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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?”
