NINETEEN

 

 

In the end, Grant had been able to get the night of Halloween, the night of the big costume party, off of work. It hadn’t been easy, and his boss, who had apparently learned to count on Grant just a little too much, had been grumpy about it. He’d demanded that Grant work even more hours before to make up for it, and only the fact that Grant knew that the man was actually at his wit’s end, that he actually needed Grant, helped him through that hellish few days.

He hadn’t seen anyone who wasn’t his boss, a coworker, a customer, or a professor in what felt like years. He was exhausted, completely and totally, down into his very bones, when he got off work he was seriously considering just blowing the whole thing off and going to bed.

Only there was no point. The party would make it impossible, no matter how tired he was, for him to go to bed.

And then there was Tristan.

Grant had to talk to him. He had to finalize this, to really satisfy himself that there was just no hope. Maybe then he could move on, maybe he couldn’t, but at least he would know. Tristan became a sort of driving force for him, getting him back from work, getting him to the costume rental shop to pick up his outfit for the night, buoying him up as he walked up the stairs and out of his clothes.

The party was already starting, and it was loud enough that even as Grant showered, he could hear it. Finally, washed clean of fry grease, Grant stepped into the room that he shared with Manny. The guy was nowhere to be found. Come to think of it, when was the last time that Grant had actually laid eyes on him?

He didn’t even glance at his phone. He had a party to get to, and it took him very little time to slip into his costume. By the time he’d decided to go to this thing, the selection had already been pretty limited, but he actually thought that the iconic red and blue Superman outfit suited him.

Besides, he’d seen people in way worse costumes, and the night was young. He was fine. It was time to go, to find the man that he loved and to tell him so. And this time, he would stick around until Tristan told him that there was just no hope in hell.

As he slipped downstairs, he quickly realized there was going to be a flaw in his plan. Even in the short time, half an hour or so, that he had been changing and showering, more people had flowed in. The room was now packed full of chattering, increasingly drunk frat boys and their guests, and the sound of all of them talking and laughing and just generally having a good time would have been a near deafening roar even without the loud music.

In short, he had to acknowledge, as he scanned the room, that he had no idea where Tristan was. If he was at the party or not, and if so, what he would be dressed as. Would Tristan even deign to wear a costume? It was hard to say. It would completely depend on Tristan’s changeable mood.

Still, it wasn’t that late yet. When he’d come downstairs, it hadn’t even been ten o’clock yet, and this party would be going into the small hours of the morning. He had time. There was no need to panic. If Tristan were here, he would find him eventually.

Although he couldn’t help but remember that first night, the very first time that he had laid eyes on Tristan, when Grant had seen him standing quietly outside of the frat house. Grant could remember thinking, if not then than later, that Tristan was a snobbish rich boy, standoffish, but he knew better now. Tristan had been bracing himself to go in.

After that, it was surprisingly easy. He just went into the backyard, and while there were a fair number of people who had spilled out there as well, his eyes were drawn immediately to a figure all in black. Had he seriously thought that he wouldn’t recognize Tristan, no matter what costume that he came in?

As for the costume itself, it was hard for him to tell exactly what it was. It was a dark, shadowy little corner of the yard that Tristan had chosen, but Grant was sure that it was him. Everything about him, the set of his slender shoulders, the latent tension in his body, even the way his head bowed, dipping down to look at his phone, screamed to him of Tristan even before the screen lit up his face.

“Tristan,” he called, stepping onto the back porch, but the noise from the party inside was simply too much. He could make his voice heard well enough on the football field, but this was a whole other level. Tristan didn’t even look up from his phone, which he was almost glaring at, as though it had personally offended him.

The expression was so familiar that it made his heart ache.

“Hey, how’s it goin’, Mister Big Shot?” a drawling, sneering, familiar voice came from just off to the other side of him, and Grant turned to look at Warren, who was leaning against the wall in an indolent, elaborately relaxed pose, his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest. There was something about that pose, like Warren was trying too hard to seem casual and relaxed.

But then again, Warren was looking at Tristan, and no one could claim that Tristan was looking back. And that very fact, that Tristan’s eyes were fixed firmly on his phone and not on Warren, as well as the fact that Warren didn’t seem to quite dare to go over to him, gave him a sudden, lurching rise of hope inside of himself.

He could never try to take someone else’s boyfriend. But it didn’t seem to him at all like Tristan was Warren’s boyfriend. Or else Warren would have made that abundantly clear, to Grant at least, even if to no one else. He couldn’t have helped himself, Grant figured. He would have needed to shove it in Grant’s face, to make him feel more and more hopeless.

“Hi, Warren,” Grant spoke carefully. He could tell Warren had been drinking, the fumes practically rose off of him in waves, and in this mood, maybe, he could be dangerous. “What are you dressed as?”

“I’m James Bond, fuckhead,” Warren told him, as though irritated by having to explain it. To be fair, all he was wearing was one of those silly t-shirts printed with the image of a suit on it, so it wasn’t like it was exactly easy to tell. “And you’re Superman, which is just so fucking perfect I could puke.”

Grant had dealt with jealousy, with hostility, before. There were plenty of people who looked at him and assumed that he had gotten everything he had through luck, but it simply wasn’t true. He had worked for literally everything.

This was something else, though. Grant could swear there was sheer hate and malice in those glistening blue eyes. Grant wasn’t scared, exactly, but he was wary, and actually a little bit awed by the full, molten force of it.

“I’m just gonna go,” Grant decided suddenly. There was nothing good that was going to come out of this conversation. He had known for a long time that he and Warren would never be friends, but he had hoped that maybe, they could at least be civil. But that hope was quickly being dashed.

“Don’t go, we’re just getting started,” Warren hissed, his hand settling around Grant’s wrist in a grip so tight that it was almost bruising. “This party could be just for you, as far as you’re concerned, right? I heard about you getting a full scholarship.”

How had Warren learned that? It had only just happened, but then, Warren seemed to be pretty connected, pretty linked in, especially when it came to things involving the football team.

“Yes, that’s right,” Grant spoke cautiously, but he wasn’t sure that he had any reason to deny it. Warren seemed to know, and indeed, when Grant confirmed it, Warren just gave a twisted, bitter little smile.

“So it’s a pretty big night for you,” Warren informed him, and Grant frowned, staring into his eyes. Something was going on here. Something Warren was planning. Or was he just paranoid? Something inside of him, some intuition, was telling him to be careful. “I actually planned a bit of a surprise.”

Grant frowned and tugged his wrist away, or tried to. Warren’s fingers were clenching tighter every second, and while it wasn’t exactly painful, it also wasn’t the most comfortable thing that he had ever felt.

“I’m good, thanks. Let go of my wrist,” Grant kept his voice steady, looking into Warren’s eyes. He wasn’t going to be intimidated, not when things felt like they might finally be ready to start turning around.

Warren did, right when Grant was starting to think that he was going to have to just rip it out of Warren’s grasp. He relaxed a little, though he was still wary when Warren leaned toward him.

“I know I’ve been a dick. I was just worried, you know? I thought you’d take my place on the team. But when I get better, there’s plenty of time for both of us, don’t you think?” His voice was a little bit strained, but was Warren really, actually trying? It seemed almost like he was.

They would never be friends, and that seemed pretty clear to Grant, but it would be nice if they could at least be civil to each other. It seemed hard to believe, but this was a leap of faith that Grant was going to have to make, because the potential benefits of doing so, and being justified in it, far outweighed everything else.

“Yeah,” Grant told him, trying out a bit of a smile. “There’s lots of room.” And Grant had never been the kind of guy who couldn’t handle sharing.

“Right. That’s what I figured.” Warren was speaking rapidly, almost too much for Grant even to understand him. This was probably hard for him to do, extend an olive branch to someone that he obviously still hated. But he was doing that, and Grant had a grudging sort of respect for that. “So I want to make it up to you. Come inside with me.”

Grant shook his head. He didn’t want any sort of big deal made. All he wanted was to not have to work for money so that he could focus on school and football. But then again, Warren really seemed to be trying, and keeping good relations on the team was probably worth a little bit of discomfort now. He should probably be trying to encourage any sort of attempt that Warren was willing to make since it was likely not particularly easy for the proud man to even try.

So Grant went, even with all of his misgivings. He should at least give Warren a chance, he figured, so he went with him, and he stood where he was supposed to stand and then he turned to look at Warren. This was his show, and Grant thought that he was ready for whatever would happen.

He really, really did.