Played!

by JL Merrow

Yes. On a slip of paper pinned to the very first page—Nanna Geary had possibly been the last person on Earth to use pins to attach pieces of paper—was a note, carefully written in block capitals. FOR ALL WORK CALL:

  There followed a number. One Tristan knew very well, and which he read now with a strong surge of emotion, yet with a total lack of surprise.

  It was Con’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  What Fools

  Con was driving back to the village from a job when his phone rang. As he wasn’t in a hurry and there was a convenient lay-by he pulled over to answer it. When he saw it was Tristan, though, Con almost didn’t bother. What was the point? Did he really want to feel even worse?

  But he had to make the effort, didn’t he? Had to get them back on, well, businesslike terms at least. They had a play to do.

  “Yeah?” he answered cautiously.

  “I’ve got some news for you. About Bill Izzard.”

  Okay, so that wasn’t what he’d expected. “What do you mean?”

  “Can you come here? I don’t really want to tell you over the phone. Or I could come to your flat, of course.”

  “Uh… I’m out at the mo. I’ll come to yours.” The flat was in a right state at the moment anyway—that was the trouble with only having one room. Didn’t take a lot of carelessness to turn it into a pigsty.

  And yeah, maybe Con had been a bit more careless than usual the last couple of days.

  What the hell could Tristan have to tell him about Bill Izzard? Had he…what, found some old love letters between Grandad and Mrs. Geary? Or maybe Grandad had been her secret love child? Con tried to work out if it was possible—how old had Mrs. Geary even been?—but he couldn’t do that and drive at the same time. Not if he didn’t want to have an accident.

  He found a parking spot a few doors down from Tristan’s and jogged back up the road, hoping he wouldn’t bump into Mr. Onslow again.

  It was weird, knocking on Tristan’s door after what had happened last time he’d been there. From the look of the bloke when he opened the door, Tristan seemed to feel it too. He seemed, well, smaller than he usually did, and sort of tense.

  “I…ah…should apologise. For my behaviour last time you were here. And, well, certain things may have been said that shouldn’t have.”

  Con swallowed. “’S all right.” He didn’t like seeing Tristan like this. Tristan was meant to be all confident and happy and stuff.

  “There… Well. There may have been an element of sour grapes in—but anyway, come in. Not really the sort of subject one wants to broach upon the doorstep, ahaha.”

  Okay, now Tristan was just being weird. “Uh, no,” Con agreed cautiously, stepping inside, although he wasn’t all that sure what the subject even was. Was Tristan talking about Bill Izzard? Or was he still on about all that business of, well, not actually fancying Con at all? Con swallowed. He really hoped it was about Bill Izzard.

  “I went to see Miss Wellbeck,” Tristan said abruptly, shifting from foot to foot in the middle of the room. Con had been about to sit on the sofa, but he froze at Tristan’s words.

  “Yeah?” he said after a moment, when Tristan didn’t say anything more.

  “She… I think she’d be ready to talk to you now. But there’s something you should know.” Tristan stopped again and looked Con in the eye, making him wish the bloke would bloody well get on with it. “Your grandfather,” Tristan finally continued, “was her brother. Half brother. Illegitimate half brother.”

  Con did sit down then. “She told you that?”

  Tristan nodded. “Apparently—and I’m reading very much between the lines here, but I think it’s the truth—they became rather close in their late teens. Too close, if you get my drift. At least for that degree of consanguinity. It’s actually quite a fascinating subject, genetic sexual attraction… But anyway, the vicar was forced, in something of a turnabout for the priesthood, to confess his sins. The lovers were parted, and that was the last poor Miss Wellbeck ever saw of Bill Izzard. She said you look very much like him, actually.” Tristan perched on the other end of the sofa, his legs drawn up and his arms around his knees. “All rather tragic. She never married after that.”

  “Grandad didn’t either,” Con said slowly. “I mean, yeah, he did, but not for years. He was forty or something when he married my gran. Only lived a couple of years after that.”

  Neither of them said anything for a bit. Con was just thinking how bloody sad life could be when Tristan spoke up again. “It’s actually rather inspiring, in a melancholy way, isn’t it?”

  Con stared at him in surprise. “Inspiring?”

  “Well, to think that two people could find a love so passionate, so all-encompassing, that even though they couldn’t be together, they still forsook all others. For the rest of her life, in Miss Wellbeck’s case, and for most of it, in your grandfather’s.” He smiled, but it looked sad. “I’m not sure if it gives me hope, or merely provides an impossible standard to live up to.”

  Uncertain, Con hesitated, then said it anyway. “Didn’t think you cared about that sort of stuff.”

  “Love?” Tristan gave a gentle laugh. “If you prick me, do I not bleed?”

  Con frowned. He’d heard that before—it’d been quoted on one of the websites he’d found on Jewish history, talking about Elizabethans getting their hate on—and he knew it was about Jewish people being the same as Christians. Except, he had a feeling that wasn’t how Tristan meant it. Wasn’t Tristan just saying he had feelings, same as anyone else?

  But then… “Why did you say all that stuff? Last time I was here. About…about all this flirting and stuff just being you having a laugh. Did you mean it?”

  Tristan hugged his knees in tighter. It made Con want to put his arms around him, give him a proper hug. “It’s all a touch moot, really, isn’t it?” Tristan said at last, staring into the fireplace. “As my attentions were so unwelcome to you.”

  Con’s mouth was dry. Tristan sounded so… So sad. So alone. And it was just wrong, and it wasn’t fair. Not after everything Tristan had done for him—all the help with the acting, and, God, going to see Miss Wellbeck. He hadn’t had to do any of that. And…and maybe he’d said he didn’t care about Con, but if you looked at what he’d done… “What…” Con cleared his throat. “What if they weren’t? You know. Unwelcome.”

  Tristan looked at him then. His eyes were huge and dark, with shadows underneath like he hadn’t slept well last night. Con could sympathise with that. “They weren’t?”

  “No—well—it’s just…” Con fought the urge to thump the arm of the sofa. Christ, when had spoken words started to fail him too? “If it’s just sex, yeah, I don’t wanna know, all right? But if it means something…”

  Suddenly, Con had a lapful of Tristan.

  “It means something,” Tristan breathed, his hands cupping Con’s face. “More than it should, for my sanity at least. Yes, it means something.” And then his lips were on Con’s.

  Con was frozen. But only for a moment, thank God. Then he came to himself and kissed back, his arms wrapping around Tristan’s slender body and pulling him close.

  It felt like… It felt like that time he’d agreed to change old Mrs. Sealy’s bathroom light fitting, which he didn’t do, normally, ’cos you had to be safe with electrics, but she’d been so worried about Mr. Sealy falling down in the dark when he got up in the night to use the loo, which was a several-times-a-night thing, him having an eighty-three-year-old prostate, plus there was the risk he’d try and change the fitting himself, and fall off the chair and basically die, so Con had said he’d do it in the end, and she’d said bless you, and went to turn off the mains, except she’d flipped the wrong switch in the fuse box by mistake and Con had touched the live wire and then he’d fallen off the chair but being twenty-three and not eighty-three, he’d escaped with just a few bruises and
a weird feeling right through his body for hours afterwards.

  Yeah. It was something like that.

  Only not.

  And yeah, he knew Tristan was still going to be leaving at the end of September. He knew that. But, well, maybe it wouldn’t have to end then? They could… They could work something out. So Patrick reckoned long-distance things didn’t work—what made him the world expert on relationships? He hadn’t even had a relationship since Con had known him. They could Skype and stuff, and… Or… Or maybe Con could even go over there with him, like Heather said? They could do this. If, well, they both felt strongly enough about each other—and Con did, he knew that now. What was the point in pretending he didn’t?

  And he was starting to hope Tristan felt the same.

  Shit, they were too far apart. Way too far apart. Con tightened his arms around Tristan, who took the hint and shifted until he was kneeling astride Con’s lap. Fuck, that felt good. So good. His tongue was in Tristan’s mouth, and it tasted bloody gorgeous. Like cinnamon and like salt, but mostly like he really, really wanted to get naked. Preferably now. Or sooner. That would work.

  Tristan was wearing a tight black T-shirt that made him look like sex on legs. That had got to go. Con pushed it up to his armpits and waited impatiently until Tristan broke the kiss and put his arms up. Yep, that T-shirt was history. Tristan’s chest was golden-tan and completely hairless. Did he wax? Con didn’t care. It was all good. He couldn’t resist running his hands up and down those smooth pecs and watching those little brown nipples perk up.

  “Tit for tat,” Tristan said pointedly.

  “Uh?” Con blinked.

  “I mean, I’ve shown you mine, so you show me yours. Come on, off with it.” He tugged ineffectually at Con’s T-shirt until Con yanked it over his head.

  “Mmm, Daddy bear. This is just right,” Tristan purred and buried both hands in Con’s chest hair.

  Con would probably have been embarrassed if he hadn’t been so bloody turned on. He covered his confusion by shoving his hands down the back of Tristan’s jeans. Well, trying to. “Bloody hell, did you spray these on?”

  “No, but I’ll be happy to peel them off for you,” Tristan got off Con’s lap and yanked open the fastenings, then stripped off his jeans in one smooth motion.

  Con had been planning to ask if they’d taught him that in drama school, but he sort of got distracted by the fact Tristan hadn’t been wearing any underwear. And his stiff cock was now bobbing only inches from Con’s face.

  It was long, thick—and circumcised. Con couldn’t help letting out an “Oh” of surprise.

  Tristan frowned. “What do you mean, oh? I’m fairly certain you’ve seen a penis before, so I take it you’re referring to my lack of foreskin.”

  Con blushed. “Sorry—it’s just, you said you weren’t religious.”

  “I may not be devout, but I’m still Jewish.”

  “Right. Sorry. Um… What’s it like, being circumcised?”

  “For God’s sake, I was eight days old at the time! Forgive me for not taking notes.”

  Con tried to focus on what he’d asked. It wasn’t easy, what with the seven or eight inches of distraction jigging about right in front of his nose, plus the way his own dick was jammed up uncomfortably against the zip in his jeans. “I mean, what’s it like, not having a foreskin?”

  “Oh. That. Well, pretty dreadful, actually.” Tristan sighed.

  Con looked up at his face in alarm. “Yeah?”

  Tristan nodded sadly. “I don’t suppose there’s a day that goes by without me mourning my lack.”

  He’d have felt better if Tristan had just kicked him in the stomach. Why the bloody hell had Con been so fucking stupid as to ask something like that? “Shit. I’m sorry. It’s really that bad?” He reached out to draw Tristan close.

  Tristan gave an exaggerated eye roll. “No, of course it’s bloody well not! Honestly. How would I mourn the lack of something I don’t ever remember having in the first place?” He smirked, his erect dick still bobbing in Con’s face. “And on a side note, were you aware that the latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary managed to omit the word gullible?”

  See, this was how Con knew he had it bad for Tristan—instead of feeling pissed off, he was just relieved the bloke wasn’t unhappy like he’d been pretending. Con still stuck his middle finger up at him, though.

  Then he grabbed the bastard by the arse and plunged his mouth down over his dick.

  God, that tasted good. The explosion of salt when he tongued the head was even better. Tristan gasped, spurring Con on to suck him hard. Tristan’s hands were on his head, alternately clenching in his hair and then releasing, as if worried they’d gone too far. Con pulled off. “I don’t mind a bit of hair pulling, all right?”

  Tristan looked well out of it. He blinked a few times, then shook his head. “I… This is… Damn it. Jeans. Off.”

  Con gave him a look. “Sure?” he said and got his lips around Tristan’s dick again.

  Tristan squeaked. “Damn it! I’m sure. I think.”

  Con pulled off slowly, ending with a swirl of his tongue that made Tristan whimper. “All right, then,” he said, standing up. He couldn’t do the dramatic flourish like Tristan could—and he was wearing underpants—so he made it slow instead, enjoying the half-starved look on Tristan’s face as he stripped.

  “Ye. Gods,” Tristan breathed, when Con stood in front of him, naked as the day he was born. “O! It is excellent to have a giant’s…strength.”

  Uh? Con didn’t bother asking, just grabbed Tristan with both hands and pulled their bodies together. Bloody hell, that was amazing. Tiny fireworks were going off everywhere their skin touched. Con’s prick rubbed against Tristan’s smooth, flat belly, and Tristan’s was jabbing him in the hip. Con didn’t know what to do next because fuck, it was all good. “What d’you wanna do?” he asked roughly, kneading Tristan’s arse with both hands.

  Tristan moaned. “Dyscalculia,” he gasped. “Is it a problem?”

  “Uh?”

  “Because I would very much like to explore the possibilities of the number sixty-nine,” Tristan finished.

  “You know your problem?” Con asked, lifting Tristan bodily and depositing him on the sofa. “Too many words.”

  Tristan oofed in reply, and Con got himself into position, making sure he didn’t accidentally crush his—fuck—his lover. Then he got his lips around Tristan’s dick again.

  “Oh God,” Tristan gasped—and then there was heat and pressure on Con’s prick, sending electric shocks up his spine and down into his balls.

  God, it was almost too much already. Con tried to concentrate on what he was doing with his mouth, but it was almost fucking impossible. Tristan’s tongue was sodding lethal, and shit, he was going to come… Con tried to think of anything he could that’d stave it off. Being back at school getting a bollocking from his teachers, that was his usual go-to, but now teacher had turned into Tristan, and oh, fuck, Con was coming, helplessly spurting into Tristan’s mouth in a haze of ecstasy. Con’s vision went black and sparkly, and it took him a moment to realise he’d totally dropped the ball when it came to Tristan’s dick. “S-sorry,” he gasped, panting. “Just gimme a mo.”

  “No hurry,” Tristan drawled. His voice was languid, like he’d come already, which Con was pretty bloody certain he hadn’t. “Come and kiss me first.”

  Humans, Con decided, had way too many limbs. At least, it seemed to take forever for him to get his four to do what he wanted them to. He’d only just got himself turned around when Tristan pulled him down for a salty, come-flavoured kiss. “What d’you need?” Con asked hoarsely.

  “Just you,” Tristan said, rutting up against him. Con managed to manoeuvre a hand between them and wrap it around Tristan’s dick. “Yessss,” Tristan hissed. God, he was hot. Even a head shorter than Con, he was
all man. Con loved the feel of his dick, so different without a foreskin. He rubbed his thumb over the slick head and Tristan bucked in his arms, his body jerking against Con’s. “More,” Tristan begged, so Con did it again and again, until Tristan was shuddering and spurting waves of come against their bellies.

  Con stroked him through it until Tristan subsided, panting, and muttered stop.

  They lay there, bound together with sweat and come, for a long moment. Tristan’s hair was all over the place, his lips were swollen, and he had stubble burn on his chin.

  He looked fucking gorgeous. Even when he frowned.

  “What?” Con asked, stroking his face. “Oi, not regretting this, are you?” Wasn’t that Con’s job? One he was being utter crap at right now.

  “God, no. A thousand times no. But I can’t believe I just let you shag me on Nanna Geary’s sofa.” He laughed, and Con joined him. “Then again,” Tristan continued, “I do have at least circumstantial evidence that she’d actually have approved.”

  It was Con’s turn to frown. “Yeah? What do you mean?”

  “Nanna Geary, dear boy, appears to have turned matchmaker in her old age. Apparently it was her dearest wish that we get together. Well, that, and that I look after her cat, at which I seem to have failed abysmally. Still, one out of two ain’t bad.”

  Con raised himself up off Tristan’s chest. There was a lead weight in his stomach. “Is that why you did all this? ’Cos your Gran—or whatever—wanted you to?” Like Con needed looking after, or something. Like the cat.

  Tristan’s eyes widened. “No! God, no. Actually I didn’t find out about it all until I went to see Miss Wellbeck. Rather missed my cue there, in fact.” He laughed. “No, if it hadn’t been for that bet with Amanda—”

  It was the way he suddenly stopped talking, more than his words, that punched Con in the gut. “What bet?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit funny.

  “Ah. Forget the bet. Silly thing, not worthy of mention. Moving on now—”

  “What bet?”

  “It wasn’t really a bet per se. Not originally. And fifty pounds is nothing between friends—”