Duke woke first, dragging a hand over his eyes and cursing the sunshine that lanced through his raw eyelids. What the hell had he been drinking? And why did his mouth taste like sour steak teriyaki? Then, when he shifted, the bed didn't move quite the way it was supposed to from memory, and he realized as he twisted in the cramped space that he always kept his shades down in his own bedroom.

What the hell…?

He forced himself up onto one elbow to get his eyes out of the glare, and immediately sank back with a roaring headache tearing at the inside of his skull like some kind of rabid bear. The drop shoved the sun right back into his eyeballs, and with a blistering curse, he slapped a palm over his face.

Light snores from just out of sight over the edge of the couch made him jump, and the sudden clenching of muscles made his temples pound. Suddenly, in a rush, all of the pieces of the puzzle snapped together. Plane. Beer. Teriyaki. More beer. Hangover. Oh…Tristan…

Gingerly, Duke rolled to the edge of the cushions and peered over, delicately ignoring the contents of the nearby five-gallon bucket. There on the floor in a tangle of loose sheets and blankets was the man in question, splayed out on his back. He looked utterly peaceful, the troubled expression missing, and the sun firing the thin stray wisps of hair to gold. Well, that answered that. Duke reached out a long, slender fingertip and jabbed Tristan's upper arm. "Wake up, dammit!" He hissed.

Tristan grunted, poked out of layers of sleep. He'd forgotten. Even sober, Duke in the morning was no peach. "Eh?" He answered intelligently, and opened his eyes, squinting at the watery early light.

"I have a hangover that's going to eat you alive. Nrgh," clutching his forehead, Duke rolled back into the couch with a grimace, "if you don't help me."

"Hey, I didn't make you drink all that!"

"Don't shout! You'll make it worse," Duke winced.

Tristan sighed, and untangled himself from his sheets with a wince of his own. Maybe the bed smelled like yesterday's steak and Captain Austin's Finest, but it wouldn't have left the incredible knot in Tristan's back. Sleep on the floor. On a cold floor in the middle of winter. Yeah, nice job, Tristan. Too bad he hadn't played nicer. Maybe he and Duke could have—

"This is your fault, you know."

—Or maybe not.

"I know," Tristan replied in what he hoped was a civil tone, as he fished a huge glass out of the kitchen cupboard and the bottle of painkillers from the bathroom. He returned, balancing a brimful cup of water in one hand and the medicine in the other. "It's always my fault, somehow."

"It's too early for sarcasm." Duke glared, but accepted the water and pills with a muttered 'thank-you.' Then, handing the empty glass back to his host, he thudded back into the couch and yanked the blanket over his head.

"You want any breakfast?" Tristan asked deviously, on his way to the sink, "I could fry up eggs, with big chunks of onions and garlic." The plastic tumbler hit the bottom of the sink, and he drew out the word until it turned into a cheerful taunt.

"Mmph," said the blanket in the living room, shivering, "bastard."

Tristan's soft snort of laughter was a blessing to his ears, and he heard the footsteps nearing again, and the putrid reek of the bucket drifted away. The toilet flushed, and he winced, and then the tub ran for a while. The sound of water was soothing and steady, and he drifted back into sleep in the wash of ambient sound.

The next time he woke up, his body reminded him smartly that he hadn't been taking care of it at all for the last twenty four hours. Forty-eight, it whispered, and running the tip of his tongue over gritty teeth, Duke realized that headache or no, his fastidious personality wasn't going to let him get away with another minute. What did the clock say? Three? Despising the guilt that always came with oversleeping, He rolled off the couch and staggered into the bedroom for a change of clothes and toothpaste. The door to what was presumably the workshop stood open a crack, and through it, Duke could hear the tick of aluminum tools hitting a concrete floor as he passed by in search of the bathroom.

He found it on his own, and exulted. A shower! A full bath! So these Americans didn't live like heathens, after all!

He stripped off his shirt – grimacing at the unnamed odor clinging to the fabric – and left it in a puddle of burgundy against the wall. His underwear hit the floor next, and with a soft plumpf, so did the neat folds of denim and cotton he intended to wear afterward.

A spray of hot water hit his chest in due time, and the last traces of his hangover followed the tiny swirl down the drain. Thank God. Now he could finally think. After almost twelve hours of sleep, Duke was wide awake. Almost uncomfortably awake, as a matter of fact.

Well.

Yesterday hadn't turned out quite the way he'd expected, had it?

But then, what had he been expecting? Some kind of wild sex in a parking lot on the way back to Tristan's place? Please. That wasn't remotely Tristan's style, thank-you. He could be as slow as teriyaki sauce fresh out of a freezer, as far as romance was concerned. More like a girl than a guy, Duke snickered, long fingers massaging his favorite shampoo into his scalp and the unholy tangle of dark hair streaming down his back. The poor guy was always mortally afraid of rejection, which really went against the grain of his devil-may-care obsession with motorcycles and other risky businesses. Kaiba, on the other hand, had a vastly different philosophy on life. He'd take risks if he wanted to win, no matter the odds. And that was how Duke had ended up gracing his bed.

It started with questions, innocent and unremarkable from the mouth of a good friend. If only the dice gamer had seen the calculating glimmer in Seto Kaiba's eyes.

"You don't look so good."

He didn't. He'd just come fresh from another not-argument with Tristan, and the amount of repression in the exchanged words was enough to coil him into a taut ball of nerves. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set and pulsing from the occasional grit of his teeth. And he was even paler than usual.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He'd known Seto as a kind of faraway role model, as far as business successes went, and once Industrial Illusions and Kaibacorp took interest in his game, Duke started traveling in social circles that brought him closer to the dark brunette. They met on a more personal basis than they had in Battle City, and a tentative friendship forged.

And all the while, Tristan remained a constant in the background. Their relationship had long since carved a fairly smooth path from rocky beginnings, and Duke knew he could always count on the guy's support, just like Joey and Serenity always could.

It was just one argument he'd had with his boyfriend. His boyfriend of several long years.

"Are you sure?"

Always boyfriend. Not partner, or mate, or – oh horrors! – husband. Just boyfriend. Back when he discovered he could chase pants or skirts, depending on the day of the week, Duke promised himself that he'd be happy with just that. He was obsessed with the thrill of the hunt. The wanting was a hell of a lot better than the having.

"Yeah…I…"

Was it? Really? The wanting?

It was just another argument. Just a silly argument. In fact…he thought he should head back to find Tristan and apologize…

"You don't sound very sure."

Duke couldn't even remember when they'd had that conversation. It was just so unexpected. There was an inflection of worry in the other man's voice that didn't quite match the Seto Kaiba he knew. God, did he drill Mokuba like this?

He couldn't remember the place. Or the time. Was it Seto's office? He remembered the scent of cinnamon, but that could have been his own hair. Mostly Duke just remembered the words, and the way those frank blue eyes seemed determined to beam their way inside his soul.

Never mind the fact that in the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Duke thought he looked like a tiger sizing up a kill. Never mind that.

Suddenly, he was telling Kaiba everything. His own doubts. His fear. Everything he'd said to Tristan. Everything Tristan hadn't said to Duke, but what he'd known the other guy wanted to say. About how cold it was in the apartment. And about how he was mortally afraid that Tristan was just…putting up with him. He wasn't the easiest person to live with…

And through all of this, Kaiba nodded. Nodded and agreed.

Nodded and agreed and—smiled.

"Idiot!" Duke's snarl echoed in the shower, as the flat of his fist struck the tiled wall of the shower and bounced off. Then, feeling incredibly foolish, his head snaked around the curtain, to be sure that nobody had heard. Who was he worried about? Tristan? Or did he want Tristan to hear it? Yeah. Tristan should hear the whole story. Maybe he'd forgive me.

"Dev?" A sudden query from just outside the bathroom door, and Duke jumped out of his skin. "Are you okay, man?" He sounded a little panicked.

His fist smarted a little. Duke rubbed it briskly under the warm water, and he shook the wet streaks of dark hair off of his neck in irritation. Was he okay?

He heard the clap and reverberation of the handle hitting the wall as Tristan swung the bathroom door wide open and charged inside. Duke hadn't answered right away, and given what the poor man had just been through, he feared the worst for his…houseguest. "Dev?"

"Y-yeah…! I—" Said a split second too late, as suddenly the plastic shower curtain ripped back and Tristan was staring him in the face. They blinked at each other in shock.