Tristan | Questions without answers [Aidan/Henry]

It hasn’t just been that he’s had more exposure to the Nation lately, that he’s come home more nights in the past month than he has in the last year and a half with stories of having run into the occasional Garou or Kin. It’s as if he’s preparing for something, the way he’s out every goddamn night regardless of whether he’s pulled a double or not, jogging around at the weirdest times of night and coming home and getting in bed without a word.

And then there was the sweat-and-blood-stained t-shirt that was in the laundry today. Henry didn’t mention it when he came back home from his run at 3AM on Sunday and got in the shower and crawled back into bed. He just put his arms around Tristan and fell into a bruised slumber.

It’s several days later, and after sitting on the couch in the living room trying to read an issue of JEMS and jostling his leg for the better part of an hour he had declared that he wanted to go for a walk, overcast skies and cool temperature be damned.

So here they are. Henry is walking fast, as if he’d rather be running, and has his hands in his pockets. He hasn’t said a word since their feet hit the pavement.

Henry’s bee up and running more often than not, at the oddest hours, and returning home to a ‘sleep like the dead’ husband, and gone to sleep. It’s like he’s prepared for something, it’s like something was wrong. And Tristan… doesn’t push.

But Henry knows he did laundry today, and knows – or has recently realized – that Tristan couldn’t have missed that blood and sweat-stained t-shirt, knows hat something has happened, but Henry hasn’t told him about it. In some, less then stable relationships, this would set of a whole spark of worries about where he goes, who he’s with, is he cheating, what’s going on. Tristan has never been that way. What it sets off in him is quite a bit more simple…

…worry.

But it seems that Henry isn’t going to just come out with it, even as they walk – fast – in the Green, as if he’d rather be running. Finally, after a block or two or three, of walking quickly with hands in pockets and an easy silence, Tristan finally chuckles. “It’d be easier if ya just came out an’ told me what happened, ya know…”

Tonight, however, he was walking down the sidewalk in a pair of fitted jeans and a snug white t-shirt, looking for all the world like a slumming college student (complete with hemp bracelets) as he whistled (yes, that’s right… whistled) quietly to himself and hooked one of his hands in his pocket. He was coming around a bend when he nearly ran into a couple of men walking the opposite direction. With a graceful sidestep, he smiled apologetically.

“Sorry about that.”

And then he was about to continue on his way, when… something stopped him. A familiarity. he canted his head slightly, peering at Henry as if trying to remember how he knew the man… when suddenly it dawned on him.

“Oh… I think I remember you. You’re not an EMT are you?”

His lichen-colored eyes are focused on the pavement, and he’s forcing himself to slow down for the third or fourth time in three blocks. His strides are too long. His muscles are working too hard. He isn’t relaxed and he hasn’t been for days.

“You always say that…”

He isn’t paying attention, but the man has acquired an athleticism that more than makes up for his mild clumsiness and he steps around the thin redhead–who for some reason or another catches his attention for longer than the two seconds it takes him to acknowledge and avoid–before offering a “No problem” to his apology.

If Henry remembers the kid, he doesn’t let on. But he does stop walking and turn to face him when he claims to remember him, and his brow furrows slightly as he faces the attractive young man. It’s not dawning on him that this is the Grant Park beating he responded to at three o’clock in the morning after his ‘lunch’ break during the double he’d pulled on Thursday. He’d been exhausted. He hadn’t slept much after his normal shift Wednesday night, having only eight hours between when he clocked out and when he had to clock back in to cover for Royce from the 24:00-08:00 shift.

He’s not an EMT, is he.

“Um,” the 6’4″ man says, “I… well, technically, yeah. I’m actually a paramedic, that’s a different level of schooling and–you said you remember me?”

Namely – it’s Tuesday. He’ll get Henry to relax… later.

He flashes that easy grin at his best friend, lover, husband, and almost trips over the kid who Henry deftly sidesteps. “Oh!” He says, as he steps back, with a chuckle, followed by a “No problem.” on the heels of his husbands same sentiment.

Then the redhead says he remembers Henry, and he stops when Henry does, to give Aidan a once over, that lopsided grin still in place.

The memory was fuzzy, but Aidan was able to grasp at enough details to now be fairly certain that it was this man’s face he’d been looking at when his eyes had fluttered open for a few moments. Of course, Aidan wasn’t surprised that Henry might not recognize him in return. The last time Henry had seen him… Aidan’s face looked like someone had used it as a basketball.

And now? It was like nothing had happened. He was flawless and beautiful and, apparently… a very lucky healer. Stepping forward, he reached out to offer his hand to the other man.

“Name’s Aidan. Thank you… for helping me. I know you were just doing your job but… yeah.”

Aidan Whelan, at a loss for words? Apparently there’s a first time for everything. He smiled a little, embarrassed.

Tristan knows Henry well enough to know when he’s been hit with something unpleasant, when something’s swum up from the depths of that congested memory of his to hit him in the face like a dead fish. This is one of those somethings, and although Aidan might not be able to pick it out of the lines on Henry’s otherwise boyish face, Tristan can.

All Aidan can see is Henry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting as he swallows, although that could just as easily be a dry throat. He smiles a closed-lip yet friendly smile as he pulls his right hand out of the depths of his ugly olive green barn coat and extends it to shake. His fingers are freezing–poor circulation comes with being this tall. Doesn’t make sense that his blood pressure is so fucking high yet his hands are so cold all the time, but his primary care physician claims it’s the anxiety.

Makes enough sense to Henry that he doesn’t question it.

He’s thanked for helping the kid even though he was just doing his job, and Henry laughs one of those casual but somewhat canned laughs that suggests he is making that noise because he doesn’t know how else to respond. He’s diving deeper into his thirties with each passing year and yet he’s still skirting the edge of painfully shy.

“Well… I probably would have stopped and helped even if I weren’t being paid, you were in pretty bad shape.”

That’s all he can say without breaking confidentiality. Tristan wasn’t a member of his care team, and although Tristan hears cut-and-dried versions of the stories that Henry brings home he never hears specifics.

He doesn’t press them for details, even as Henry keeps his confidentiality agreement intact. He is well used to being the husband of a paramedic, and understands the limitations of what can be said, to whom. He gives Aidan an easy grin, and simply listens.

Aidan didn’t seem too keen on remembering the details, which was hardly unusual. So instead, he reached out his hand to the man standing next to Henry. The man who, by every move and inclination, seemed to be bonded to the other by more than just friendship. Aidan’s eyes darted to note the rings, and his smile to Tristan was more than just polite. It was… knowing.

“It’s good to meet you…” his voice trailed off in expectation of the curly-haired man filling in the blank with his name.

“Well, good to meet you both, since I don’t think what we had before could officially be called such.” Now he was taking a step back to include Henry once more in his field of vision.

“Do you guys mind if I walk with you? It looks like we’re headed in the same direction.”

“Aidan, this is my friend Tristan,” he says. There’s no hard breathing, no steeling himself, no nothing. It’s like he’s felt the need to lie like this before, like it’s almost practiced. Like it’s expected. “Tristan… Aidan.”

He doesn’t wince when it’s over, like he had done the night he had to patch his boyfriend up after they’d been attacked by that walking horror movie villain. He doesn’t look over apologetically, or reach over to touch the man who’d rested his hand on him. None of that happens. He just stands still with both hands in his pockets, and lifts his eyebrows when the kid says he thinks they’re going in the same direction.

“That’s fine,” he says, then breathes out a laugh. “We’re not really going anywhere, I just needed some air.”

He shakes the younger man’s hand with an easy smile. “Pleasure.”

It goes without saying that he agrees with Henry’s assessment that it’s fine if the boy joins them. He tucks his hand back into his pocket with a chuckle. “Maybe you can get him to slow down to a normal human walking pace.”

When Tristan made a crack about the pace of Henry’s steps, Aidan neatly slid out in front of the other man, walking slowly in front of him for a moment, and glancing over to Tristan with a playful wink as the taller Henry was forced to either keep his pace slow to match, or walk around him. It bore noticing, too, that Aidan was not the slightest bit unpleasant to look at from this angle. Neither was he unaware of this fact.

“How’s this?” he seemed to be asking both of them, teasing.

But they’re walking again, Tristan joking about how fast the oldest of the three of them has been hauling down the sidewalk tonight and the youngest of them playing along, and Henry makes a chagrinned face at the back of Aidan’s head but doesn’t walk around him or let his eyes drop.

The entire time they’ve known each other, Tristan has never caught Henry checking out another man. Not even James.

How’s this, he wants to know, and Henry reaches up to rub his temple with the fingers of his right off hand but doesn’t say anything. He looks reluctantly amused.

“Perfect. It’ll give the cramp in my leg time to ease…” teased, of course. He’s in far better shape then he ever lets on, though Henry’s exercise regime puts his to shame. He simple eats and works and sleeps. Henry actually works out.

Weirdo.

“So where you headed?”

And frankly, he liked it that way. Aidan Whelan – former-escort and current regular guy, who would love nothing more than to not have anything traumatic or unusual happen to him for a day or two.

(Ok, so… regular guy wasn’t the world’s most accurate description.)

After a few moments Aidan dropped the act and fell in between the two men, slipping in to settle between the two lovers (for all that at least one of them was attempting to hide this fact) as if he, in fact, believed that nothing much was going on, and that no one would be particularly troubled by his intrusion. If he was being flirty, which was possible, since Aidan was one of those people who flirted a great deal of the time, then it was the open and easy kind. The playful kind, rather than the expectant kind.

“I’d ask if you guys wanted to come back with me, but I’m guessing the answer would be no.” Which was fine, since he didn’t really mean it like that, anyway. Didn’t mean he couldn’t tease.

They haven’t seen the man since they made that trip back to Wisconsin three months into their relationship; they’re never going to see Mama Grace again; and they don’t mention either of them unless they can absolutely avoid it.

Henry is wearing running shoes and jeans that are loose because he has lost weight and not because they were designed that way–the inseam is just long enough to cover the tops of his battered Reeboks and his bony legs press against the denim as if they are trying to escape and his belt is almost on the last loop.

Aidan would ask if they wanted to come back with him. Having easily stepped aside to make room for him, one could either assume that Henry is comfortable with his relationship with Tristan, or he is trying that hard to pretend as though there’s nothing to it.

“Won’t know unless you ask, will you?”

Tristan is, after all, a showman. That’s how he paid his bills the majority of his adult life until a couple years ago when he finally got a “real” job. Sure, he didn’t have much, most of the time, and still pinches pennies so hard they scream, the fact remains that he can read people, and read them well. He’s pretty sure he has Aidan pegged, by that glance, and the careless easy way he flirts as easily as he breathes. Tristan can be much the same way.

It’s Henry’s reply though, that gets a burst of laughter, as he looks around Aidan’s back to arch a brow at his Husband – amused. And he says nothing. Henry’ll have to get himself outa this one if Aidan does ask…

Well now. This was true.

Aidan actually paused for a moment, as if Henry’s calling him on his dare made it more… real. Of course, it was entirely possible that the tall man had no idea what Aidan had been hinting at, but then again… maybe he did. More than likely Tristan did. Aidan caught the look he shot Henry out of the corner of his eye.

And Aidan had stopped walking specifically so that the other two might stop as well, and turn to look at him. Somehow that made the moment more real as well, however, and two conflicting sides of his brain had a little fight while he gazed at the men and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Do you want to come back to my place with me?” he finally asked, raising one eyebrow knowingly.

Henry would die for the man walking on the other side of Aidan. He would give up whatever organ he needed, however much blood he wanted; he would lose his left arm again if it meant that it would keep the other man from losing his life. He has gone on psychotropic medication to keep himself from spiraling into a sea of worry and self-deprivation, he has signed up for more, shorter, shifts; this man has given more than he is even remotely willing to admit for the relationship and for Tristan himself.

And yet he’s not willing to admit in front of a stranger who is not triggering whatever innate sense for his fellow homosexual that they signed paperwork that allows the state of New Jersey to recognize them as domestic partners. He’s not willing to admit that they go home together at night, that he isn’t lonely anymore because of him, that he is gaining self-respect and awareness that he didn’t have before Tristan came along.

Either the man truly has no clue that Aidan is interested in men and thus is oblivious as to what it is that Aidan is inviting them back to his place to do, or he truly doesn’t want to go back to the apartment right now, because although Henry glances over at Tristan to read what’s going on behind his brown eyes, he doesn’t blush and fluster and try to stammer his way out of it.

He doesn’t stop walking, either. When he realizes the skinny redhead has stopped moving the deceptively powerful paramedic turns around 180 degrees and slowly walks backwards, hands still in his pockets.

“What the hell,” he decides. He’s got to have no clue what Aidan’s suggesting. Aidan doesn’t know him well enough to know how shy he is, and Tristan knows he isn’t that good of a liar.

He chuckles, and shakes his head as he looks at Henry and stage whispers to Aidan. “Aidan, m’man. I don’t think my husband has any idea when he’s being flirted with – S’a good thing I tied him down before anyone else snagged him unawares, hm?”

He winks at Henry, and shakes his head. “I think we’ll just walk around here, and make sure you get to the L alright. But the offer is certainly appreciated.”

Who knew Tristan would turn out to be the responsible one?

But although a part of him wanted to smile and pull Henry in for a kiss when the first man accepted his offer (for all that he may or may not have understood it)… another part of him started knocking at the inside of his thick skull and protesting wildly. It was… completely disconcerting, to be so conflicted about something that had once been so easy and natural. And he had no legitimate reason to feel bad, since Taggart had as good as told him that it wasn’t a problem for him to be with other people. But… he did, anyway.

So when Tristan leaned in and put a stop to things, Aidan felt this odd rush of… relief. Not relief that he’d been turned down, but relief that the choice had been taken out of his hands, because he still wasn’t sure how he would have handled it, or how he would have felt afterward.

When he turned to glance at Tristan, he laughed gently. “Well, I’d say that both of you are pretty lucky, in that case.” There was a beat as he resumed walking. “It’s… a good thing, to have what you have. Not many people do.”

Hmm, was he talking about himself for a moment there?

His teeth come together again a moment later, and he reaches into his inner pocket for something Tristan hasn’t seen since basketball season started in March of 2008: a white-and-blue pack of Parliament Lights, recently purchased and with a black plastic Bic lighter instead of the Zippo he had carried around for his entire adult life. He taps one out as Aidan speaks, popping it between chapped lips and looking between the two men for a moment.

He doesn’t meet Tristan’s eyes, though. He just brings up his right hand to shield the flame, his left hand and the ring it carries finally visible for the first time tonight, and sets the cigarette ablaze before turning to escort the former escort to the metro station.

wow. Tristan’s smile falters, and then fades. Whatever Henry hasn’t told him and is avoiding telling him, is clearly worse than anything Tristan had come up with – and he has a pretty broad spectrum of horrible things to pull from if given the opportunity. Whatever it was has driven Henry to pick up smoking once more, something they both fought hard to overcome together. And he’d done it without Tristan knowing what was even wrong, what happened, why there was blood all over a t-shirt in the laundry.

He forces it aside, and smiles at Aidan – he is a showman after all, and hiding things becomes second nature when the show must go on. “We’re both pretty lucky, yeah. Took us a while to get there, but now we’re a happy homo married couple, growing old gracefully. At least, -I- am…” The tease is natural, easy. Aidan might as well be looking at a kindred spirit, though one only played the violin, not the public… exactly.

“Well, you’ve got a damn hot husband there, Tristan. I’m jealous. Let me know if you ever decide to share.”

Well, almost gracefully. Aidan did rather enjoy making shy people blush, which was possibly his motivation in saying that just now. Either way, he acted as if he were completely innocent moments after the words left his mouth, and he even picked up the pace a little so as to pull out ahead of the others.

When they got to the station, he’d leave the lovers behind and be on his merry way, but not before giving the pair his number and mentioning the possibility of hanging out, some time. (Without the assumption of sex.)

He doesn’t have the balls to bring up whatever is bothering him.
He knows Tristan does.

Tristan’s worried. It could be anything. He has a VERY vivid imagination, and that doesn’t help the worry at all, not even a little bit. Finally, with a huff of breath through his nostrils, he follows his husband, and falls into step with him. His hands are in his pockets as well, and for a while he considers not bringing up at all. Then? He does anyway…

“The fuck is going on, Henry?”

Subtle, pretty boi. Subtle.

With Tristan he has always given his full attention, yet lately he has been off in outer space, distracted to the point of irritability and erratic behavior. He’s been coming home late, not calling when he’s supposed to, not talking and not touching as much and just not being there. It could be just about anything, and Henry truly can’t blame Tristan for being suspicious but his tone, his harsh language, is what startles the older man. When he looks over he is swallowing another lump out of his throat and he looks almost afraid.

No. He does look afraid. But it passes in an instant, like rain evaporating on the hot pavement in August.

“I didn’t realize we were being hit on,” he says, honest enough, and returns his gaze to the sidewalk.

The tone is astonished, now, as if stunned that he can’t really think THAT was what Tristan was asking. He drags a hand through his hair, and then reaches out to take Henry’s arm, gently. he pulls him to a stop, and to face him. He doesn’t give a shit that they’re in the middle of the sidewalk, in the middle of the Green when he lifts his hand to Henry’s face, lifting those eyes from the sidewalk to meet his own. He doesn’t hide the concern written there, the worry, the fear.

“That’s not what I meant, Henry, and you know it. You’re more distant then you’ve ever been before, I find your shirt covered in blood, you’re running at the weirdest fucking hours which means you’re not sleeping, you’re losing weight, not eating, and then you light up a damn cigarette? What. the fuck. is going on?!”

His arm is taut and tense under Tristan’s hand when his fingers find his biceps underneath the thick material of his barn coat. He whirls around to face his husband, the stench of cigarette smoke clinging to him like a poorly kept secret as his nostrils flare in barely concealed anger. It isn’t directed at Tristan; it can’t be, but it’s there and Tristan can see it roil up before it settles down with that hand on his cheek.

Maybe it’s the full moon. Maybe it’s that his routine is scattered to the four winds after that double shift he pulled on Thursday. Maybe it’s got something to do with that quiet entrance and that 3AM shower and that bloody t-shirt that Tristan found in the wash under two days’ worth of underwear and jeans and uniforms.

Maybe it’s the fact that Tristan is the only person in this city who’s accepted him the way that he is and has stood with him through all of his recent trials and there are forces out there that tried to extinguish them the other night.

It seems as though he’s going to calm down, that perhaps this was just a misunderstanding and they can just go home and rest, but then Tristan keeps swearing, gets more and more agitated until:

What. the fuck. is going–

“Nothing!” Henry snaps, wrenching his arm to try and get it back in his possession at the same time as he is stepping back and away from Tristan. He’s furious, and there is absolutely no reason for him to be, and that only seems to be making him more angry.

Unless Tristan manages to keep a grip on him, he’s turning around in the next instance to keep walking.

What this may result in is what has Tristan by the gut now, so much so that he stands there, stupidly, with his hand where it was holding Henry [his husband, his life] there just moments before. Henry is furious, and walking, and Tristan does nothing to stop him.

And does nothing to join him, either.

That hand falls and is shoved into his pocket, and his gaze remains on the cement in front of his feet, the curls swaying forward to curtain his face, and he just… stands there.