Chapter 3

Chapter Three

" O h, I'm coming into my seventh year at uni," Tristan said, casually dragging his fingertips over his date's shoulders. "I'll probably get around to graduating eventually, but degrees are so overrated, you know? I prefer to live in the moment. The best part is, if you never get a job, you never need to start paying back your HECS!" He grinned. "And, I mean, why study when you can fuck?"

His date's parents stared at him, their mouths dropping open, and his dinner date Jo leaned into his touch. "Tristan's so free in his attitudes," she said with a dreamy sigh. "A real Renaissance man."

"I don't think that's what a Renaissance man is," her father said tightly.

"He's right, darling. Perhaps you're thinking of the Vetruvian man, all deliciously symmetrical perfection?" He leaned and whispered in her ear, exactly loud enough for her parents to hear, "Although, full disclosure, I'm not quite symmetrical. My left ball is slightly larger. I know this is only our second date, but I'll show you later, if you'd like."

Jo's mother choked on her drink, and Tristan silently congratulated himself. His work here—to make Jo's long-time boyfriend Paul look like a catch—was pretty much done. He pushed his chair back, said, "I'll be right back," and headed for the bathroom. A vital part of Bad Boyfriending, he'd quickly discovered, was making himself scarce so his date's parents could express their disapproval, but in this case, he did actually need to piss. The skin-tight jeans he was wearing didn't allow for much bladder expansion.

While he was washing his hands, his phone buzzed with a text from Jo.

They're asking if I ever hear from that nice Paul I was dating.

The one they thought was the worst?

That's the one. Mum just suggested I call him for coffee sometime. I'll PayPal you what's owing. Dad wants to leave before you get back.

So you don't want to see my lopsided balls after all? Darling, I'm wounded.

He got a middle finger emoji in return and grinned to himself. Then he took a moment to rearrange his messy bun, giving Jo and her parents time to escape. It was all for the best, anyway. There was a waiter he'd been flirting with over dinner, and it was only half for the sake of Bad Boyfriending. The guy was cute, and even though he'd shot Tristan a few evil looks when Tristan had slid a hand down the front of his jeans and adjusted himself with so much enthusiasm that it looked like he was fondling his balls, he figured if he explained what he'd been up to, the guy might think it was funny and forgive him for being an arsehole .

He splashed water on his face, just for something to do, and inspected himself in the mirror. He was still hot. Tristan was a lot of things, but insecure wasn't one of them. It had never been in his vocabulary at all.

Hoping the waiter forgave him for being an arsehole made him think about Leo, Jimmy's nephew. Okay, so Tristan had been terrible to him at the funeral, which had been completely unintentional, but he'd offered the guy a blow job as an apology. Which wasn't at all a hardship—Tristan loved giving blow jobs. Except Leo had gotten all weird and uptight about it and had asked him if he was soliciting . Who even said things like that anyway? Apart from cops and lawyers, probably. But also, screw Leo for thinking that being casual about sex was the same as soliciting .

He pulled out his phone and googled soliciting.

No, definitely prostitution-related. Or, weirdly, lawyer-related. Soliciting was bad, but solicitors were good. English really was a fucked-up language. Orlando, Wei's co-worker, was Chilean, and even though he'd been in Australia since he was a kid, he still complained that English was bullshit. He'd once offered to teach Tristan Spanish, but they'd only made it halfway through the first lesson before they'd derailed it by having sex. Tristan hadn't learned any Spanish, but he had learned a fun trick with his tongue, so the afternoon hadn't been a total waste.

He gave Jo and her parents some more time to clear out, then sauntered out of the bathroom. He was a little disappointed that the cute waiter wasn't anywhere to be found, but not too disappointed. It wasn't like he had no other options.

Twenty minutes later he was at The Palace. If there had been a queue, he would have cut to the front of the line, because the bouncer liked him. He liked the bouncer, too, but not enough for a second date. Life was too short for second dates.

"Hey, Brandon," he said.

"Brendan," the bouncer corrected him with a grin. "Back again tonight?"

Tristan clutched his chest in mock horror. "Where else would I be, babe? The Palace has everything I need!"

Brendan laughed and waved him in. "You need to expand your horizons, Tristan."

Tristan blew him a kiss. "My horizons are exactly as wide as they need to be."

He let the thump of the bass and the flashing lights draw him inside to whatever, and whoever, the night would bring.

Tristan awoke with the sun hitting him in the face because he hadn't closed his curtains the night before. He groaned and checked the time on his phone. It was almost ten o'clock, but there was a crack in the screen that made the day, and half the screen, unreadable. Unless it was the weekend, he'd missed his first lecture at uni. He listened for a moment and caught the faint sounds of someone in the kitchen—the squeaky cupboard being opened, the clatter of a pan on the stovetop. Either a burglar had broken in and was making themselves a late breakfast, or it was a Saturday and Harry and Jack were home. Harry and Jack both had jobs and always seemed to be away doing them. The house was generally Tristan's from Monday to Friday, which he enjoyed, but he couldn't deny that he also liked it when Harry and Jack got home every evening, and they all sat around and watched Netflix together, squeezed onto the couch with their dinner plates balanced on their knees. It was nice, even though Jack talked about mysterious things like alternators and differentials, and Harry talked about even more mysterious things like four-year-olds and developmental milestones.

Someone sighed in their sleep behind him.

Tristan stretched.

Oh yeah . Last night had been good. Tristan hadn't been rimmed by a guy with a tongue stud before, and the experience was definitely one he wanted to repeat—not necessarily with this guy, though. People sometimes got weird and clingy, even though they said they wouldn't, and Tristan didn't have any time for that. In a sea full of fish, why settle for the same old sardine every time?

Thinking about sardines reminded him that he was hungry, so he rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed and stretched. He didn't bother waking his bedmate—Rhys? Ross? One of those, anyway. Tristan had found that if he just rolled out of bed and left his partner alone, they were less likely to assume he was interested in morning-after hugs, exchanging numbers and arranging to meet for coffee and far more likely to take the hint, get dressed and bugger off, leaving behind nothing more than fond memories. On very rare occasions, Tristan indulged in another round the next morning, but generally he took the view that lovers were a bit like stray cats—show too much affection and there was a risk they'd hang around indefinitely, and Tristan wasn't interested in that.

He fished a pair of satin boxers off the floor and shrugged into his kimono before heading down the stairs, sniffing. There was a disturbing lack of bacon in the air, and when he walked into the kitchen, nothing was cooking at all. There was just Harry, on his knees with his head in the oven.

Oh no .

"Harry, no," Tristan said, hurrying over and laying what he hoped was a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. " Whatever it is, it's not that bad. Unless—oh puppy, you and Jack haven't broken up, have you? Is that why there's no bacon and you're trying to gas yourself?"

Harry sat back on his haunches, his brow furrowed. "What?" There was a smudge of grease on his cheek, his glasses were spattered with dirt, and he was holding a scourer.

Tristan took a second to take in all the details of what, exactly, he was seeing. "You're—Harry, are you cleaning the oven?"

Harry held up the scourer. "Um, yes?"

"But—why?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "For the inspection? Please tell me you didn't forget?"

Tristan stared blankly.

"Tristan! The new owner is coming to look at the house, and we have to make it decent!"

"They are? When?"

"Today! We got the letter weeks ago!" Harry huffed, dragging his forearm across his forehead and smearing more oven grease on his face. It made him look like a Dickensian urchin, except for the part where he was a fully grown man. "We agreed that we'd all spend the morning cleaning. Jack's taking care of the bathroom, and you're meant to be doing the floors. Is any of this ringing a bell?"

Tristan racked his barely awake brain and found a half-buried recollection of a conversation about what was happening with the new owners. He dug harder into his memory bank, and it started to come back to him. Of course. Tristan had received a letter, since his name was on the lease, and it had been extremely long-winded and formal, but once they'd dug through the jumble of legalese, it had said that the new owner wanted to inspect the property and make sure they were keeping it in good condition, which had led to Harry getting all flustered and panicking that they'd be homeless, which had led to him extracting a promise that all three of them would pitch in when it was time to clean up—at which point Tristan had probably tuned out, to be honest. More pressing right now, in his opinion, was the complete and utter lack of a cooked breakfast.

But Harry was still looking at him, his face scrunched up in concern, and Harry was a world-class worrier, so Tristan took pity on him. "Of course I remember," he lied. "Coffee, and then I'll do the floors. It's not like they'll turn up early, anyway. It's Saturday."

Harry gave him a grateful smile which lit up his adorable little face like a sunrise, and Tristan once again mourned the fact that Jack and Harry had both turned down his suggestion of a threesome. Twice. Not that he was surprised—sex for Harry didn't exist outside of Jack, and Jack was from Goulburn , which was hardly kink central, and quite apart from that he only had eyes for Harry—but still, a boy could dream.

He manoeuvred his way around Harry and started his coffee brewing before settling for a bowl of cereal, since it seemed he wasn't going to get his bacon today—it wasn't like he was going to cook it himself— and sent dark thoughts in the direction of any landlord who thought it was okay to disturb someone's Saturday. He was just putting his bowl in the sink when Rhys/Ross meandered into the kitchen—fully dressed, Tristan was happy to see, which generally meant he wouldn't be hanging around. "Harry, this is Ross," he said, because his mother had raised him with manners.

"Rhys."

"Rhys," Tristan corrected with a smile. "He has a tongue piercing."

Harry made a sound of acknowledgement from the depths of the oven .

"So, thanks for a great time last night," Rhys said.

"Oh no, thank you, " Tristan said, raising his eyebrows. "It was an experience." He put his coffee cup down and stood up. "Let me see you to the door."

"Kicking me out already?" Rhys said, clearly only half-joking.

"Actually yes, unless you'd like to stay and help clean up for a rent inspection?" Tristan asked hopefully. "The floors need to be mopped, but maybe afterwards, we could…" He raised one eyebrow and licked his bottom lip suggestively. It wouldn't really be much of a sacrifice to take Rhys back to bed, especially if it meant getting out of housework.

Rhys laughed. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I'll see you around."

"Sure," Tristan agreed, walking Rhys to the door. He didn't offer his number, and Rhys didn't ask for it.

"Thanks again, last night was marvellous," Tristan said as he opened the door, then he wrapped one hand around the back of Rhys's head and dragged him in for one last, filthy kiss. Tristan would never get a tongue piercing—it would be a crime against his perfect teeth—but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy them immensely in others, and he explored Rhys's mouth with enthusiasm. He slid one hand over Rhys's arse and was just wondering if he'd been a bit hasty in turning down another round after all, when he was pulled from the moment by someone pointedly clearing their throat.

Rhys pulled back, cast a glance over Tristan's shoulder and said, "Um. I'd better go." And he did, taking his lovely piercing and perfect arse with him.

Tristan sighed and turned to address whoever had so rudely interrupted what had been shaping up to an excellent pash, only to find that the face staring back at him was both familiar and unexpected.

Except it wasn't, not exactly. Jimmy hadn't had much family and even less that he spoke to, so there was a certain grim inevitability to it all, but still. Coming face to face with Jimmy's nephew, all dressed up in a suit and carrying a clipboard, really put a dampener on Tristan's afterglow.

The dismayed expression on Leo's face as he peered unhappily at Tristan reflected his own thoughts perfectly.

Well, shit.

"I guess you're here for the inspection," Tristan said loudly, hoping that the sound would travel enough for Harry to get his head out of the oven at least. He heard muttered swearing in the background and the sound of drawers slamming, so he figured it had worked.

"Yes, so if I could just come in…?"

Tristan angled his body so Leo's entry was blocked and said, "Come back with a warrant."

Leo's face scrunched in confusion. "Pardon?"

"I don't know why I said that," Tristan said. "You're not the police." He paused. "Are you?" Now that he thought about it, he wouldn't be surprised if Leo was in some sort of law enforcement. He seemed like he was that special type of buttoned-down that screamed cop, and he'd been all up in Tristan's face about soliciting, which seemed like a very law enforcement-adjacent thing to say. "Maybe you are. Ooh, does that mean you have your own handcuffs?"

Tristan wasn't sure what possessed him—maybe it was some vague idea of distracting Leo so the puppies could finish tidying, or maybe he just wanted to see if he could rattle Leo's cage—but he licked his lips, ran his fingers through his hair, parted his robe slightly more so that his abs were on display and leaned forward, one hand braced on the doorframe above his head. "I've been a bad, bad boy, officer," he purred with a wink. " Wanna frisk me?"

Leo took a half-step backwards, his eyes wide, a blush crawling up his neck. "I'm not frisking you! I'm not a cop!"

"Oh? Pity. I've always had a thing for uniforms." Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You could frisk me for fun?"

Leo didn't say no, but he didn't say yes, either, which was disappointing. Tristan was sure, if he could just get him to relax, that Leo would be a lot of fun. Leo exhaled before visibly pulling himself upright and squaring his shoulders. "Look, I'm here to do an inspection, that's all. Now, can I come in or not?"

Could he be any more buttoned down? Tristan wondered if Leo had ever truly relaxed in his life, and he briefly felt sorry for anyone who was so easily scandalised. But he could still hear Jack and Harry scrambling around like hyperactive mice, so he stayed in the doorway and said, "Actually, legally I don't think you can. You haven't given seven days' notice of intent to enter the property."

Leo sighed, a sound dragged from the very soles of his boots, and after digging in his folder he held out a copy of the letter Tristan had received, tapping his finger on the date, which was—shit, ten days ago? Where the hell had the days gone? No wonder Harry had accused Tristan of forgetting his promise—which he had, but Harry didn't need to know that.

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh. Now, can I please come inside?"

Tristan cocked his head, listening. Cupboard doors were still banging, so he said, "Look, now's not a good time."

Leo's face flushed pink and he swallowed as he looked Tristan up and down in his barely tied kimono. Fuck, he was cute when he was flustered. "Are you…expecting someone?"

Tristan grinned. "Only if you're offering." Leo just stared and Tristan sighed inwardly. "Fine. If you must know, Jack and Harry—they're my roommates—are…in flagrante de licto, so to speak." There. That should buy the puppies some more time.

"They're what?"

"They're fucking," Tristan said bluntly. It was far too entertaining to watch Leo blush even harder.

"What, right now?"

"Well, of course. They both work during the week, so they tend to catch up on the weekends. What do you do with your Saturday mornings? No, wait, let me guess. You either go to the farmer's market and buy revolting homemade protein bars, or you turn up on people's doorsteps with a clipboard and interrupt them in the middle of a frankly spectacular kiss."

Leo pursed his lips at the accusation and it should have made him look officious, but instead it somehow made him look adorable, like a terminally offended teddy bear. Tristan wondered if he should point Leo's inherent adorableness out and if Leo would take ‘you're cute when you're angry' as a compliment, or if it would go down like a lead balloon, the same way offering to blow him at Jimmy's wake had. Probably the second one, because while the guy was cute, obviously he didn't have a fun bone in his body.

Leo's obvious grumpiness aside, Tristan wouldn't have minded putting his fun bone in his body, but before he had a chance to offer, a breathless Jack appeared at his shoulder. "Hey," he panted, leaning forward and extending a hand to Leo. "I'm Jack. Me and my boyfriend definitely were not having sex, just for the record. You're here to inspect the place, yeah?"