Dark Moon
By Tsu Chan 

The moon is dark. Tristan wonders how the moon can be dark, and giggles at the thought, tempted to swing on the gate like he used to when he was a young boy and being scolded by his brother or his father. James wonders how drunk Tristan has to be before he starts to swing on the garden gate, and holds tightly onto Tristan’s elbow in case the younger man really decides to do it. Something James is sure Siegfried will find out about one day, and will shout at Tristan about, regardless of whether it is even an issue or not anymore.

Tristan clutches James’ hand, which is still holding his arm tightly, and he turns around, dizzily, to face the older young man. “Jim?”

“Yes Tristan?”

“Do you hate me?”

James wonders why this is coming up at all, and sighs, tired and weary and wanting nothing more than the conversation to be over and to be able to go to sleep. “No Tris, I don’t hate you.”

Tristan nods and makes a giggling noise again, wondering why Siegfried can seem to hate him so much and love James so much and he wonders why he’s wondering something that is quite obviously none of his business, and he tilts his head inquiringly. “Do you think Siegfried hates me?”

James doesn’t even think before answering, doesn’t need to. “No, I don’t think he hates you Tris. Can we go inside now?”

Tristan looks around and leans closer confidingly, feeling the thrill of his heartbeat speed up when James leans closer automatically too. “I think he hates me,” Tristan whispers. “Want to know why?”

“All right,” James replies, looking at the back door. It isn’t all that far away, but with a drunk Tristan hanging on his arm, it seems very far away indeed. “Why do you think he hates you?”

“Because I love you,” Tristan replies matter-of-factly, as if what he said makes perfect sense.

James almost reels back, and can only stare in slight horror at Tristan. “Uh… Do you?” He understands now, maybe, why Tristan is so close to passing out drunk. He told Siegfried to lock the door the night before. He told him!

“Yes,” Tristan says mournfully, and looks away, at the dark moon, suddenly not feeling like giggling anymore although he doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does, something tells him, but he doesn’t want to remember. What doesn’t he want to remember? It seems like he can’t forget, but it’s not there, it’s somewhere beyond the limits of the alcohol, and he is happy about the ale because it lets him not remember what he can’t forget. He remembers what he was going to ask, but he doesn’t recall why he is so reluctant to hear the answer. He turns back to James, who is still staring at him with wide eyes, beautiful eyes, Tristan thinks muzzily, and he forgets what he was going to ask James and simply kisses him instead.

James doesn’t kiss back. “Tristan,” he says softly against Tristan’s mouth, and Tristan remembers what he couldn’t forget and lurches back in horror, eyes maybe wider than Jim’s were, and rapidly losing focus, and he whispers an apology before James takes his arm again and silently leads him into the house, directing Tristan to bed and helping him pull of his shoes.

Tristan rolls onto his side when James leaves the room, not wanting to think about what happened, not wanting to think about what was happening, not wanting to know that in the room across the hall from James’ bedroom, James was spending the night with his brother.

Tristan covers his eyes with his hands and curls into a ball under his blankets, the bed cold and lonely and desolate.

The dark moon shines through his window and highlights his chest, and Tristan thinks it oddly fitting that the darkness emphasizes the loneliness and hopelessness that James is in love with Siegfried, and not with him.

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