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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.
