It was a silent trip to the airport. The tension sprung up between them was of a different sort than what had been there two nights and a lifetime ago, when he was bringing Duke home.

Home. He was never going to be able to sleep in that bed again.

Or at the very least, maybe he'd burn those sheets. Just to give himself some kind of closure. Closure. Like a death. Sometimes, Tristan reminded himself sternly as he changed his grip on the steering wheel, he let himself get away with too much internal dialogue. He felt the slight stick of the vinyl and heard the peeling smack of it. He was gripping too hard.

When the truck finally rolled gently to a halt against one of the cinderblocks in the airport parking lot and the engine was off, they sat for a moment in the silence together. Duke reached to pull the door handle and get out.

Tristan beat him to it, clicking the lock from his side. Duke saw it flick in under his fingers and glared at Tristan after a fruitless tug. "Let me out."

"This isn't right."

"Of course not. It's called 'holding someone against their will.' They prosecute people for that in America, I hear."

"If you want to get out," Tristan shrugged, "then go. I won't stop you."

"Do you think I want to do this?" Duke threw up his hands. His face was turned away from Tristan, towards the passenger side window. "Do you think I want to fight with you right now? Why don't you want to come back to Domino? Everyone who loves you is there!"

"Hey, this is your choice, not mine. I don't want to let you walk into that building."

"You're not going to let me do anything."

"Of course not. You always get your way somehow." Tristan tried not to sound sullen. He failed.

"Where the hell did that come from? I'm doing this because I have to."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why do you always ask me questions? You want to know why I don't make out with you in front of other people. You want to know if I'm just using you for sex after a fucking decade."

"Okay, Tristan, I was wrong. I admit that…"

"But did you ask Kaiba why he wants you so bad? Or why he was willing to fly to the other side of the fucking world to get you back, and doesn't act like he loves you when you're five feet away? You're a thing to him, and he doesn't like losing!"

"Tristan, calm down."

"Dammit, why don't you ever SEE that? Why is it just me? Why are you so fucking BLIND?"

"CALM DOWN!"

Tristan hadn't realized he was yelling. Duke's shout reverberated painfully around the tiny cab. His throat clenched with pain when his head whipped around to see Duke cowering against the passenger side armrest.

He reached out, an apology on his lips, but stopped himself. He was too angry. He wasn't sorry for what he'd said – whether or not he should have shrieked it at the top of his lungs.

"I'm not…" Duke stopped, fingertips twitching on the door lock. He swallowed hard. "I'm not blind. I made a mistake when I let you go the first time. But…you don't seem to need me anymore. You can't keep me here."

"I never said I—"

"I have to do this, Tristan! It doesn't mean I'll be back in his bed! Though knowing you," The raspy voice was thick and ugly, "you probably already have me pegged. Then why shouldn't I sleep with him? You think I'm that easy, I shouldn't disappoint you, should I?'

Tristan, realizing belatedly that this argument didn't involve him, sat back and stared. "I don't think you're—"

"Just forget it. I shouldn't have come here in the first place." Duke fumbled the latch open and threw the door, and would have struck the car in the next space if there'd been one. He was saying something as he swung his shoulder bags out of the bed of the pickup, and jammed the door shut without saying goodbye.

Tristan was out of the truck in a heartbeat, and grimaced as he landed in a puddle on the pavement. The parking lot was still wet, stained dark from the snow-melt.

"See you around," Tristan called, because there wasn't much else to do - short of chase him down. Duke didn't respond as he trooped resolutely across the damp asphalt. His shoulders were visibly tight and hunched beneath his jacket. He dwindled smaller, and Tristan wrapped his hand around the radio mount on the hood to stay next to the truck. It was Duke Devlin's choice. Someone held the door open for him, and he disappeared without a backward glance.

Tendrils of hair stung his cheeks. The vortex of wind between the hangar and the airport terminal was cold and dry, whipping flyaways come loose from his ponytail against his skin. His hands were trapped by the heavy baggage he carried. He stoically ignored the disapproving icy fingers and kept right on walking, stubborn chin raised, jaw pulsing as he gritted his teeth.

The small staff on hand admitted him onto the expanse of concrete beyond the terminal with no question, but Seto Kaiba's substantial bank account tended to make complications disappear. Sometimes it still rankled. Duke wasn't thinking about it much just now.

Everyone thought he was just something to use. Everyone. Tristan – as much as he hated to admit it – was probably right. Seto said he needed him, but the only time the man admitted a weakness was with a secondary reason. Why did Tristan think he couldn't see that?

In the truck with him, isolated in that little warm space, Duke had almost asked him to turn the truck around several times.

Everyone was allowed to make mistakes, right? He assumed Tristan knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't let someone else just talk him into something, right?

"But did you ask him why he wants you so bad?"

Oh, but he had let people talk him into things. Duke had already told him about how Seto turned him against Tristan in the first place.

Thinking about that as he walked across the tarmac, Duke thought maybe… that had hurt Tristan enough to lose faith in him. God knew Tristan second-guessed and doubted himself over enough. Maybe part of the original split had been because of Tristan, but the greater fault was his.

Duke Devlin, Homewrecker Extraordinaire.

If that was true, Dev told himself, then Tristan needed Dev like he needed a gun barrel in his mouth. So even if he'd hurt Tristan by leaving, it was for the best. His gaze dropped to the pavement in front of him and the scuffed steel points of his boots, moving one after another. It was for the best.

Wasn't it?

The jet loomed up in front of him, larger than life with brilliant orange and red serpentines glinting from every minute ripple in the chrome skin. A set of stairs had been rolled up to the main portal near the cockpit, and the door swung wide, leaving a rounded square of unrelieved black yawning open.

As he reached the stairs, Seto appeared at the summit. He'd removed his coat, and stood in his white shirtsleeves, no tie and the cuffs unbuttoned. The sky bled over him, painting him in shades of red. Like the corrugated metal roof of the hangar, and the reflection glaring off of the terminal windows. The closer he got, the more Dev realized that the other man shivered a little. Seto was almost as slender as he was, and with no coat, this chill air had to be taking its toll.

That in itself was important. Seto Kaiba suffered personal discomfort for no man. In the warm light, he looked almost human, and though the brilliant blue eyes that met his didn't have Tristan's solid warmth, they were welcoming in their own way when Dev made it to the top step.

"Here I am."

Seto nodded, looked at him a moment longer, and turned to go inside. Dev looked back once, toward the huge windows lining the wall of the airport terminal. They were blindingly red, moving minutely in the heavy breeze. What had he hoped to see? Tristan? Around the side of the little building, Dev's gaze roved out to the highway. Hoping to see a familiar pickup. Hoping that Tristan was leaving.

The road was eerily empty.

He was cold.

He ducked inside.

Tristan waited until Dev was on his way into the terminal before he let go. He carefully made sure the windows were rolled up, locked the doors of his pickup, and slumped in the driver's seat, head back. He took a few hard, gulping breaths. The still air, warm yet from the heater, lay heavy on his chest and made him feel incredibly tired. He reached up to rub the back of his neck and felt the chain still clinging to his throat. Both hands came up, then, and gently undid the clasp.

"Is that what you want?"

"He needs me."

Slinky, the last light of the red sun slithering over its coils, the chain dripped over his fingertips like a live thing. The silver ring nestled perfectly in the cup of his palm. He unthreaded it and shifted it into his fingers, rubbing the smooth-ground jade inlay in the warm metal, stroking the ball of his index finger on the tiny roughness of the inscription.

You didn't get her. I won.

He turned the cab light on to read the words, and slowly fell apart. The lamps in the airport parking lot were sparse, and when he reached up and switched off the light, the cab of the pickup was dark. He leaned back into the headrest again and stared up at the ceiling until it blurred. When the hiccupping sobs started, he didn't bother to stop them, eyes shut tight now, grimacing fiercely.

I need you here, Dev.

He covered his eyes with one huge, callused hand, wiping furiously at the damp skin, rubbing it raw and sore and red.

"Will you take care of him, Tristan? Like you used to."

Dev had told him what he could, but Tristan couldn't get past his own pain, his own jealousy and his damned confusion long enough to try and help. To really listen. He didn't know if Dev had eaten today – had he? He was so thin…and all Tristan could recall was the cup of coffee with too much sugar in it.

"Tris…sometimes I think…you're the only thing that's real."

He'd let him down. Tristan pummeled the armrest with his free fist, jerked to the side and caught his knee against the console hard enough to really hurt. "FUCK!"

"You're still afraid."

The truck rolled from side to side on its suspension, shivering eventually to a stop as his temple hit the window and stilled.

The appointments were lush inside the private plane, and everything was just as Dev remembered. Even the matronly feminine disembodied voice welcoming him by name; urging him to have a seat. It was actually Seto's personal computer, and Dev felt his lips tighten into an ironic smirk. Just the three of us. Wherever Seto went, so went the chip-brained 'woman,' who had a sarcastic sense of humor despite her artificial intelligence. Dev wondered sometimes if the security cameras installed in the bedroom were really to protect priceless works of art, or just there because she was a voyeur.

It should have felt like coming home. He knew this place right down to the colors of the olive picks at the miniature bar.

It didn't. Tristan's garage had felt more like home than this. Seto really should have known better than to leave him alone. Dev did most of his worst thinking when there was nobody to distract him.

There was a sudden flooding rush of urgency to get out. This was wrong, just like Tristan told him. Whether or not he was angry at the man, this was wrong.

Seto chose then to reappear from the cockpit, having given his pilots the go-ahead to radio the tower for permission to take off.

Someone came and asked for Dev's baggage to stow. He shook his head, mutely refusing the reaching hands. Seto cocked his head. "Duke?"

"This isn't right."

"Do you need something? Did you forget something? I can have one of the men collect it for you."

"You know as well as I do what's wrong."

Seto gave him a piercing look. "Enlighten me."

They stood a body length apart from one another. Neither one made a move to close the space.

Dev thought abstractly that Tristan was different. He didn't ask permission to touch someone, until after he'd already done it. He was always too close. But he never forced his hand – not in all the time that Dev had known him.

"Why did you come after me?" Dev asked.

"I already told you. In the message I sent you."

"So tell me again. You know me," The bags were too heavy and Dev dropped them, but stood over them like a guard dog. "I'm pretty hard-headed."

Seto stared at him. He straightened aggressively and turned away, spreading his hands. "This is ridiculous."

"Not if you meant it."

"Meant what?" Seto peered over his shoulder.

"That you loved me."

"You're testing me now?"

"Why not? You tested Tristan." Dev shrugged. "Or actually, you weighted the scores and then let me test him."

"I thought we were past that."

"I'm not."

"Then why did you agree to come home?"

"Because you're good at what you do."

"Don't be catty. I could say you are a professional in your own right."

Verbal spars with him were impossible, and even though Dev considered himself reasonably clever, still, arguments with Seto Kaiba felt like swimming in a pool where he couldn't touch the bottom.

"Oh, admit it," Dev broke in, sounding as exhausted as he felt, "we're too much alike to ever work. We know what to say to get what we want at first, but we're awful at following through."

Seto turned again to face him. Dev could see his hands. They dangled at his sides, powerful elegance that he'd cherished. The fingers curled and squeezed, relaxed and squeezed. He was very pale, though whether that was from the tasteful recessed lighting or from an actual sensation of fear, Dev couldn't tell.

"This is going to wear off, sometime, just like it did before. And when it does, what'll you do? What will I do? I love you, Seto."

"I said I—"

"Yes. And it's going to suffocate me."

"I refuse to argue with you, although I disagree. Do you mean to say that you're not going with me, after all? What about your game?"

"I can handle my game. What about yours?"

Security guards heaved the doors shut, seconds before the muted drone of the engines signaled their clearance for takeoff. Both men turned at once toward the exit, and then at one another.

The sound of jet engines firing up made Tristan jerk upright. He looked from side to side to see if anyone had seen him, and suddenly felt more pissed off at that single self-conscious thought than he'd ever been before in his life.

For the umpteenth millionth time…this was wrong. And there was no way he could do anything about it from here.

He boiled out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition, and started for the terminal.

A long, metallic nose slid into view from behind the airport, as an elegant silver jet taxied out towards the runway.

"NO!"

Tristan hit the chain link fence separating him from the airstrip. He curled his fingers in the twists of metal, and hoisted himself up.

It was a small airport, but the fence was too high to scale, and there was a coil of barbed wire at the top as a secondary precaution.

Tristan nearly reached the top before he lost his grip, yelping as his jacket caught on the sharp prongs poking out and tore.

He fell back, hit the ground off-balance, stumbled two wild steps backwards and staggered to a halt.

After a dazed second or two, his gaze shifted to the door of the airport.

Please God…I'm begging you…don't let him get away from me…

His vision cleared. Common sense grabbed the upper hand and slapped emotion's fingers away from the reins.

Long legs pumping, he tore across the grass.

The terminal was empty of passengers, since the Amarillo Municipal Airport wasn't much more than a few miles of asphalt laid down for private cessnas. But thankfully, there was still someone at the desk, apparently just for the jet about to depart. Both palms struck the edge of the counter and Tristan's wrists buzzed as he gasped desperately for enough breath to speak. The young blonde woman behind the counter blinked at him in concern. "Sir?"

"Stop…" gasp, "stop that plane!"

"I'm sorry sir, but it's too—" He didn't let her finish, a low growl of impatience snarling its way up out of his throat.

Casting wildly from side to side, Tristan saw the exit behind and to the right of the counter that led straight to the airstrip. Out there was the sleek body of the jet, like a mirror-polished bullet, reflecting the dying sun in hot red streaks.

He pushed away from the counter and started for the glassed-in exit. It was a small airstrip. The entire terminal was on one level, and the portal would spill him out onto the concrete platform directly in front of the hangar.

The receptionist from the front desk was in tow, but he ignored her.

Kaiba's jet had reached the end of the runway and was taxiing around in preparation for takeoff. He reached for the door handle to yank it open.

It was locked.

The young woman from the counter caught at his arm, and he stared at her in wild shock, tensed to throw her off.

"Stop! I'm sorry, sir, that's passenger access only!"

He turned back to the window.

Every breath started to hurt.

The jet taxied down to the end of the runway and turned, and picked up speed.

Nothing could stop the ascent, and in moments, the aircraft was gone.

A silver hawk piercing the sky, circling around, dwindling to the size of a needle. Gone. Headed back to Japan.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist repeated, as Tristan's free hand raised to the window, first to strike, then thought better of it. Fingertips gently grazed the glass in a futile attempt to call back the jet. Then he did shake her off, and leaned fully against the glass to take comfort from the cool press on his forehead. The heel of the other palm dug deep into one eye socket.

A moan of defeat rucked up from deep inside his chest.

Something tickled his cheek.

He raised his head and examined his hand.

The chain from around his neck was still tangled in his left fist by some miracle, Dev's ring hugging the second knuckle of his index finger.

He looked at it, rolling it over his fingertips briefly, and straightened.

"Sir?"

At the word, Tristan took a deep breath at a giddy burst of excitement. An unbidden little bubble of euphoria.

He was getting the first flight back to Japan that he could afford.

After that…he'd improvise.

But however it turned out, he wasn't going home without a fight. He wouldn't know until he tried.

You didn't get her. I won.

He wasn't going to lose Dev. Not again. Not a third time. The ring didn't fit his finger, so he shoved it into his pocket along with its chain and turned back to the woman.

She was tugging nervously at her hair, pulling it back away from her face with an anxious expression.

"The love of my life was on that plane," Tristan explained.

She stared at him. He smiled back weakly, looking appropriately like windblown hell.

She took pity on him, hazel eyes softening, and he could see that she would have liked someone to chase her down like that. "Come on, we'll get you back to the office, and you can get cleaned up, if you want."

He looked down at himself, and noticed a smear of blood on his jacket and jeans where he'd thrust his hand into his pocket. He'd scuffed the side of his palm and wrist open when he'd fallen off the fence. It wasn't bleeding much, but it felt bruised, probably from battering the armrest of the driver's side door. Grimacing at what the armrest was going to look like, Tristan nodded meekly.

"Well, maybe it wasn't meant to be," She offered sympathetically, and showed him to the bathroom.

She was waiting for him at the desk when he came back out a minute later, an improvised compress of paper towel over the wound. "Thanks," He said, and almost meant it.

"She'd be a lunatic to walk away from you."

"He," Tristan corrected, not caring when her eyes widened a little and a frown took the place of the sympathetic 'she didn't deserve you anyway' smile.

Whatever the rest of her expression was, Tristan missed it as a slim silhouette appeared in front of the glass he'd just left, painted black against the red sky.

It was burdened by two shoulder-bags that looked quite heavy. They hit the floor with a double thud as soon as Tristan turned.

The last of the sun slipped down, and Tristan could see his face at last.

It was Dev. And he was smiling.

Tristan started his way, but didn't make three long running steps before the other's body cannoned into his.

He oofed and fell back a step, and caught the deep scent of aftershave, breathed in the puffs of breath washing against his face and tasted cinnamon.

A sob rasped its way out of his throat.

"I couldn't do it!" Dev hissed against his mouth, the upward hitch of his voice reduced to a breathless squeal.

"Shit!" he'd had caught Tristan's forearms and squeezed just a little too tight, revealing that he was probably going to have a bruise all the way up to his elbow from his tantrum in the cab of his truck.

"God, I'm sorry!" Dev lifted his hand as he hissed and took in the effect of the pad of paper towel against his skin. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Going after you!"

"Why? After I—"

Tristan shoved him out to arm's length with the heels of his hands. "I couldn't let you get on that plane. Not without knowing…"

"I know how much you love me, Tris. That's why I—" Dev silenced at an impatient shake of Tristan's head.

"Let me finish, will you?"

At the other's stare, and then quiet nod, Tristan drew a deep breath.

"You were right. I'm scared. We've never had it easy, you know? Back in Domino, I was terrified that one day, I was going to have to wake up without you because you'd been…" He couldn't quite bring up the words, but the thought of death lingered there in the empty space, "…or I'd end up—"

"You were worried about something like that?"

"—because of a stupid mistake. I always needed something to protect, even when we were kids, remember?"

"I remember,"

"But I can't keep doing this. I am tired of doing this." The words were falling free as though he'd rehearsed them, and maybe he had, in bits and pieces. Whenever he remembered watching Dev walk out into the snow. Whenever he remembered pulling away when he shouldn't have. The other man thought he'd missed those expressions of quiet hurt. He hadn't. "If I lose you againbecause of stupidity…" Tristan broke off, blinking hard and looking down, as though his eyes hurt.

"I'm not going back."

"…I love you. And whether you think so, I need you."

"Tris, I'm staying here."

"I don't want to—"

"You don't have to. Look! I'm right here!" Dev slid closer, molding the length of his body to Tristan's. The cold air from the hangar platform still clung to the folds of his jacket, as almost reflexively, the brunette's arm went around his waist. "Right in front of you. So you can quit acting like I died, Tiger. I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't have to say anything for a few minutes, then. Tristan gently cupped the back of his head with his uninjured hand. His gaze flickered down to softly smiling lips, and then back up.

The worst was over, at last.

Dev curled his fingers against the nape of Tristan's neck, and shivered as a chapped and windblown mouth closed over his. His lips parted under the pressure of it, and he folded his elbows around Tristan's neck to seam them closer.

He missed the soft flutter of paper towel hitting the floor, and missed the sudden loss of pressure around his waist until Tristan pulled away.

Dev looked down at a rustle of fabric. Tristan was rummaging in his pocket, then seemed to think better of it. The hand withdrew, empty. "How did you get away from Kaiba?" Tristan asked.

"He let me go."

"Let you?"

"I suppose I insisted. I can't imagine what another year with him would be like." There was a pause. "What were you after?"

"Hm?"

"Your pocket."

"Oh, it was just—" Tristan's rapid disclaimer bit off, as Dev leaned a little to the left and burrowed his hand into the pocket of his blue jeans. They withdrew, trailing an unclasped gold chain. The ring slid off as he tugged it out, but he caught it neatly before it could fall. Eyebrows arched as he felt the smooth, body-warmed metal in the cup of his palm, and held it up. Tristan watched, head lowered, forehead just brushing against the soft curl of dark hair at Dev's temple.

"This is my ring." Dev murmured at last, still studying it, "You kept it?" Then he smiled. "You would."

Tristan's little breathy laugh was his assent. "It's still yours. But you don't have to wear it. Just keep it."

"I missed it." But he slid it into his pocket all the same…for later. After he'd seen the one he'd given Tristan again. "You were wearing it today, weren't you?"

Tristan didn't have the chance to answer. Before he could speak, Dev's mouth was on his again.

It was probably for the best.

Epilogue...

Tristan liked the look of his skin against Dev's; burnished tan and creamy gold. He was a little paler than he liked, with the onset of winter, but when the desert sun rose in the summer, the difference between them would be even more dramatic.

The thought of time was comforting now. In another year. Another ten years. Dev wasn't going anywhere.

His best friend was sleeping peacefully beside him, the bridge of his nose pressed firmly into Tristan's broad chest. Even when Tristan rolled over onto his other side, the other man hardly stirred, only snuggled close to his back and flung an arm over his waist. Nearly asleep himself, he stroked the ridge of knuckles raised against his ribs, and the slightly raised edge of the warm silver and jade hugging one slender digit. He tangled his fingers with the drowsy, pliant ones curved on his side, and smiled at the abrasion of metal on metal. Silver on gold.