Truth to Tell
Part 1
Sliding the key into the lock of his front door, Tristan Averill leaned his aching head against the cool wood and silently pronounced this the quintessential Friday from hell. A day by which all future Fridays would be judged and, if the gods were kind, found wanting.
It had begun with his car obstinately refusing to start, despite having had service the prior week. Ten o'clock had seen him trying to talk round a client who had decided to revise the print campaign for her newest perfume. Her epiphany had come at the suggestion of a hair stylist whose expertise in the field of advertising appeared limited at best — as was the man's ability with scissors, judging by the state of the client's coiffure. After a working lunch at his desk in a futile attempt to regain a foothold of control over his day, a rather startling meeting with a private investigator had derailed his afternoon. Returning to his office after escorting the man to the lobby, Tristan had admitted defeat. Switching off his computer, he had shoved some files into his briefcase and informed his assistant he was going home at the unheard-of hour of three o'clock. He would be unavailable for the remainder of the day, on second thought the weekend as well.
Hearing the lobby door open and the jingle of keys as one of his neighbours wrestled them from the ancient lock, he turned his own key and stepped into the flat.
"Robin," he called, dropping as he dropped his keys onto the small console table and put his briefcase beneath it. "Robin, where are you?"
The sound of a choked-back sob brought his head up. Dropping the mail, he crossed the lounge in three strides to the bedroom door where he froze in shock. The bed was rumpled; the quilt dragged half off. The bottom of the chest of drawers was open and empty, a filled rucksack beside it. From the connecting bath came the sound of wracking coughs mixed with heartbroken sobs. Before he could take another step, the object of his concern appeared in the doorway, clutching some toiletries to his chest. Robin's face was red with crying; his eyes nearly swollen shut as he fought for breath between hitching sobs. His auburn hair stood on end as if he had been running his hands through it. He visibly started when he saw Tristan in the other doorway.
"You're early," he accused, his voice hoarse. "I meant to be gone before you got home."
Tristan bid a silent farewell to the calm discussion he had envisioned. "I am not about to let you go anywhere."
Robin knelt down and tucked his armload of items into the rucksack. A fresh bout of sobs shook his slender frame, and he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to control it, his chin dropping onto his chest.
Tristan crouched down beside him, gently stroking his hair. "You're making yourself sick, sweetheart," he murmured. "You must try to calm down."
The crying, which had quieted somewhat, returned full force and quickly rose towards hysterics.
"Deep breaths," Tristan coached. "That's all I want you to think about right now: slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?"
Standing up, Tristan hurried into the bath and held a flannel under the tap. Water dripped onto the floor as he carried it into the bedroom. Kneeling back down, he slapped it onto the back of Robin's neck and held it in place as Robin gasped at the shock and tried to pull away. The cold did the trick, breaking through the hysteria.
He spent the next few minutes rubbing gentle circles into Robin's back, willing the tension away. When the tears had run their course, Robin sagged against him, his breathing loud and ragged, punctuated with the occasional hitch.
Taking advantage of the relative calm, Tristan drew Robin with him onto the bed and wiped his tear-streaked face with the flannel. Handing him his handkerchief, Tristan gestured for him to blow his nose. He drew the trembling, exhausted form onto his lap, and then turned them both so he could lean against the headboard and stretch out his legs.
"Oh, Robbie," he murmured against sweat-dampened hair. "I don't like seeing you this upset."
"Don't be kind," Robin begged, burying his face into Tristan's broad chest. "Please, Tris, I don't deserve it."
Tristan held him at arm's length, slipping a hand under his chin when he would have ducked away. "Why, in God's name, not?"
Blue-grey eyes filled with tears, and Tristan braced himself for another round of inconsolable sobbing. After a deep breath, though, Robin tenuously held onto his composure long enough to whisper, "Because I lied to you from the start."
"We will discuss that when you've calmed down."
"I meant to be gone before you came home."
"And had you been, I would have spent the night tracking you down." Wrapping his arms around his partner, Tristan waited until he felt Robin relax into his hold. "Shall I tell you about my day?" he asked.
"All right. Well, you already know about the car. When I finally made it to the office, it seems I had my mobile off and had missed several frantic calls from Sarah. That awful Bradington woman was on her way in to change her campaign for the third time. So, instead of going to the staff meeting, I ended up under siege in my office. And just when I finished lunch and was looking forward to actually getting some work done, I had a call from Reception asking if I'd see a Mr. Peter Russell of Russell Investigations regarding a personal matter. Imagine my surprise when I learned the personal matter concerned one Robin Duncan whom he had just come from seeing."
"You see —"
"One disastrous day at a time, darling," Tristan admonished him. "It seems my partner also uses the alias — or, in this case, the nom de plume — Robin Elliott, a fact Mr. Russell was astonished to learn I didn't know. I must say I shared his astonishment. Imagine having the rising star of children's novelists as your partner and not knowing it."
The tears returned then, and Tristan grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the night table. "Blow," he ordered.
Robin complied, gulping down air until he was reasonably under control. Looking down at his fingers as they twisted the now sodden handkerchief, he mumbled something.
Tristan slipped a hand under his chin and raised it, forcing him to meet his eyes. "To me, darling. Nothing will ever be so bad that you can't look at me. Now what did you say?"
With an audible swallow, Robin began again. "I didn't mean to lie, but it just got more and more difficult to tell you. In the beginning, I was, well, not afraid exactly, but wary. I wanted to make sure you wanted me for me."
"And when you finally got it through that remarkably thick skull of yours that I was madly in love with you?"
"It was more difficult. I couldn't find the right time or the words to tell you, so I waited."
"Hoping it would sort itself out? Oh Robin, that is not the way to do things!"
Robin ducked his head again and huddled against him. "I knew you'd be angry and hurt when you found out, and I didn't want that."
"So you were content to go on with this between us? That, young man, is not an acceptable solution. Suppose your editor hadn't become concerned when he couldn't contact you and hadn't hired Mr. Russell to find you? How long would you have let this go on?"
He felt more than saw the shrug as Robin burrowed deeper into him. "You can't go through life simply hoping for the best, Robin. You and I are both responsible for this relationship, and telling each other the truth is a basic tenet of what we share. You omitted a very, very important fact about yourself."
"I didn't want things to change."
"Darling, things will change as we go along. Avoiding them or ignoring them are not the ways we'll deal with them. We'll handle them together and move on, all right?"
Robin nodded, his hands twisting his shirt. Tristan sat up, shifting him from his lap to the floor beside the bed.
"All right then, unbutton your jeans and take them off."
Robin struggled to his feet and complied, folding the jeans neatly before kneeling back down. Without further direction, he pushed his pants to the floor and settled himself across Tristan's lap.
"Good boy."
Robin twisted around so he could see Tristan's face. "You're not angry?"
"I'm not angry. I am, however, extremely disappointed. Do you know why I'm going to spank you?"
When Robin vigorously nodded his head, Tristan had to bite back a smile. "Aloud, darling."
"B-because I didn't tell you the full truth about myself. But I was going to," he insisted.
"Robin, how long have you already waited? The right moment might never have presented itself."
Before he had administered the fifth spank, Robin was sobbing steadily and by the twelfth, he was incoherently apologising. Tristan made each count as he turned Robin's bottom first rosy, and then bright red. When he finished, Robin dropped to his knees, burying his face in Tristan's lap as he cried. When he calmed, Tristan helped him pull up his pants before drawing him into his arms.
"Rest," he counselled. "Close your eyes and rest. We'll have a long talk tomorrow and sort this out."
It took a shorter time than he had anticipated before the muscles under his hands relaxed, and Robin's breathing evened out. Realising the reason he was so warm due to a combination of Robin's body heat and the suit he was still wearing, Tristan slid out from under him, shushing him quietly when he protested in his sleep.
Peeling off his clothes, he consigned his badly rumpled suit to the dry-cleaners bag. Trading his shirt and tie for an old sweatshirt and jeans, he took the opportunity to unpack Robin's things. As he shifted the clothing back into the allotted drawers, he found the sketch book Robin usually kept on the bedside table. Without opening it, he set it down in its customary spot and switched on the small lamp. Evening was coming on, and Robin did not like waking in the dark.
Sliding back onto the bed after indulging his headache with three aspirins, he glanced at the novel he was currently reading and started reaching for it. Even in sleep, Robin seemed to disagree, burrowing into Tristan's side then pinning him down with an arm and a leg without waking. The crease between the finely drawn brows had not lessened, and Tristan stroked the spot gently with his thumb until he followed Robin into sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was twilight when Robin awoke. Stretching diagonally across the bed on his stomach, he pillowed his head on his folded arms and simply drowsed, too drained to do much more. Traffic sounds drifted up from the street accompanied by the footfalls and voices on the stairs as neighbours returned from work and prepared for an evening out. After six weeks, it had become comfortable and familiar. And terribly soothing after the upsets of the day.
He had known from the start that not telling Tristan was a mistake. More than once, though, he had tried to put the words together and failed miserably. He had safeguarded Robin Elliott from the public and all but a few close friends for over a year. Keeping that part of himself secret had become so ingrained, so instinctive that, try as he might, he could not overcome it.
"Hey, sleepy head. Are you ready for tea?"
Robin shrugged, reluctant to make the effort of rising. Dropping onto the bed, Tristan rolled him onto his back, and proceeded to kiss him thoroughly. When they broke apart, Robin ran his fingers through the light-brown hair and then traced along the strong planes of Tristan's face.
"Beautiful," he pronounced with all seriousness.
Tristan laughed as he always did at this particular observation and gave the roaming fingers a quick nip before standing up. "Come along. Quick shower before we eat."
Taking the proffered hand, Robin pulled himself out of bed and onto his feet, letting Tristan take most of his weight. "Sorry," he whispered.
Tristan wrapped strong arms around him and kissed the top of his head before leaning his cheek on it. "It will be all right, sweetheart, you'll see."
Robin buried his face in the spot where Tristan's neck met his shoulder. There was a hint of the soap and after-shave left from the morning, but the overriding scent was Tristan himself. Breathing deeply, Robin filled his lungs and felt calm wash over him.
Tristan leaned down to meet his lips, holding his chin in one of his big hands. One quick kiss later, he straightened up, spun Robin around and swatted his bottom. "Off we go then: shower for you, kitchen for me. You have exactly ten minutes — ten and not twenty beyond that. I'll leave out fresh clothes for you, all right?"
Nodding his head, Robin shuffled off to the bath, peeling off clothes as he went.
"And everything goes in the hamper, not strewn across the floor."
Scooping his t-shirt off the floor, Robin hurried into the bath. He turned on the shower, then stripped off, depositing his clothes into the hamper. He avoided the mirror. He was not a pretty crier by any means, and he had no desire to see what several hours of tears looked like.
Adjusting the temperature to what Tristan referred to as scalding and he found soothing, Robin stepped under the spray and let out a sigh as the water poured over him. He used a few precious minutes of his time allotment to simply be as the heat seeped into his body. Finally he grabbed the shampoo and washed his hair. His bones were in serious danger of melting by the time he finished with sponge and soap.
Wrapping an over-sized towel around him like a toga, he stepped out of the shower. He dried off and dragged a comb through damp hair before hurrying to the bedroom. Tristan had left one of his own sweaters and Robin's oldest pair of jeans. The sweater was ancient, two sizes too large and the sleeves had a tendency to cover Robin's hands, but he loved it. Barefoot, he padded through the lounge to the tiny kitchen.
"I was just about to call you. I thought you'd gone down the drain," Tristan teased, dividing a panful of scrambled eggs between two plates already holding bacon and buttered toast. "Bring that along?" He nodded toward a tray with teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, jam pot and mugs.
The flat did not have a proper area to eat in; it was simply too small. The coffee table doubled as the dining table, and had been set with placemats, napkins and silverware. Robin set the tray down and sank onto a pillow on the floor, his legs underneath him so his bottom did not quite touch. Tristan took a seat on the sofa as Robin poured out.
"Why are you here?" Robin asked as they ate.
Tristan looked up, confusion in his chocolate-brown eyes. "Where?"
His mouth full, Robin indicated the flat with a wave of his fork. "Here," he managed.
Tristan looked around him as if he were seeing the room for the first time. When the building had been built as a private home, this flat had been a large sitting room. After the Second World War, it had been converted into two rooms. The lounge barely held the sofa, coffee table and an over-sized chair. A tiny kitchen filled one corner. The bedroom was even smaller with the bed running from doorway to windows. Having a nightstand meant tucking the chest of drawers into the wardrobe. Robin had learned early on that sharing the bathroom was impossible unless one of them stood in the shower.
"The sumptuous appointments, of course," Tristan finally replied and Robin snorted. "Actually, it was the only affordable thing I could find at the time. I fully expected to stay the year and then find something else. One year became two then three. I think I just became accustomed to it. I was so rarely home, the inconveniences didn't matter."
"It must have been beautiful in its day," Robin said, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the mouldings, the tall windows and the high ceilings. It seemed to him that the room had more space vertically than it did horizontally.
Tristan settled back on the sofa, warming his hands on a mug of tea. "I think you're right. The lines are classic, and most of the details are still in place."
"I think I would like it better as a house."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Tristan sat up and began collecting the dishes. Robin groaned but followed suit. In short order, they had everything washed up and put away. Robin settled himself with care on the sofa as Tristan slid in a video. Turning off the lamp so the only light came through the open drapes, he sat down beside Robin and wrapped an arm around him. Worn out by the day despite the nap, Robin snuggled into him and let his eyes drift closed during the opening credits. He lay half-awake and half-dreaming, certain he was following the plot until he awoke to the sound of the tape rewinding.
"I'll close up, you head off to bed."
"If I get up, I'll wake up," Robin complained, trying to bury his head into Tristan's shoulder. "I'll be awake all night."
Tristan shifted, then held him at arm's length. "Let's take that chance, shall we?"
Robin leaned toward him. "Comfortable here."
"More comfortable in bed. Off you get."
Against his wishes, Robin found himself stumbling to the bedroom door. Careful not to think or in any way wake himself up, he did not bother with the lights. He brushed his teeth and exchanged his clothes for the t-shirt and shorts he wore to sleep. Pushing the quilt back, he slipped into bed and turned so, if he woke during the night, he would see Tristan. With the next breath, he slept.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Drifting toward consciousness, Tristan felt vaguely unsettled and reached out to identify the source of his trepidation. Before his eyes had fully opened, he knew. The warm lump of sleeping Robin was not in their bed. As he rolled to his feet, Tristan focused on the lit face of the alarm clock — 3:17.
Never the best example of quick response in the middle of the night, he staggered to the living room. Blinking in an attempt to focus, he just missed stubbing his bare foot into a leg of the sofa.
"D-did I wake you? S-sorry..." came a small voice which hinted of suppressed tears.
Tristan aimed for the chair and reached it without doing himself any bodily harm. "I was wondering where you wandered off to."
"I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you so I came out here."
Tristan nodded. Not the soundest of sleepers, Robin often got up during the night. Sometimes he read or wrote, but most times, he gazed out the darkened windows for hours before returning to bed. Tristan disliked the habit and planned to eliminate it from Robin's routine as soon as possible.
"And now you're fretting," he observed, holding out his hand.
"No, I'm — "
Tristan raised one eyebrow.
Robin's eyes fell away from his even as he took the proffered hand. "I didn't mean to."
"I know." Drawing him to his feet, Tristan pulled him into his arms. "I told you we would talk about it. Until we do, though, I don't want you worrying, especially at half past three in the morning."
"I've thought it through and — "
Letting go of his hold, he turned Robin toward the bedroom and nudged him forward. "Now is not the time, sweetheart."
"But I want to clear the air! You said it was important to tell each other the truth," Robin protested as Tristan urged him into bed.
"Not now." Spooning up behind him, Tristan reached for the bedclothes and pulled them up over the two of them.
Robin turned over so they were face to face. "Why not?"
Biting back a sigh, Tristan wondered how one individual could work himself from near tears to challenge in so short a time. "Because I'm the one who makes the decisions, and I say this is not the time. We're both too tired for any sort of discussion."
"I'm not tired!"
"Yes, you are and crabby as well. Now settle down." He accented his words with the sharp smack of his hand against Robin's bottom. "I think we can table this for now, don't you?"
Quickly turning over so he was once again spooned against Tristan and his bottom was protected, Robin nodded.
Tristan straightened the covers over them and closed his eyes. He drifted, distantly aware when Robin's breathing evened out. The thought of Robin's usual strong reaction when told he was crabby brought a faint smile to his lips. Apparently, the close proximity of Tristan's hand had convinced him that the better part of valour was keeping his mouth closed and his indignation unvoiced.
Robin shifted in his arms, turning over so he lay half on top of Tristan with his head tucked into the curve of his partner's shoulder. When he had settled, Tristan slipped his hand beneath his shirt, stroking warm, soft skin with his fingers. The heat of those first few days when Robin had been so ill had gone, leaving only the warmth of good health. He still felt the outline of each rib, but they were not as prominent as they had been. Tracing the curve of his spine brought a mumble from Robin which sounded more like a purr. Tristan smiled lazily into the dark, thinking how full the past month and a half had been.
Part 2
It had begun with his car obstinately refusing to start, despite having had service the prior week. Ten o'clock had seen him trying to talk round a client who had decided to revise the print campaign for her newest perfume. Her epiphany had come at the suggestion of a hair stylist whose expertise in the field of advertising appeared limited at best — as was the man's ability with scissors, judging by the state of the client's coiffure. After a working lunch at his desk in a futile attempt to regain a foothold of control over his day, a rather startling meeting with a private investigator had derailed his afternoon. Returning to his office after escorting the man to the lobby, Tristan had admitted defeat. Switching off his computer, he had shoved some files into his briefcase and informed his assistant he was going home at the unheard-of hour of three o'clock. He would be unavailable for the remainder of the day, on second thought the weekend as well.
Hearing the lobby door open and the jingle of keys as one of his neighbours wrestled them from the ancient lock, he turned his own key and stepped into the flat.
"Robin," he called, dropping as he dropped his keys onto the small console table and put his briefcase beneath it. "Robin, where are you?"
The sound of a choked-back sob brought his head up. Dropping the mail, he crossed the lounge in three strides to the bedroom door where he froze in shock. The bed was rumpled; the quilt dragged half off. The bottom of the chest of drawers was open and empty, a filled rucksack beside it. From the connecting bath came the sound of wracking coughs mixed with heartbroken sobs. Before he could take another step, the object of his concern appeared in the doorway, clutching some toiletries to his chest. Robin's face was red with crying; his eyes nearly swollen shut as he fought for breath between hitching sobs. His auburn hair stood on end as if he had been running his hands through it. He visibly started when he saw Tristan in the other doorway.
"You're early," he accused, his voice hoarse. "I meant to be gone before you got home."
Tristan bid a silent farewell to the calm discussion he had envisioned. "I am not about to let you go anywhere."
Robin knelt down and tucked his armload of items into the rucksack. A fresh bout of sobs shook his slender frame, and he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to control it, his chin dropping onto his chest.
Tristan crouched down beside him, gently stroking his hair. "You're making yourself sick, sweetheart," he murmured. "You must try to calm down."
The crying, which had quieted somewhat, returned full force and quickly rose towards hysterics.
"Deep breaths," Tristan coached. "That's all I want you to think about right now: slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?"
Standing up, Tristan hurried into the bath and held a flannel under the tap. Water dripped onto the floor as he carried it into the bedroom. Kneeling back down, he slapped it onto the back of Robin's neck and held it in place as Robin gasped at the shock and tried to pull away. The cold did the trick, breaking through the hysteria.
He spent the next few minutes rubbing gentle circles into Robin's back, willing the tension away. When the tears had run their course, Robin sagged against him, his breathing loud and ragged, punctuated with the occasional hitch.
Taking advantage of the relative calm, Tristan drew Robin with him onto the bed and wiped his tear-streaked face with the flannel. Handing him his handkerchief, Tristan gestured for him to blow his nose. He drew the trembling, exhausted form onto his lap, and then turned them both so he could lean against the headboard and stretch out his legs.
"Oh, Robbie," he murmured against sweat-dampened hair. "I don't like seeing you this upset."
"Don't be kind," Robin begged, burying his face into Tristan's broad chest. "Please, Tris, I don't deserve it."
Tristan held him at arm's length, slipping a hand under his chin when he would have ducked away. "Why, in God's name, not?"
Blue-grey eyes filled with tears, and Tristan braced himself for another round of inconsolable sobbing. After a deep breath, though, Robin tenuously held onto his composure long enough to whisper, "Because I lied to you from the start."
"We will discuss that when you've calmed down."
"I meant to be gone before you came home."
"And had you been, I would have spent the night tracking you down." Wrapping his arms around his partner, Tristan waited until he felt Robin relax into his hold. "Shall I tell you about my day?" he asked.
"All right. Well, you already know about the car. When I finally made it to the office, it seems I had my mobile off and had missed several frantic calls from Sarah. That awful Bradington woman was on her way in to change her campaign for the third time. So, instead of going to the staff meeting, I ended up under siege in my office. And just when I finished lunch and was looking forward to actually getting some work done, I had a call from Reception asking if I'd see a Mr. Peter Russell of Russell Investigations regarding a personal matter. Imagine my surprise when I learned the personal matter concerned one Robin Duncan whom he had just come from seeing."
"You see —"
"One disastrous day at a time, darling," Tristan admonished him. "It seems my partner also uses the alias — or, in this case, the nom de plume — Robin Elliott, a fact Mr. Russell was astonished to learn I didn't know. I must say I shared his astonishment. Imagine having the rising star of children's novelists as your partner and not knowing it."
The tears returned then, and Tristan grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the night table. "Blow," he ordered.
Robin complied, gulping down air until he was reasonably under control. Looking down at his fingers as they twisted the now sodden handkerchief, he mumbled something.
Tristan slipped a hand under his chin and raised it, forcing him to meet his eyes. "To me, darling. Nothing will ever be so bad that you can't look at me. Now what did you say?"
With an audible swallow, Robin began again. "I didn't mean to lie, but it just got more and more difficult to tell you. In the beginning, I was, well, not afraid exactly, but wary. I wanted to make sure you wanted me for me."
"And when you finally got it through that remarkably thick skull of yours that I was madly in love with you?"
"It was more difficult. I couldn't find the right time or the words to tell you, so I waited."
"Hoping it would sort itself out? Oh Robin, that is not the way to do things!"
Robin ducked his head again and huddled against him. "I knew you'd be angry and hurt when you found out, and I didn't want that."
"So you were content to go on with this between us? That, young man, is not an acceptable solution. Suppose your editor hadn't become concerned when he couldn't contact you and hadn't hired Mr. Russell to find you? How long would you have let this go on?"
He felt more than saw the shrug as Robin burrowed deeper into him. "You can't go through life simply hoping for the best, Robin. You and I are both responsible for this relationship, and telling each other the truth is a basic tenet of what we share. You omitted a very, very important fact about yourself."
"I didn't want things to change."
"Darling, things will change as we go along. Avoiding them or ignoring them are not the ways we'll deal with them. We'll handle them together and move on, all right?"
Robin nodded, his hands twisting his shirt. Tristan sat up, shifting him from his lap to the floor beside the bed.
"All right then, unbutton your jeans and take them off."
Robin struggled to his feet and complied, folding the jeans neatly before kneeling back down. Without further direction, he pushed his pants to the floor and settled himself across Tristan's lap.
"Good boy."
Robin twisted around so he could see Tristan's face. "You're not angry?"
"I'm not angry. I am, however, extremely disappointed. Do you know why I'm going to spank you?"
When Robin vigorously nodded his head, Tristan had to bite back a smile. "Aloud, darling."
"B-because I didn't tell you the full truth about myself. But I was going to," he insisted.
"Robin, how long have you already waited? The right moment might never have presented itself."
Before he had administered the fifth spank, Robin was sobbing steadily and by the twelfth, he was incoherently apologising. Tristan made each count as he turned Robin's bottom first rosy, and then bright red. When he finished, Robin dropped to his knees, burying his face in Tristan's lap as he cried. When he calmed, Tristan helped him pull up his pants before drawing him into his arms.
"Rest," he counselled. "Close your eyes and rest. We'll have a long talk tomorrow and sort this out."
It took a shorter time than he had anticipated before the muscles under his hands relaxed, and Robin's breathing evened out. Realising the reason he was so warm due to a combination of Robin's body heat and the suit he was still wearing, Tristan slid out from under him, shushing him quietly when he protested in his sleep.
Peeling off his clothes, he consigned his badly rumpled suit to the dry-cleaners bag. Trading his shirt and tie for an old sweatshirt and jeans, he took the opportunity to unpack Robin's things. As he shifted the clothing back into the allotted drawers, he found the sketch book Robin usually kept on the bedside table. Without opening it, he set it down in its customary spot and switched on the small lamp. Evening was coming on, and Robin did not like waking in the dark.
Sliding back onto the bed after indulging his headache with three aspirins, he glanced at the novel he was currently reading and started reaching for it. Even in sleep, Robin seemed to disagree, burrowing into Tristan's side then pinning him down with an arm and a leg without waking. The crease between the finely drawn brows had not lessened, and Tristan stroked the spot gently with his thumb until he followed Robin into sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was twilight when Robin awoke. Stretching diagonally across the bed on his stomach, he pillowed his head on his folded arms and simply drowsed, too drained to do much more. Traffic sounds drifted up from the street accompanied by the footfalls and voices on the stairs as neighbours returned from work and prepared for an evening out. After six weeks, it had become comfortable and familiar. And terribly soothing after the upsets of the day.
He had known from the start that not telling Tristan was a mistake. More than once, though, he had tried to put the words together and failed miserably. He had safeguarded Robin Elliott from the public and all but a few close friends for over a year. Keeping that part of himself secret had become so ingrained, so instinctive that, try as he might, he could not overcome it.
"Hey, sleepy head. Are you ready for tea?"
Robin shrugged, reluctant to make the effort of rising. Dropping onto the bed, Tristan rolled him onto his back, and proceeded to kiss him thoroughly. When they broke apart, Robin ran his fingers through the light-brown hair and then traced along the strong planes of Tristan's face.
"Beautiful," he pronounced with all seriousness.
Tristan laughed as he always did at this particular observation and gave the roaming fingers a quick nip before standing up. "Come along. Quick shower before we eat."
Taking the proffered hand, Robin pulled himself out of bed and onto his feet, letting Tristan take most of his weight. "Sorry," he whispered.
Tristan wrapped strong arms around him and kissed the top of his head before leaning his cheek on it. "It will be all right, sweetheart, you'll see."
Robin buried his face in the spot where Tristan's neck met his shoulder. There was a hint of the soap and after-shave left from the morning, but the overriding scent was Tristan himself. Breathing deeply, Robin filled his lungs and felt calm wash over him.
Tristan leaned down to meet his lips, holding his chin in one of his big hands. One quick kiss later, he straightened up, spun Robin around and swatted his bottom. "Off we go then: shower for you, kitchen for me. You have exactly ten minutes — ten and not twenty beyond that. I'll leave out fresh clothes for you, all right?"
Nodding his head, Robin shuffled off to the bath, peeling off clothes as he went.
"And everything goes in the hamper, not strewn across the floor."
Scooping his t-shirt off the floor, Robin hurried into the bath. He turned on the shower, then stripped off, depositing his clothes into the hamper. He avoided the mirror. He was not a pretty crier by any means, and he had no desire to see what several hours of tears looked like.
Adjusting the temperature to what Tristan referred to as scalding and he found soothing, Robin stepped under the spray and let out a sigh as the water poured over him. He used a few precious minutes of his time allotment to simply be as the heat seeped into his body. Finally he grabbed the shampoo and washed his hair. His bones were in serious danger of melting by the time he finished with sponge and soap.
Wrapping an over-sized towel around him like a toga, he stepped out of the shower. He dried off and dragged a comb through damp hair before hurrying to the bedroom. Tristan had left one of his own sweaters and Robin's oldest pair of jeans. The sweater was ancient, two sizes too large and the sleeves had a tendency to cover Robin's hands, but he loved it. Barefoot, he padded through the lounge to the tiny kitchen.
"I was just about to call you. I thought you'd gone down the drain," Tristan teased, dividing a panful of scrambled eggs between two plates already holding bacon and buttered toast. "Bring that along?" He nodded toward a tray with teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, jam pot and mugs.
The flat did not have a proper area to eat in; it was simply too small. The coffee table doubled as the dining table, and had been set with placemats, napkins and silverware. Robin set the tray down and sank onto a pillow on the floor, his legs underneath him so his bottom did not quite touch. Tristan took a seat on the sofa as Robin poured out.
"Why are you here?" Robin asked as they ate.
Tristan looked up, confusion in his chocolate-brown eyes. "Where?"
His mouth full, Robin indicated the flat with a wave of his fork. "Here," he managed.
Tristan looked around him as if he were seeing the room for the first time. When the building had been built as a private home, this flat had been a large sitting room. After the Second World War, it had been converted into two rooms. The lounge barely held the sofa, coffee table and an over-sized chair. A tiny kitchen filled one corner. The bedroom was even smaller with the bed running from doorway to windows. Having a nightstand meant tucking the chest of drawers into the wardrobe. Robin had learned early on that sharing the bathroom was impossible unless one of them stood in the shower.
"The sumptuous appointments, of course," Tristan finally replied and Robin snorted. "Actually, it was the only affordable thing I could find at the time. I fully expected to stay the year and then find something else. One year became two then three. I think I just became accustomed to it. I was so rarely home, the inconveniences didn't matter."
"It must have been beautiful in its day," Robin said, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the mouldings, the tall windows and the high ceilings. It seemed to him that the room had more space vertically than it did horizontally.
Tristan settled back on the sofa, warming his hands on a mug of tea. "I think you're right. The lines are classic, and most of the details are still in place."
"I think I would like it better as a house."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Tristan sat up and began collecting the dishes. Robin groaned but followed suit. In short order, they had everything washed up and put away. Robin settled himself with care on the sofa as Tristan slid in a video. Turning off the lamp so the only light came through the open drapes, he sat down beside Robin and wrapped an arm around him. Worn out by the day despite the nap, Robin snuggled into him and let his eyes drift closed during the opening credits. He lay half-awake and half-dreaming, certain he was following the plot until he awoke to the sound of the tape rewinding.
"I'll close up, you head off to bed."
"If I get up, I'll wake up," Robin complained, trying to bury his head into Tristan's shoulder. "I'll be awake all night."
Tristan shifted, then held him at arm's length. "Let's take that chance, shall we?"
Robin leaned toward him. "Comfortable here."
"More comfortable in bed. Off you get."
Against his wishes, Robin found himself stumbling to the bedroom door. Careful not to think or in any way wake himself up, he did not bother with the lights. He brushed his teeth and exchanged his clothes for the t-shirt and shorts he wore to sleep. Pushing the quilt back, he slipped into bed and turned so, if he woke during the night, he would see Tristan. With the next breath, he slept.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Drifting toward consciousness, Tristan felt vaguely unsettled and reached out to identify the source of his trepidation. Before his eyes had fully opened, he knew. The warm lump of sleeping Robin was not in their bed. As he rolled to his feet, Tristan focused on the lit face of the alarm clock — 3:17.
Never the best example of quick response in the middle of the night, he staggered to the living room. Blinking in an attempt to focus, he just missed stubbing his bare foot into a leg of the sofa.
"D-did I wake you? S-sorry..." came a small voice which hinted of suppressed tears.
Tristan aimed for the chair and reached it without doing himself any bodily harm. "I was wondering where you wandered off to."
"I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you so I came out here."
Tristan nodded. Not the soundest of sleepers, Robin often got up during the night. Sometimes he read or wrote, but most times, he gazed out the darkened windows for hours before returning to bed. Tristan disliked the habit and planned to eliminate it from Robin's routine as soon as possible.
"And now you're fretting," he observed, holding out his hand.
"No, I'm — "
Tristan raised one eyebrow.
Robin's eyes fell away from his even as he took the proffered hand. "I didn't mean to."
"I know." Drawing him to his feet, Tristan pulled him into his arms. "I told you we would talk about it. Until we do, though, I don't want you worrying, especially at half past three in the morning."
"I've thought it through and — "
Letting go of his hold, he turned Robin toward the bedroom and nudged him forward. "Now is not the time, sweetheart."
"But I want to clear the air! You said it was important to tell each other the truth," Robin protested as Tristan urged him into bed.
"Not now." Spooning up behind him, Tristan reached for the bedclothes and pulled them up over the two of them.
Robin turned over so they were face to face. "Why not?"
Biting back a sigh, Tristan wondered how one individual could work himself from near tears to challenge in so short a time. "Because I'm the one who makes the decisions, and I say this is not the time. We're both too tired for any sort of discussion."
"I'm not tired!"
"Yes, you are and crabby as well. Now settle down." He accented his words with the sharp smack of his hand against Robin's bottom. "I think we can table this for now, don't you?"
Quickly turning over so he was once again spooned against Tristan and his bottom was protected, Robin nodded.
Tristan straightened the covers over them and closed his eyes. He drifted, distantly aware when Robin's breathing evened out. The thought of Robin's usual strong reaction when told he was crabby brought a faint smile to his lips. Apparently, the close proximity of Tristan's hand had convinced him that the better part of valour was keeping his mouth closed and his indignation unvoiced.
Robin shifted in his arms, turning over so he lay half on top of Tristan with his head tucked into the curve of his partner's shoulder. When he had settled, Tristan slipped his hand beneath his shirt, stroking warm, soft skin with his fingers. The heat of those first few days when Robin had been so ill had gone, leaving only the warmth of good health. He still felt the outline of each rib, but they were not as prominent as they had been. Tracing the curve of his spine brought a mumble from Robin which sounded more like a purr. Tristan smiled lazily into the dark, thinking how full the past month and a half had been.
Part 2