Every memory echoed painfully out of the past that night, as the pair surrounded an order of Japanese steakhouse take-out and a six-pack of a local microbrew, and pummeled either other with questions about the missing year of their relationship. Remarkably, Duke somehow managed to sideskirt the entire issue of Kaiba, only mentioning him offhandedly once or twice in reference to something else, and always evading Tristan's questions about him with a change of topic.
Once was chance. Twice was coincidence. Three times was conspiracy, and it'd gone past that by more than a short way.
What was he trying to hide? Or was he simply trying to preserve Tristan's feelings?
"Hey, baby, it was the greatest sex of my life, and we made love like tigers, but I never loved him. It was just great sex." Tristan imagined he'd say, and smiled ruefully.
Sure. That's so Duke Devlin that I could almost believe it.
"Hey, this stuff is pretty good," Duke chuckled, uncapping his fourth bottle of beer, "So…is there anyone interesting in…Amari…Amarirr…" He faltered, frustrated.
"Amarillo," Tristan nodded, gently, recalling just how hard it had been for him to overcome the limitations of his language to pronounce that name. In fits of passion, he still couldn't do it. "and no, not really. That's why I came here, you know? But the only guys I meet are bikers…"
"And bikers aren't gay!" Duke giggled, finding the irony hysterical.
Tristan glared. "Har, har. You'd think that would make me hot property."
"I'm sorry, Tris," The instantly apologetic man hiccuped, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "I wish you'd found somebody nice. You deserve somebody nice."
It was the beer talking, and they both knew it. But Tristan couldn't help himself.
"I had somebody nice, once. But I screwed that up."
"I'll bet you didn't screw up. I'll bet you shjush…'hem. I'll bet you just didn't fight hard enough."
"I thought I was fighting, Dev."
Hell, it'd been a year. Let him indulge in a little melodrama.
"That'sh…that's your problem, Trish…" Duke waved his bottle intelligently, finding his advice to be quite the cleverest he'd ever heard, "you give up too easy. Wasshamatter… afraid of winning shomethin'?"
"Dev," Tristan sighed, "you're drunk."
"'M not!"
"Yes, you are."
"Not! Here…I'll prove it!" And he tried to get to his feet, uncoiling himself from the armchair. The results were disastrous. He managed a second or two of wobbly stability before the load of beer he carried shifted in the pit of his stomach. The room fuzzed delightfully, and he stumbled.
Tristan was there in an instant, darting up instinctively to catch him before he kissed the floor. Duke found himself dangling in the circle of Tristan's arms, knees bent mid-fall and backside jammed into the other man's crotch.
Tristan's latent sexuality flared up and informed him that yes, he still found Duke very attractive, thank you very much. He'd been guarding it very tightly, of course, since his ex stepped off that plane…but here…inhibitions loosened by the potent bottled brew, the deadbolt on his desires slid back. With very embarrassing results.
Heat. Both in his cheeks and…elsewhere…
But he couldn't just drop him…
Duke dangled yet, bucked against the forearms holding him captive. "Tris, what're you…?"
"Sorry." Tristan bent deeper with a grunt, and released one arm to sweep under Duke's legs. It took a lot less effort than he'd expected. "You can't walk, man. I'm taking you to bed."
"Oh?" Duke Devlin the Deviant reared his head, as the raven-haired man tipped his face back from where it was previously cuddled into Tristan's throat to leer at him. "You didn't use to be shuch a fasht mover..."
Keep it up, Dev, and I won't be able to walk in a minute.
"I'm still not," Tristan corrected gently, and earned himself a sigh. The other's impish face returned to its place against his throat, hiding whatever might have been veiled in those expressive eyes.
By the time Tristan lowered the other man's thin body to his bed, Duke was practically unconscious. The only signs of life were hazed, half-lidded eyes, which still flickered remarkably with a little green despite the effects of the alcohol. Duke had the heavy, limp weight of a dead man now, and for all his tugging, Tristan realized that he wasn't going to be able to undress the other man without an exhausting battle. He settled for shoes and leather pants - painted-on cowhide certainly couldn't be comfortable to sleep in - and dropped the loose garments into a pile on a nearby chair. His friend seemed so very fragile, as a convenient spill of moonlight lanced across the floor and painted his skin into frigid pale blues. His face, at least, was a still mask, though for alcohol or other fumes eddying about his brain, Tristan had no way to tell.
Just keep going…don't look too close…He drew down the covers and tucked the other in with the tenderness of a parent, and straightened, turning away to pull a pair of decent sweats and a clean tee shirt from the bureau.
A hand caught his wrist in a vise-like grip.
"Tris…"
"Hm?" Tristan turned back, trying to quell the judder of shock the other's touch had caused. Duke simply lay back, staring up at him from the backlit depths of suddenly wide green eyes. It seemed the simple act of reaching out like this had taken all the reserves of courage he possessed, because whatever Duke had to say died on his lips.
…So he smiled.
It always used to work, didn't it?
Well…it's not going to work now.
There was no smile in return from the shadows clothing Tristan's face. He shook off the other man's grip, and turned away to his previous search the bureau under the far window for something to sleep in.
He couldn't have seen the way Duke's face fell at that…if he had, perhaps he would have changed his mind. But regardless, hunger and soft sorrow chased one another across Duke's finely drawn features. He studied the taut pull of fabric across Tristan's shoulders as the other man bent to scoop up an elusive pair of sweats. He found himself suddenly, quite uncomfortably sober - at least for the moment. With an irritated frown, he schooled his expression.
"Tris…" He tried again, the sound a soft choke, as though it were being dragged forcibly over all of the barriers erected between himself and…this… "Tristan…?"
Tristan straightened and turned, moonlight spilling over the soft waves of dark hair across his shoulders. His expression was just as unreadable as Duke's. Encouraged, Duke continued, rushing to free himself of the words as though every syllable hurt to utter. This alcohol was becoming more and more uncomfortable with each passing minute, and if he didn't hurry…he might not get everything out.
"I shouldn't have left you the way I did. It wash…wasn't all your fault. I know that. I was jush…just angry. And Seto said…"
"Seto?"
"Tris, don't say it like that. It wasn't like that at all. He just…"
"How do you expect me to say it?"
"Maybe… like you care?"
"It doesn't matter. It's okay. Just let it go." Tristan replied flatly, and stripped off his shirt to replace with the one foraged from his drawer. He rather enjoyed the uncomfortable look on Duke's face. Maybe it was raw denial.
Let 'em suffer.
The dark-haired man seemed slightly unbalanced now, hands fisted on the comforter and swayed ever so slightly.
"I can't," Duke offered at last, timidly.
"Why?"
"Tristan…" Duke's clenched fists tightened in the blankets. The world was beginning to swim again…but this time it was cold and hard and moving too fast…
"Why can't you let it go?" Tristan pounced on the other's words like a dog at a fresh bone and refused to let go. "You let it go pretty easily last year. What's changed?"
Duke swallowed noisily.
"Tris, if you don't…I think I'm going to…"
"To what?" Tristan demanded, stalking closer to the bed.
Duke looked up at him, pale and irritated and pleading all at once. And then his face turned a new shade of ashen. "Throw up?"
"Fuck! Wait!"
They sat crouched together on Tristan's now-bare mattress, carefully avoiding the damp spot towards the head of the bed. Duke knelt with a bucket between his knees, using Tristan's shoulder for support as the other man held the length of his dark hair well away from his face, fist gently resting between his shoulderblades. "Lightweight," Tristan couldn't help but smile.
"Go to hell," the miserable, thick voice reverberated its irritation in the plastic echo of the bucket, inciting a somewhat ill-timed snicker from Tristan. Which in turn incited a vicious nudge, and another unsteady gasp on Duke's part.
And so they sat, for several more minutes at least. Before Tristan at last swallowed his grin.
"I'm sorry, buddy. I forgot that you really weren't one for drinking…"
"I used to be. You ruined me." Duke sniffed.
"Okay. Your vow to stop drinking was not my fault. Just because I yelled at you after I had to see every cherry from the bottle come-"
Duke retched. "I could do without that image, if you don't mind."
Tristan patted his shoulder, chagrined. "Sorry."
"It's okay."
"How are you feeling?"
"How do I look like I'm feeling?"
"Sorry."
"How many times are you going to keep saying that?"
"As many times as I need to." Tristan looked down, suddenly, just barely remembering to keep a secure hand on Duke's hair. "I think I've got a lot of catching up to do on apologies."
The other man grew very still under his hand.
"I never wanted apologies," Duke said quietly to the bucket, "I just wanted you."
"I know." Tristan sighed, "You told me."
"It wasn't- Seto was-" Duke started, voice roughened by tears brought on in the strain of nausea.
Tristan tugged on his hair, and he raised his head, bleary, contracted green eyes meeting Tristan's brown in the uncertain light. Slowly, the taller man shook his head. Of all the possible times they might share after this night...there was no urgency powerful enough to explain Duke's relationship with Seto over a plastic five-gallon bucket.
"You don't have to explain tonight."
Duke favored him with a smile that bordered on benediction - the effect lost by the icy white pallor of his skin. "Thanks."
"No problem. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"
Duke shot him an irritated frown. "I'm not a little kid."
"Sorry-"
"You said it again."
"S...hey!"
Duke snickered, paled again, and dropped his head back into the bucket with a moan. "I'm so going to kill you in the morning."
"I'll be sure to clear off before then, okay?" Tristan grimaced, and gingerly pried Duke's fingers out of their desperate clutch at the smooth plastic walls of his bucket. One arm slung around his shoulder, he eased the other man to his feet. Duke swayed, and gave him a glare that promised bodily injury for every misstep. Not the nicest drunk, was he?
"No. I want you around to witness your own gruesome death."
By some miracle, the pair of them navigated a mostly straight course to the bathroom in a few minutes. Duke clung to his bucket like a child to a teddy bear, which would have been endearing had it not been for the entire ridiculous situation. Or had it not been for how much Tristan feared being killed in his sleep at the moment.
Soon enough, the taller of the pair had installed them both in the living room. Duke slumped on his stomach on the sofa, and Tristan was on the floor near the couch, a mound of pillows and a warm nest of blankets providing an inviting alternative to the bed. He carefully slid the bucket into a safe position between himself and his friend's possible range, and nuzzled into his pillow with a deep sigh. Even considering the situation, it was still deeply soothing to be in the other's company again. The sound of his breathing was so achingly familiar, and the moonlight dallied over his shoulders and the strands of his somewhat draggled hair, lovingly caressing the well-known, dangerous landscape as though it, too, felt the months of separation as rawly as Tristan had.
It was strange, how their relationship had changed over the years. At first…well…it'd been mostly horseplay. But they were teenagers after all. And then, he'd thought their partnership had grown deeper, solidified by crises after crises that he and Duke faced together with their friends. Trust had been there, as they grew out of their teenage rebellions and into the maturity of adulthood that eventually consumed everyone.
He'd learned to appreciate the little things - like the soft caress of a forearm laid against his for comfort while they slept.
Duke's hand, clutched on the rim of his bucket, tightened until the knuckles whitened. Tristan heard the soft squeak of skin rubbing on plastic and looked up. His gaze squeezed in sympathy as the other's green eyes shone out beseechingly from the pallid face of misery, lying with one cheek pressed to the cushions.
Slowly, as though he didn't quite dare, Tristan reached out and covered Duke's hand with his own. His eyes widened in surprise as Duke regarded it warily, then deftly tangled his fingertips through the other man's and drew them in against the curve of his jaw. Tristan shoved the bucket out of the way and scooted closer, unwilling to break the tentative contact.
The darker-haired man caressed his palm for some minutes, until at last, a deep, drugged sleep overcame him and dragged him into the darkness.
Maybe the precious little things weren't so dead, after all.
Tristan smiled to himself in the shadows.
And so they slept.