sharp. His dark shirt, pale skin and thin form made him wraithlike in the low, chill wintry light.
Where was this coming from?
Outside snow whispered down, unchecked by the breeze. The streetlamps; the headlights of passing cars and the lances of golden light from other windows turned it to glitter. It seemed too perfect. Unreal. Tristan tore his gaze from the glass, willing this to be a dream.
Was everything falling apart?
"Of course I do, Dev. Please, don't-"
"Then why are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Why can't I touch you in public? Why do we always have to 'wait until we get home'?"
He sensed a dam break, somewhere in the backwaters of Duke's mind. And he was helpless to stop it. His protests weakened.
"Dev…"
"Why don't you wear the ring I gave you?"
Now that hurt. And he had a damn good reason, too.
"I do! I just can't-"
But his lover was beyond listening.
"Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed of what you mean to me?"
"No! No…I…"
"…Or ashamed of what you are?"
No blade of steel could have more thoroughly slashed him open to the core. Tristan felt something that had only seconds before been burning red-hot…go cold…and the coils of anger within his mind sheathed and squeezed him like a spitting serpent. Its venom burned.
"Why do you have to ask? Why do you keep pushing me? What the hell do you want from me?" Each progressive question mark raised the volume of Tristan's voice, until at last he was shouting.
Duke could have been a statue of ice. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, and Tristan shook as the wave of angry heat passed; left him empty and chilled to the core.
The same heat that had burned in Duke's eyes switched off, like a switch thrown on a sunlamp. For a blissful second, Tristan thought that perhaps he was going to have yet another you-lucky-bastard-second-chance.
"Nothing."
The single word carried Duke to the apartment door, and down the stairs to the street…and then he was gone.
Tristan didn't see him for a week. And then one day, after work, he came home to find all of his lover's belongings taken…and the silver-and-jade ring he'd given him as a Christmas present atop Duke's pillow on their empty bed. A piece of paper had been rolled up and inserted through the tiny circlet, and when thick, trembling fingertips at last mastered the note, there was only two sentences scribed across it, in Duke's artless scrawl. Two lines of dialog from a favorite movie. One they'd laughed over. Quoted.
"Half the people in the world are men. Why does it have to be you that stirs me?"
At least winters in Texas weren't quite so cold.
Tristan pulled himself up into the truck and eased into the driver's seat, arms curled around the steering wheel with a soft sigh. Before him, the plane was just giving passenger clearance, and the door opened, spilling its contents down the stairs and onto the runway. If he hurried, he could make it inside…be waiting when his lost heart's green eyes loomed clear of the milling crowd.
But I guess I didn't love him enough to make him stay before…Tristan's irrational, emotional side argued, he never said why he wanted to come, anyway. This is silly. He's still Kaiba's, for all you know.
Logic reared its head and sternly ordered those irrational thoughts to have a beer and settle down. You know Dev, it insisted, he wouldn't travel alone unless he had to. The damn cheerleaders hounding him in high school were proof of that. It sat back, satisfied with itself. Stop second-guessing him. He hated it when you did that.
Reluctantly, Tristan released his deathgrip on the steering wheel and switched off the radio. He needed to hurry.
The terminal was small, but neat and polished, and Tristan found himself drawn into the waiting crowd of greeters by Duke's gate. Not long now… the anticipation of waiting made him hold his breath; scan every passing face for a familiar smile as passengers stepped out of the boarding gate and into the arms of loved ones.
He hadn't seen Duke on the runway when he walked in - but that didn't mean anything…did it?
"Tris!"
It didn't.
He barely had a span of three breaths to register the voice's owner before a flying body pummeled into his, and painfully familiar arms wound their way around his neck. Reflexively - and then an instant later, intentionally - Tristan pulled the lithely muscled form into his embrace.
Dev…
It was too close…even after all these long months, if Duke pressed any tighter against his body, he'd forget himself…claim that radiant, smiling mouth again and kiss him breathless. Screw the watching crowd. Whether they saw them or not, this moment was his.
The smaller man's silken head nestled against his shoulder, and Tristan's senses overwhelmed by the full, glorious scent of his hair. Black tea and the sharp tang of cinnamon…oh, God, how could he have forgotten how incredibly good he smelled? The other had not bound his hair into the customary taut tail at the back of his head, and now it spilled forward around him, begging Tristan to touch.
A moment.
Two.
Three…and then it was over. Duke pulled back, still beaming that dazzling smile, and caught Tristan's arms up in a fond, firm grip.
"It's so good to see you, Tris! And damn, don't you look great? I wasn't sure you'd be here…"
"Yes you were," Tristan teased, "you came all this way to visit me? Of course I'd come to meet you. Plus," His hands came up, catching Duke's elbows before the other man could think of an escape, "you're irresistable, and you know it."
Duke's eyes flickered. "Not…quite…" he replied, slowly, and covered the falter with a blink and a stream of merry chatter. "Anyway…you've got to show me around this city! When we came down through the clouds, all I saw was…scrubby bushes and sand."
"Mesquite," Tristan corrected offhandedly, and turned towards the baggage claim, "though you've got the sand part right. Come on…let's get your bags. Where are you staying?"
Silence.
"Dev?"
The smaller man turned slowly to face him. Tristan frowned.
"You don't have a place booked, do you?"
Another pause, and Duke shook his head reluctantly, like a rebellious child with a secret.
Great. Just great. There's a piece missing to all of this. I know there is.
Tristan swallowed hard, before pasting on a brilliant, confident, I'm-over-you smile.
"Well, if you don't mind the place smelling like axel grease, you can stay with me while you're in town. I'll take the couch - I'm usually falling asleep there, anyway."
Duke nodded, albeit a little less reluctantly than Tristan would have liked. He wasn't going to make this easy on either of them, was he?
And no, he wasn't going to let himself think about the dark-haired, green-eyed god, tangled in his sheets.
But it was like trying not to think of a blue cow.
And now the green-eyed god was smiling at him again.
Damn.
"Let's go," Tristan harrumphed, uncomfortably, and led the way to the baggage claim.