Henry snorted a laugh. “Right. I wouldn’t get too cocky. Or did you have some burningly brilliant insight about that stupid bee-sting cake thing? Because I sure as hell haven’t yet.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.” Tristan leaned his head all the way back and puckered his lips.
And Henry kissed him.
After their shower, Tristan lay on the bed next to Henry, both of them in their underwear with the AC turned all the way off to account for their lack of clothing.
Henry lifted his glass—one of those cheap ones hotels always left in the bathrooms—to his lips and drank the mostly-vodka-and-partially-grape-juice cocktail. His face screwed up a little, but not as much as when they first started drinking. “So, are youtotallysure you’re okay with me sharing your hotel room? I do have a perfectly workable one down the hall.”
Tristan shook his head. “I offered this time. I promise it’s good with me.” He picked up his own glass off the floor and clinked the edge against Henry’s glass.
“I’m glad. I like spending time with you.”
“Well, no one else is giving you sex, right?”
“That’s not why, thank you very much. I thought you would think alittlemore highly of me by now.”
“I do. I thinkprettyhighly of you, actually. Believe it or not.” Tristan sighed and took a slow drink, an attempt to brace himself for being incredibly stupid and bringing up the past that he’d struggled and fought hard to keep private. Opening that door was incredibly,monumentallystupid, but the thought of it wouldn’t leave Tristan alone. Not with Henry lying there, not saying anything and just letting the scars be the way no other guy had ever managed to do. Tristan felt he almostdeservedto be told. It was like one of those weird ancient riddles: as soon as you stop wanting something, that’s when you can have it.
Tristan lowered his glass once he’d drained half the contents, the terrible lack of flavor be damned. “So... why didn’t you ask me? I was expecting it.”
“I asked you about your tattoo.”
Tristan rolled over to look him in the eye. “You know what I mean, Henry.”
Henry sighed and set down his drink, then fixed those bright and piercing eyes straight on Tristan. “The scars and stuff aren’t my business. Hell, the tattoos aren’t, either, but at least you picked those, so you must be a little okay with people seeing them.” He shrugged. “So it’s whatever. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’m not going to harp on it.”
Tristan smiled at him. His stomach tightened and churned around what he was about to say. But he forced his lips and tongue to make the sounds anyway, and it wasn’t nearly as weighty as he expected it to be. “They’re... My dad was an asshole. Arealasshole. To my sister and my mom and me all through our whole childhood.”
“Oh.” Henry’s voice quieted. He sat up and broke eye contact. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” Tristan blew out a slow breath. He hadn’t told anybodyanyof this in years. Karen was probably the last one he’d gone into it with. As far as Carlita was concerned—she’d caught sight of the scars at an event once and asked—they were from an accident he had as a stupid preteen with an ATV. But now something in his core pushed at him, and the truth scratched to be let out.
For Henry.
“It went on for a long time. I took the brunt of it sometimes for Lucia, and our mom took the brunt of it for the both of us. That’s also why I’m checking on my sister. Her husband’s, um, the same way.”
“That’s why she’s staying at your place.”
Tristan nodded. “Yeah.” He still had more to say, though. Now that the door was open? He wasn’t quite ready to shut it. “It got a lot worse once I was out. I got extra for being a ‘good for nothing faggot.’ So that was fun for me.” Tristan sighed, and it quivered past his lips. He sat up too. “Most of the time, we healed up fine, but obviously I still have... some marks. So I don’t like to take off my shirt. I don’t like to wear short sleeves. I don’t like when the hems on my shirts ride up. Even if I do have a tramp stamp back there.” That had been a super drunk, impulsive decision, one night when he’d felt okay. Tristan blew out a shuddering breath ... and he was all right. Not great, but all right. “It’s easier that way. No questions, no extra worries.”
Henry finally looked up again. “But you were willing to show me.”
“I wanted to be close to you and ...” Through the icy embarrassment of that whole story—Why the hell does that embarrass me in the first place?—heat managed to rise, bubbling from Tristan’s core and into his face, and giving him a whole newhotembarrassment to contend with. “I wanted to be close to you. If we were going to shower together, it kind of had to happen.”
Henry scooted across the bed. He rested a hand on Tristan’s exposed knee. He had hot, hard, callused fingers. “I’m glad you decided I was trustworthy and everything. And I really am sorry you had to put up with that. I mean, a kid. That’s fucked.”
“Yeah. Fucked is about how I would describe it too.” Tristan’s whole body lightened, and a laugh escaped his lips. “I can’t believe that went so well.”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“The best reaction I’ve gotten is a fake ‘I’ll call you’ after we’re done screwing. So maybe something like that.” Most guys didn’t ask about the scars, simply used him to get off, but damn sure didn’t want anything to do with him after the fact. Most of them would respond if he tried to touch base with them, but they never made the next move. “The worst is calling me a suicidal freak and storming out of the apartment. Which I wish I could say only happened once.”
“Jesus. Even if you were in that mental space, the reaction to have isn’t leaving. It’s... I don’t know, not running out of the house while insulting a suicidal guy seems like a good starting point.”
“That’s what I would say, but I guess everyone has a different opinion. I think they’re probably wrong, but... that’s the past. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Tristan scooted over too, until his legs touched Henry’s. “It’s been a long time since I’ve spent time with anyone like this. Just... relaxed.”
“And naked.”
