He's nowhere to be found when I walk in the house. I see his bedroom door is closed when I go upstairs to shower, which probably means he's already asleep. I exhale the tightness in my shoulders when I think about having a little freedom in the house. Maybe I'll actually be able to take over the living room for a little while.
But when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I realize Tristan is in the kitchen, reaching in the fridge for a beer. I pause when he notices me and almost rush back upstairs when I see the look on his face. He turns his attention to me fully, his gaze locked on me as I take the last few steps toward the couch. In typical Tristan fashion, I have no way of knowing what he’s feeling or what he’s thinking when he looks at me. The one thing that’s clear is that his intense gaze is trained completely on me.
I look nervously between him and the TV. "I'm starting to think you stay up later than I think you do," I mumble, wringing my hands.
With everything that's happened the past few days, I've discovered that I am now completely clueless about how to act around him. Before last week, I'd just order him around and not care about what he wanted or what he thought of me, but that seems like a rude approach to take once someone's dick has been in your mouth. At the very least, I just have no idea where we stand and feel nervous being anywhere near him.
He takes a swig from the beer as he rounds the island and throws himself on the couch. "Were you going to watch something?" he asks me, his voice devoid of the usual biting tone.
"I was going to watch the Best Fights of the Year series on FightPass," I answer wistfully. "I randomly came across it today when I was on the app and wanted to rewatch some of the fights." I hesitate, unsure if he likes me enough now to sit and watch TV with me. "But I can watch them upstairs if you were going to watch something else."
He chuckles and takes another drink. "Just shut up and grab a beer. I'll find the fights."
I nod and walk over to the fridge. I decide to grab a sour IPA, one of the few things that Tristan and I can agree on. As much as Jax hates IPA's, I know Tristan always keeps the house stocked with some good sours.
Walking back to the couch, I hesitate again. It feels insanely weird to be willingly hanging out with just Tristan, and suddenly I'm debating if this might be a terrible idea.
"Just sit. I promise I don't bite." A sinful smile slides across his face as he looks at me. "Unless you want me to. I guess we haven't really explored that yet."
My stomach clenches at his words, but I scowl and plop down on the opposite end of the couch. I feel my face burning so I quickly guzzle some of my beer.
He scrolls to the section of the FightPass app where we can see the list of fights. "Any preference which one we start with?" he asks me.
I shake my head as I pull my legs up and curl further into the couch. "Nope. I don't care, they're all good."
He selects one and hits play. As the fighter introductions start, I sneak a glance sideways. He's lounging comfortably but his attention is laser-focused on the screen. Watching fights is like reading playbooks for him.
Curious, I ask him, "What were you going to watch?"
His attention slides to me. "I was going to rewatch the last few fights of one of the local guys."
"Because you think you'll fight him?" I ask.
He nods. "We've been running in the same circuit for years. He's been winning lately, and I keep hearing whispers of him getting called to the UFC, so I wouldn't be surprised if they matched us up soon to see which one of us should make the cut."
I tilt my head, studying him thoughtfully. I've seen and talked to plenty of fighters, but never anyone of Tristan's caliber. I've always been interested in what goes on in the brain of high-level pro fighters.
"Is it nerve-wracking for each fight to be higher profile than the last?" I ask. "I mean, every fight is the biggest fight of your career right now. Does that add more or less pressure for you?"
He shrugs, turning his attention back to the fight starting on the TV. "Pressure is pressure," he answers simply. "You never get used to the nerves. You just get better at dealing with them."
I want to ask more but I have a feeling he's uncomfortable talking about himself. Which seems really weird, since his usual personality is arrogant and obnoxious. But I take the hint and turn toward the TV.
We watch the first fight in silence. Well, notsilence, since I'm incapable of watching a good fight without commentating and occasionally yelling, but I manage to keep my outbursts to a minimum and my attention away from Tristan.
But the IPA is starting to loosen my tongue and I can't stop myself from asking another question.
"What made you want to start fighting?" I blurt suddenly.
Tristan raises an eyebrow at me as he clicks on the next fight. "So inquisitive tonight, Remy baby," he drawls. I glare at him for his use of my hated nickname but wait pointedly for his answer. He sighs. "I didn't start training with the intention of fighting but once I got into the sport it seemed like a logical step. I just wanted to see how I would do in a real fight. Then once I started, I got addicted to the feeling."
For a moment he looks at me, as if assessing something. I shift nervously under his intense gaze, but he just continues talking. "People always say fighting is barbaric. And it is, but not for the reasons they think. It's not that it's too violent, because it's not—you’ve seen it, there's never been a death or serious injury in the history of the UFC. It's barbaric because it's primal and raw and there's no hiding anything once that cage door locks. It's honest. The most honest thing a human can experience. When that bell rings there's no trash talk, no social media, no one that can help you. It's just you and your raw physical abilities, trying to survive. You see people for who they truly are when they fight." He pauses and takes another swig of his beer. "With how fake everything and everyone is nowadays, I started to like the feeling of being that honest. And of exposing the frauds."
I stare at Tristan, wide-eyed, as I think about his answer. But before I can stop myself, I ask, "So if you hate fake people so much, why are all the chicks you date plastic as fuck?"
He chuckles. "I don't date in the classical sense of the word. I don't have to like someone to fuck them, Remy." He laughs again, shaking his head as he stands to get another beer. "Aren't you and I proof of that? You hate me, yet you still let me inside you. Twice."
"I don't—I don't hate—" I blurt out but think better of my startled confession and stop myself from finishing it. I look down at my hands, desperately racking my brain for when I stopped hating Tristan without realizing it.