Setting The Record Not-So-Straight
Marcus’s POV
“Darryl is already waiting for you. Tristan has yet to arrive,” Jay–the host of one of the many luxury restaurants that Darryl’s family owns–fills me in as he leads me to our table.
This place is way too fancy for me. I prefer simpler places.
When I was growing up, it was rare for us to even afford fast food.
Family chain restaurants were considered luxuries back then.
I still feel more comfortable in those than in these ritzy places that felt like imaginary places when I was a kid.
After a lucky break that made my parents' names synonymous with luxury real estate and my parents utilizing that reputation to its fullest potential, my family now has a substantial amount of money, and we live a lifestyle that was practically unheard of when I was younger.
I understand what power looks like now, and how much money defines that. I don’t look down on my roots, and I haven’t turned my back on them. It doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate and utilize what I have now. It just means I don’t take that shit for granted.
But certain luxuries I still have a hard time getting used to.
Like paying obscene amounts of money for meager portions of food.
Fine dining or not, if I’m gonna leave feeling even hungrier than when I came, then what’s the point of dropping that much dough?
If it weren't for Darryl’s family owning this place and knowing this feels like home to him, I'd probably never step foot in here.
Darryl’s already sitting at a table toward the back. The lights are dimmer here, and the flickering candles on the table are providing more light than anything else. His eyes flit up to mine, and he sets his glass of Chardonnay back down on the table.
“I’ll get a glass of Chardonnay for you and a glass of Syrah for Tristan,” Jay says, knowing full well we're all underage, but money and ownership quietly negate that rule. Not that it should; simply that it does.
“Thanks, Jay,” I tell his swiftly retreating back.
“This one is different,” Darryl comments once I’m seated.
“Which one?” I raise an eyebrow at the random observation.
“Qiang.” The name rolls right off his tongue, and before he’s even done saying it, those pretty brown eyes that have been taunting me since that disastrous lunch resurface in my mind.
“How so?” I don’t know why I ask; we both know what he’s talking about.
I don’t know if it’s something specific to Qiang or if it’s the challenge of knowing they are off-limits, but either way, I’ve never been this hyper-fixated on a specific person before.
“You tell me. When you walked in just now, I watched several pairs of eyes following you, with at least four of them being specifically your type, and instead of pocketing four phone numbers, you didn’t even notice them,” he points out.
I grimace at that because he’s right; I hadn’t noticed any of them, and that is definitely not like me. I’ve always loved the attention, the flirting, the game, but since meeting Qiang, I seem to be swimming up in my head more than noticing what’s being offered right in front of me.
“I guess I’m just not used to not getting my way,” I shrug.
Darryl sits back a bit, observing me for a moment. “Why can’t you have your way? Just because they might move in with you doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”
“And if it ends badly, it would be way awkward for everyone in the house,” I remind him before adding, “Besides, they saw through me and turned me down, anyway.”
“Sounds flimsy. You’d normally just charm and flirt with them until they changed their mind, but instead you’re… pining.”
He drags the word out, slowly, with surprise in his tone, because he knows as well as I do that I don’t pine. I never have, and that’s definitely not what’s happening here.
“I am not pining. I’m just momentarily… distracted,” I argue, my argument getting weaker with the obvious struggle it took me to find the right word.
Darryl snorts with amusement at that. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says.
He must know I’m getting ready to argue more, because as soon as I puff up and open my mouth, Darryl interrupts me by changing the subject.
“Has Tristan said anything?” he asks.
Instantly, I deflate at the reminder of why we’re meeting here tonight. Not that we don’t see each other all the time anyway, but specifically meeting here for a meal is more of a formal rarity than just hanging out at one of our places.
“No, but you know he won't. He's very much of the mindset that no one owes anyone their sexuality, so he's probably keeping the hurt feelings to himself and berating himself for feeling betrayed that we didn't tell him,” I respond.
I feel bad because I know we hurt him, unintentionally, but we still did, and in a way that he’s hurting himself with blame for something he feels he has no right to feel hurt over.
I get where he’s coming from because on the one hand, he’s right.
No one owes anyone their sexuality for any reason.
However, we know that we’re brothers and to share with one and not the other is to alienate in a way that would give Tristan the perfect reason for his overthinking brain to spiral, just as I’m sure he’s doing now.
I need to fix it, because his pain is mine.
“Glass of Chardonnay for you, and Tristan, I've brought a glass of Syrah for you,” Jay says with Tristan right behind him.
I stand to give Tristan a quick side-hug while Darryl thanks Jay for bringing the drinks. Darryl reaches over and brushes his knuckles against Tristan’s before we all sit down.
“Thanks for coming,” Darryl says formally once Tristan is sitting down.
I almost want to roll my eyes at how unusually over-the-top he’s being. I keep it in, though, because I know part of it is his discomfort with the overall situation.
Tristan snorts with amusement at that. “Why wouldn't I come?”
Darryl shrugs at that. “Thought you might be mad at us.”
Tristan furrows his brow. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”
I raise an eyebrow at him because I’m not sure whether he’s being deliberately dense or really unsure. “The lunch? With Qiang?”
Understanding lights up in Tristan’s eyes. “Oh, you mean when you popped a chub for Qiang?”
I snort at that. “I can't believe you just said that shit out loud.”
Tristan laughs. “I’m ace, dude, not a prude,” he points out.
“Fair enough, but until you figured out you were ace, things like that made you uncomfortable,” Darryl points out.
Tristan takes a sip of his wine. “It wasn’t so much because I had issues with that kind of stuff; it was more because they were reminders that I was off-kilter from everyone else.
Just because I wasn’t interested in people or sex didn’t mean I wasn’t aware that I probably should have been, and that there was an obvious difference in the way I thought compared to how most people around me thought.
Now that I get why, the innuendos and stuff don’t really bug me anymore.
And I'm not mad about you thinking Qiang is hot.
Maybe a little worried, I guess, that it'll mess with the vibes of the house if that becomes a thing.
But as long as no one gets hurt, then it's not really my business.”
Darryl clears his throat. “I think Marcus–and me, too–are more worried you're upset because it became really obvious, really fast, that neither of us are straight and we had failed to clue you in on that.”
Tristan shrugs, and his unaffected attitude would completely fool anyone who doesn’t know him. But I know him, and I know the stiffened hold of his shoulders and the firm set of his jaw, and even the slightly guarded expression in his eyes are all part of a shield he has on right now.
“Neither of you owes your sexuality to me or anyone else,” he says, and I know his shield right now is our doing, but I’m not used to him having one up around us, and it’s rankling my nerves.
“Tristan, drop the armor, man. I know you really believe that, but there's no way the revelation that we knew about each other but never filled you in didn’t hurt. I get that you know we don’t owe you an explanation, but you are also human and allowed to have feelings,” I point out, wanting him to open up.
Tristan stares at his glass, and I’m not sure what’s going on in his head, but after several moments pass, the shield cracks and he lets out a heavy sigh.
“I know it’s not fair on my part. I mean, really, it’s–I guess, I just thought–” he stumbles over his words before taking a deep breath and trying again. “It's not my place to expect you to have told me, but it was a bit–” he lets out another sigh.
He’s used to being cold and aloof, and we are rarely ever on the outs, even though we aren’t really on the outs, but it’s rare for there to be misunderstandings between us.
“Yeah, it hurt. It was obvious you trusted each other, but didn't trust me.
Even when I was going through my stuff and talking to you guys while figuring everything out, you didn't trust me the same way.
And it's not that I feel like you needed to, or even had to, just that I'm not sure what I did to have lost that trust, or when I may have lost that, or even if I’d ever even had it. I thought we were equal brothers, and now I feel a bit jostled to the side. But then I also feel really fucking selfish and wrong for feeling that way because–”
“You're a really strong advocate and believe that if we had reasons to hold it from you, then that's our business, not yours,” I interrupt him because listening to him struggle with words hurts more than I expected it to.
He lets out another really heavy breath and fixes his eyes on his glass instead of looking up. “Yeah,” he breathes out simply.
“You are our brother. You've always had that trust and still do, Tristan. We didn't have reasons to keep it from you,” I reassure him.