Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

L eo had never thought of himself as a rebellious kind of guy. He liked to imagine that if he ever got the call to stand up against the forces of galactic evil, he'd grab his lightsaber and give it his best shot, but in his day-to-day life, he wasn't rebellious at all. He'd never even been particularly adventurous. But on Friday night as he was listening to his mother tell him over and over that he really must sell that old house—" It's the smart financial choice, darling "—he felt definite stirrings of something in his gut that he tentatively labelled dissent. Because the more she went on about it, with Dad murmuring his agreement, the more Leo was determined not to do it.

The house was a pain. It was a crumbling mess that at first glance was only held together by the black mould and some particularly resilient cobwebs, but none of that was important, because if what Jimmy had left him didn't cover it, then Leo could get a loan. There was enough equity in the place to do it. What was important were the people who lived in the house—Harry and Jack, and Tris . If Leo kicked them out, where else could they go? He didn't need anyone to tell him how obscene rents were in Sydney. Hell, he was a renter himself, in his tiny little apartment. And maybe Harry and Jack would figure something out, because they had full-time employment, but Tristan was a uni student, and uni students barely had two packets of instant noodles to rub together. Leo had been one of those once, though he'd been lucky enough that he'd never felt the same pinch that so many of his peers had. He'd had his parents to fall back on. He was grateful for that and always would be, but at the same time, here he was with a ribbon of rebellion curling through his gut, and he liked it. He wanted to keep the house because of what it meant for Harry and Jack and Tris, just like he wanted to keep the weird and wonderful sex shop because of what it meant to the weird and wonderful community of Newtown.

"You can't rush this stuff, Mum," he said, cutting his mother off mid-diatribe. "I still have to get in touch with Uncle Jimmy's accountant, and sorting everything out takes time."

Uncle Jimmy's accountant—because he'd had one after all, who knew?—was someone named Kevin O'Brien. They hadn't met yet, but Leo had exchanged a couple of emails with him regarding paying the bills and wages at the sex shop, and Kevin had taken care of it for him. Leo was planning to sit down with the man and sort out the labyrinth of Uncle Jimmy's holdings, but he hadn't felt up to it yet, with the house—and one of its occupants, specifically—taking all his focus.

A smile crept onto his face when he thought of Tristan, who was out on a bad date right now and doubtless horrifying someone's parents, but who had promised he'd be done in time and waiting at home with a bottle of pink gin once Leo was done with dinner with his folks. Leo hadn't had pink gin before, and all he knew was that there were raspberries involved. Dating Tristan meant he was getting an introduction to all sorts of new things and surprisingly, not all of them were sexual.

"How's the campaign going, Dad?" he asked, steering the topic into safer waters.

"Oh, it's going swimmingly!" his mother gushed. "It looks like your father's a shoo-in, assuming he doesn't have a secret drug habit or a second family lurking somewhere!" She tittered brightly at the very suggestion that Leo's sensible father would be capable of such a thing.

"Got the official invitation to Lillian Kingsbury's dinner," his dad said, chest puffing out. "It's gilded ."

Leo nodded like he thought that meant something—maybe in political circles it did. He spent the rest of dinner smiling politely and listening to talk of preferences and nominations and pre-selections and other things he really didn't care about, while pondering how pink gin differed from regular gin. He wondered whether Tristan would be wearing his pink kimono, since it matched the colour of tonight's drinks. It seemed like the sort of thing Tristan might do.

The evening finally drew to a close. With one final admonition from his mother that he simply must make a decision regarding selling the house, Leo made his escape.

When he got to the share house, the banging in the walls told him someone was in the shower. Since Jack and Harry were out, he surmised it must be Tristan. A quick glance into Tristan's room revealed a pile of wet clothing on the floor that gave off a faint smell of beer, which told Leo that Tristan's date had gone according to plan.

Leo was still getting used to the idea that Tristan having a drink thrown in his face was the desired outcome, but as ridiculous as the whole Bad Boyfriend concept was, Leo preferred it to his earlier belief that Tristan was a rent boy .

When he'd discovered the truth, he'd struggled for a hot minute with what it said about him as a person that he didn't want to share Tristan with anyone else, but in the end, he'd decided that all it meant was that he didn't want to share his boyfriend, and there wasn't actually anything wrong with that. If Tristan had been a rent boy, Leo would have wanted to date him anyway—hell, he had —and he was pretty sure that was what mattered.

The pipes in the walls shuddered and screeched in protest as the water was turned off. A minute later Leo found himself with an arm full of damp, towel-wearing boyfriend as Tristan wrapped his long arms around him and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Hello, lover," Tristan said when they parted, pushing a tendril of wet hair behind his ear in that enchanting way of his. "How was your dinner date?"

Leo stole another quick kiss before answering, "It was fine. Yours?"

"Oh, it was an absolute disaster, by which I mean a triumph." Tristan grabbed at the towel draped around his shoulders and dried his hair more thoroughly, grinning when he peeked out at Leo from under the damp fabric. "Luckily beer's a good conditioner, so I got a beauty treatment and I got paid."

Tristan dropped the towel on the floor with the beer-soaked clothes and ran his fingers through his hair, fanning it out so it lay in damp curls against his shoulders. He dropped the towel from around his waist and grabbed a pair of jeans from the end of the bed, and he didn't even try to pretend he wasn't showing off as he shimmied his long legs into them. He threw on a T-shirt and led the way downstairs, where he had the drinks chilling in the fridge.

They spent the evening curled up on the couch, an old movie playing in the background as they sipped the cocktails Tristan made them. They exchanged slow, gin-soaked kisses, with Tristan sprawled across Leo's lap as they lazily made out until they were interrupted by the sound of keys in the lock.

Harry popped his head around the doorway a minute later and blinked. "Oh! I didn't mean to interrupt—" He made a vague gesture between them.

Tristan shrugged and stood, leaving a Tristan-shaped space on Leo's lap that Leo wasn't a fan of at all. "It's fine. We were just going upstairs, weren't we, babe?"

Leo's cheeks warmed, but whether it was from the gin, his arousal, or Tristan's invitation, he couldn't quite tell. Regardless, upstairs sounded pretty good about now. "Yeah. Please." He went to stand, stumbled a little and okay, that was the gin.

Tristan let out a sigh, "Leo Fisher, you're such a lightweight." He raised one arm so Leo could lean against his side and guided him out of the room, calling back over his shoulder, "There's some pink gin left if you two want some. Before you ask, Jack, it's raspberry, not a strawberry in sight."

"Ooh! Can we have cocktails, Jack?" Harry's eyes lit up.

"Sure," Jack said with a soft smile as he headed for the kitchen, Harry hot on his heels. Leo suspected they'd end up having their own make-out session on the couch.

Tristan helped him up the stairs to his room. Leo was forced to admit, now he was standing, that maybe the last drink had been a mistake because he was decidedly tipsy. Tristan laid Leo out on the bed, tugging his shoes off for him when it turned out to be too far for Leo to reach, slipping his jeans off as well so that Leo was lying in just a T-shirt and his underwear. Then Tristan lay down next to him and they kissed for a while. As nice as it was, the alcohol was making itself known, and Leo found his eyes slipping closed. Tristan pulled back. When Leo opened his eyes, it was to find Tristan propped on one elbow, gazing down at him with a fond expression. "You're hammered, aren't you?"

"Little bit." Leo grinned, wide and sloppy, and Tristan let out a soft laugh.

He stripped down to his boxers and slid under the blankets next to Leo, arranging them so he was the big spoon. "Go to sleep, babe."

"But we didn't get to fuck." Leo frowned, unable to fight a vague feeling that he'd lured Tristan upstairs under false pretences, or was depriving him somehow.

Tristan kissed the back of his neck. "No, but—and I can't believe I'm saying this—sex isn't everything. I like just holding you."

"Really?" Leo half-turned so he could see Tristan's face, because that wasn't what he'd expected to hear.

Tristan gave him a wry smile, like he couldn't quite believe he was saying it either. "Really. Trust me, nobody's more surprised than me. Now get some sleep, my happy little drunk."

Leo hummed and turned back around, smiling to himself. He really was happily drunk, and the fact Tristan didn't seem the least bit bothered by the lack of sex had warmth blooming in his chest as he considered the fact that Tristan just wanted to hold him.

He shimmied backward until they were as close as they could possibly get, warm skin pressed against the length of his back. He shivered when Tristan went back to kissing his neck.

"Besides," Tristan murmured quietly as his fingertips traced patterns on Leo's biceps, "tomorrow's Saturday. We can spend the day fucking each other stupid."

And that , that sounded more like his Tristan.

Leo had things to do tomorrow. He didn't have time to waste hours in bed. And yet, right at that moment, he couldn't think of any way he'd rather spend the day.

"Deal," he mumbled as he settled into the warmth and security of the body blanketing him. "Sleep now, fuck tomorrow."

Tristan might have replied, but Leo didn't hear him. He was already asleep.

Leo woke with a throbbing head and a determination never to let Tristan mix the drinks again. Obviously, both moderation and the use of a spirit measure were foreign concepts to his boyfriend.

His boyfriend .

He smiled to himself despite his headache, and wondered if that was going to get old any time soon. He hoped not. There was heat and pressure against his side. When he opened one eyelid it was to find Tristan plastered against him with one arm still draped across Leo's stomach, his mouth open and eyes closed, making little huffing sounds in his sleep like a dog chasing a rabbit.

His boyfriend had no business being so adorable.

And there it was again—his boyfriend .

Even thinking the words was like a punch to the gut, but in a good way. Was there a good way to be punched in the gut? Though supposedly some people were into that. Tristan would probably know.

He thought back to what Tris had said that night at the taqueria. Tris hadn't dated anyone before. Then, last night, that he was happy just to cuddle.

This time the punch in the gut felt less good, because it hit him square in the middle of all his insecurities. Tristan was a guy who had been around the block once or twice. Hell, he'd been around the block so many times they'd named the street after him. And that didn't matter, not really, because more power to him, but wouldn't the fact he had so much experience mean that any second now he was going to get bored with Leo? Tristan was like a supernova—brilliant, massive, universe-swallowing. Okay, Leo was no astrophysicist. But if Tristan was like a supernova, then Leo was like the famous Centennial Light Bulb that had been putting out a steady, modest glow since 1901 and showed no signs of ever stopping.

Fuck .

The fact that he not only knew there was a famous lightbulb but also knew its name proved that he had nothing in common with Tristan at all.

Tristan stretched and yawned. The sunlight was gleaming golden on his skin. Leo, who didn't want to be discovered staring at him like a creeper, squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.

The mattress shifted.

"I know you're not asleep," Tristan murmured.

Leo opened one eye. "How do you know?"

Tristan grinned and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Babe, nobody sleeps with their eyes all scrunched up like that. Also, you answered me."

Leo gave up and opened his other eye. "Yeah, that was a bit of a giveaway."

Tristan rolled away from him for a moment. Leo heard a plastic rustling sound that his hopeful brain—and dick—interpreted as ‘condom' then Tristan was back beside him, propped up on one elbow. He held out a bag. "Mint?"

Leo's brain and dick took a moment to wrestle with their disappointment. "What?"

Tristan rattled the bag. "Do you want a mint? "

"I…what?"

"Morning breath," Tristan said. "I'm not a fan, but I promised you sex this morning, and I'm not getting out of bed to brush my teeth first."

"That's hot," Leo whispered, his eyes widening. "But I need to pee."

Tristan held his gaze for a moment, then groaned. "Fuck. Me, too. Okay, so toilet, then breakfast, then we brush our teeth and then we have sex all day? Or at least until muscle strain and chafing takes us out of the game."

"So romantic," Leo said with a snort.

"I have my moments."

"This isn't one of them, is it?"

Tristan gasped and clutched his heart. "Leo! Are you saying I'm not charming ?"

"I might re-evaluate my opinion if you make me breakfast."

"Mmm." Tristan shook his head. "I love that you think that might happen, but, trust me, if I made you breakfast, your opinion of me would not improve. I am a terrible cook. Unless you want toast. I can probably make you toast, though Harry says my toast is really just warm bread. Apparently if you can't snap it in half, it's not real toast." He raised his eyebrows. "What are your opinions on toast, Leo Fisher?"

Leo blinked. "It should be crunchy?"

Tristan sighed. "Yeah, no. My breakfast-making skills are going to leave you very disappointed, I'm afraid."

"So when you offered me toast the other night, it was going to be sub-par?"

Tristan rolled his eyes. "You're not going to let me forget that, are you?"

"It was cute," Leo insisted. "Weird, but cute. "

"Fine. My failed attempt at acting like a boyfriend was cute. Now, let's please never mention it again."

Leo didn't like the hint of insecurity he glimpsed behind Tristan's smile. He reached for his hand and squeezed it. "You're an amazing boyfriend. You just can't make toast. And that's not exactly a deal-breaker, because I can, so I'll just make all the toast in this relationship."

Tristan wrinkled his nose. "Is this you offering to make me breakfast instead, or is it a metaphor? Because I have to tell you, I almost failed English Lit when they made me take it in my first year."

Leo laughed, then groaned as his head thumped and his hangover flared. "I'll make you breakfast. But yes, it was also a metaphor."

Tristan kissed him again, on the lips this time. His breath was minty-fresh. "You can explain it to me over our firm, crunchy toast. Come on. I'm starving."