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Author's Chapter Notes:

What's Tristan been up to, you ask? Read on and see. Enjoy! TAG




Chapter 9 - The Identical.



Tristan and the Clueless Brothers were barely out of Kinney’s loft when the cell phone he’d put in his jeans’ pocket earlier began to chime and vibrate. Tristan was tempted to ignore it, since the phone wasn’t his to start with, but then he changed his mind. If he’d learned nothing during his years on the street, it was that knowledge was power, especially when you were pulling a con. The more you knew about your mark, the more likely you’d be able to pull off the job. So, shifting the heavy black canvas tote bag containing all his loot to the other shoulder, the little con artist dug out the phone and looked at the brightly illuminated home screen. 


The display showed a series of little ‘notice’ windows, evidencing a series of unanswered text messages. They were all from ‘My Brian’. Tristan swiped upward on the screen so he could scan through the ten or more messages. The earliest ones were short and playful but over time the messages had gotten more terse, insistent, and worried. 


The first message: ‘Hey, Sunshine. How’d your prof like the Tropical Smoothie design? Did she agree with me that you’re an artistic genius?’


Became: ‘Sunshine, there’s a change of plans. Call me.’


Followed by: ‘Where the fuck are you, Sunshine?’


Which then became: ‘Justin, answer my damned calls already!’


And then the penultimate text: ‘Damn it, Justin! You’ve lost your fucking phone again, haven’t you? I’m calling Simon.’


The most recent message - the one he’d just missed - read: ‘Mikey just texted to say he’d found you AND your fucking phone. I swear I’m going to have that thing surgically implanted in your wrist so you don’t forget it. Hope you’re okay staying with him tonight. I’ll call as soon as I get out of this fucking meeting.’


Tristan thought it wise to reply on Justin’s behalf; he wanted to keep the guy reassured that all was well so Kinney didn’t rush home and uncover the masquerade Tristan was perpetrating. Unfortunately, when he tapped on the screen to open the latest text notice, the phone asked for him to unlock the device using his fingerprint. He knew that wasn’t going to work even as he placed his right index finger over the home button; the ‘Enter Passcode; Touch ID does not recognize your fingerprint’ warning he received in response wasn’t a surprise. With a sigh, he shoved the useless phone back into his pocket and trotted to catch up to Brunet Guy and Swishy. 


It turned out to be quite a trek from where Kinney’s loft was located, in the ‘Strip’ district that paralleled Liberty Avenue downtown, all the way to the Crawford-Roberts neighborhood northeast of the city proper. Tristan was starting to regret how full he’d packed the bag full of stolen shit he was lugging around. By the time the Clueless Brothers turned in at the entrance of a mid-century era apartment building, it’s brickwork entry gate looking blackened and worn, Tristan almost cheered. He couldn’t wait to put the fucking bag down somewhere so he could rest his shoulder where it was starting to get rubbed raw.


One quick look made it clear that this place was not nearly as nice or upscale as Kinney’s loft. This was just an ordinary apartment building in a blue-collar neighborhood that wasn’t the greatest anymore. Still, it was better than the places that Tristan was used to staying, so he wasn’t going to complain. They all climbed the stairs up to the second floor and Swishy unlocked the second door on the right side of the hallway. Tristan followed the other two inside, scoping out his new environs with a cautious eye.


It was a nice enough apartment, as those things go, he supposed. The door opened up on a smallish room that served as a dining room and living room combined. There was a small kitchenette in an alcove to the left and an open door beyond that which looked like it led to a bedroom. On the right there was a bathroom, tiled in the most hideous Pepto Bismol-pink ceramic you’d ever seen, and a second, seemingly larger bedroom. The furniture was an eclectic mix of second-hand pieces but at least everything looked clean and sturdy and the place was picked up. The decorating left something serious to be desired, though; it seemed to be a weird mix of comic-book paraphernalia and gay nightclub chic. To a street kid like Tristan, though, it was paradise. 


“So, where do you want me to put this?” he asked, shrugging off his overstuffed bag.


“Just dump it anywhere,” Swishy replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We’ll make up the couch for you later.”


“Cool,” Tristan quipped, offloaded his bag onto the floor next to the sofa, and launched himself with a little leap so that he landed with a creak of springs on the closest couch cushions. Unsure what was supposed to happen next, though, he questioned, “so, what else is on tonight’s agenda?” He leaned forward, picked up the remote control off the coffee table, and then, nudging aside a pile of comic books so he could put his feet up, he suggested, “You losers get porn on here?”


“Shit! Don’t you get enough live action porn living with Brian?” Brunet Guy complained as he grabbed the remote control out of Tristan‘s hand. “I’m not gonna sit around and watch porn with my best friend's boyfriend.”


Tristan rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest but didn’t bother replying. It looked like he was in for a long boring night. He started to rethink his decision; was a clean, uncrowded, relatively upscale place to sleep for the night worth all this?


Just as he was about to give up and leave, he noticed the PlayStation4 console sitting on a shelf of the entertainment center below the wall-mounted TV and smiled. That would do. Assuming these geezers had a decent game or two. 


Hoisting his ass up off the couch, Tristan walked over to peruse the titles of the games arrayed on the shelf. Not bad. There were a couple classic games that he’d heard of but never played, a lot of superhero-based games he wasn’t interested in, but also, the last one in the line, a copy of the hottest new game on the market - Ghost of Tsushima. 



“Sweet!” He pulled the game out of its case, popped it into the console, and hit the power button. “I love this game! My buddy swiped a copy of it the day it came out and we played it for, like, a week straight. The graphics are so dope. I was THIS close to reaching the Shadow Samurai Legend Level when some asshole spilled a beer on our console and it crapped out . . .” Tristan stopped commenting when he noticed that both the losers were standing off to the side of the television, staring at him like he was an alien life form. “What?”


“I thought you didn’t like video games, Baby?” the Swishy one commented. “The last time Michael asked you if you wanted to play, you said you didn’t understand why the little people on the ‘Devil’s Box’ were always trying to hurt & kill each other.”


What the fuck? Did his doppleganger really say something so basic? What the fuck was wrong with that guy anyway? Maybe the kid was mental or something? Nobody actually said shit like that these days, did they?


“I was just busting on you, dude,” Tristan offered, by way of explanation. When both his interrogators continued to stare at him unbelievingly, he shrugged. “You wanna play?”


Michael took him up on the offer, synching the second wireless controller and taking up a position next to Tristan on the couch. Swishy declined the opportunity to join them, explaining that he had a date that night with the ‘dreamy’ new trainer from Ript Gym so he needed the time to get himself ‘all dolled up’. Tristan wondered to himself how the guy could possibly be more obvious. Was he planning to go all ‘strip club tux’ or something? He’d never been into that kind of super-pussy faggot himself, but whatever. Who was he to judge? 


So, ignoring Swishy, Tristan applied himself to the game. Michael turned out to be not a half bad gamer. Working together they managed to get through most of the first act missions before their gaming was interrupted around 9:30 by the insistent ringing of Tristan’s double’s phone. The picture that popped up on screen to identify the caller showed an almost naked Kinney lounging on the big platform bed Tristan had seen back at the guy’s swanky loft. Nobody could argue that the dude wasn’t seriously snatched. If he’d encountered that piece of ass back in his other life, Tristan would probably have offered to do Kinney for free, just to get some of that something, something, ya know? 


Luckily the phone let him swipe to answer the phone call without having to input any code or use the damn fingerprint ID function. “Hey,” he greeted the caller.


“Hey there, Sunshine! Glad to see you’ve finally been reunited with your phone.” The voice that came over the phone line was a smooth, sultry baritone that caused Tristan’s dick to twitch involuntarily; it was the first time he’d heard Kinney speak, other than the time at the club when they were all shouting over the music, so the voice was a pleasant surprise. “If I hadn’t heard back from you soon, I was going to have to blow off my meeting tomorrow with Cliff Carter so I could fly home, hunt you down, and punish you for losing the damned phone again.”


“Now that I know that’s an option, I might just lose the thing all over again,” Tristan replied, momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be playing the timid ingenue. 


Kinney didn’t immediately seem to catch on to the switch, though. “Don’t be a tease; not when I’m four hundred miles away and can’t do anything about it . . .” Kinney growled a little in frustration. “How about if I promise to save your spanking for when I get back?”


*Mmmmm* Tristan moaned, wishing for a half a second that he’d still be around to collect on that promise after Kinney returned. Of course, that wouldn’t be at all wise, but it really was a shame that he’d never get to experience first hand what the Kinney mystique was all about. Based on what Tristan had heard on the street, it would have been an experience to write home about. 


“So, you’re not pissed at me for taking off, are you?” Kinney asked, sounding contrite. “I didn’t mean to just disappear on you, Sunshine. The fuckwad that took over the advertising for the Zoobabies account screwed everything up and I needed to be here in person to kick his breeder ass if he didn’t fix it before the purchase deadline passed. I think he figured, since I was just a fag, he could get away with fucking us over. When I showed up at his office and threatened to make a scene big enough to scare off all the rest of the ClearOutdoors Media clients, he finally caved. Or course, now that I’m here, I’m kinda obligated to take time out to meet with the Carter’s people, and the Shaw’s Catering people, not to mention the Zoobabies people . . . Remind me, next time we go on a cross-country marketing run, to find less needy clients, Sunshine.”


Tristan assumed from the low laughter that Kinney was only kidding about being annoyed by his clients. Doubtless, it took a lot of client schmoozing to make the kind of money you’d need to buy a loft like the one he’d seen earlier that evening. Not to mention the fancy office and the expensive clothing he’d noticed while spying on Justin and his obviously rich boyfriend over the past week or so. 


“. . . I’ve got meetings scheduled all fucking day tomorrow,” Kinney continued explaining, “and dinner tomorrow might with the Shaw’s in-house marketing team. That account could end up being huge, if I can work it the right way, although I’m not sure we have enough staff yet to take on all their divisions. Not even you can draw that many ads, Sunshine. It’s something to work up to, though. Right?”


Tristan didn’t know how to respond so he went with a vague, “sure.”


Apparently that wasn’t a good enough answer, though, because Kinney instantly asked, “you okay, Sunshine?”


“Yeah. I’m good,” Tristan replied, trying to sound upbeat.


“And you’re okay staying with Mikey and Em?” Kinney asked, sounding un-reassured by Tristan’s assertion. “I didn’t want to just leave you alone in the loft all by yourself - not the first time I had to be away overnight - but if you’re not comfortable at Mikey’s you can always go home, you know . . .”


“Nah. I’m cool here.” He tried to sound cheerful; it would ruin all his plans if Kinney freaked out and came back early. 


“You sure? You don’t sound like your usual, sunshiney self, Sunshine.” Kinney’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You know it’s not like before, right? I didn’t WANT to leave you tonight. I promised I wouldn’t do THAT ever again and you know I meant it . . . No more phone calls, remember? . . . And I’ll be home by Thursday; Friday at the latest. I swear. You can hold out till then, right?”


Was this guy serious? Why the hell would he think Justin couldn’t hang on without him for two fucking days? Was this Justin kid that much of a wimp that he couldn’t handle being without his sugar daddy for a couple nights? What a loser. Could these two be more pathetic with all their heart-eyes bullshit? It was enough to make him gag. And what the fuck did Kinney mean by all that crap about ‘no more phone calls’ and shit? Wasn’t he calling on the phone right then? It didn’t make any sense. 


He had to say something, though, to keep the con going. “I’ll be fine,” he replied and then, remembering the caller ID from when the phone had rung, he added, “my Brian.”


“Good. You always were a brave little fucker . . .” Kinney responded affectionately. “Now, if I can just hold out myself.” Tristan heard the man on the other end of the phone make a sad little pouting noise of complaint. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that Mikey decided to head to bed early so I can introduce you to the joys of phone sex, huh?”


“Yeah . . . He’s sitting right here next to me playing Ghost of Tsushima.”


“Damn,” Kinney huffed with disappointment. “I guess I’ll have to take care of this boner I’m holding onto all by myself.”


“I could always tell him to get lost,” Tristan offered suggestively.


Kinney laughed. “Knowing Mikey, he’d want to stay and listen in.”


“I don’t think so - not unless he paid up front - I don’t give free shows,” Tristan snarked, forgetting again who he was supposed to be and how his innocent, sheltered double would have probably responded.


“Sunshine?” Shit! Kinney sounded instantly suspicious. “You sure you’re okay?”


Tristan panicked and, not knowing what to say to cover his mistake, he decided his best bet was to cut the call short. “Hey, I gotta go. Brunet Guy . . . I mean, Michael . . . needs me to help him with this level. See you when you get back!”


Tristan ended the call and hit the button to turn off the phone so he wouldn’t have to deal with Kinney again. He knew he’d fucked up but he hoped Kinney was too busy with all those clients to worry about why his naive little boyfriend was behaving so out of character. Apparently, Tristan’s acting skills weren’t as strong as he’d hoped. He didn’t doubt for a second that Kinney was smart enough, if he’d been there in person, to tell immediately that they had the wrong blond. If Tristan was going to pull this con off, he had to keep Kinney in Chicago as long as possible. Which meant no more phone calls like that last one. So, for now, the plan would have to be to lie low and trust that Kinney wouldn’t screw everything up by coming home early. 


Just in case, though, Tristan decided to live it up as long as he could. 


So, with that in mind, he picked up the game controller and resumed playing Ghost of Tsushima alongside Brunet Guy. They played late into the night, getting too enthralled by the RPG to stop, except for a brief interlude to order a late night pizza and some beer, which they devoured in between simulated battles. When Brunet Guy finally admitted he was too tired to take on the next level, he helped Tristan pull out the sofa bed before heading off to his own room.


Tristan climbed under the covers of the bed, not at all put out to be on the relatively comfortable pull out; it beat sharing a lumpy motel bed with two other guys. Plus, for once, he could sleep through the night without worrying that he’d be woken up by Hugo to service some late-night John. Compared to what he was used to, this was fucking paradise. 


The only real worry he had was how long he could keep up this con.



“What the fuck, Justin?” 


Brian looked at his phone again and scowled at the green text bubbles that showed his messages were being sent as regular old SMS messages. There were also no ‘Read’ confirmations showing under the bubbles. This combination meant that Justin’s phone was either dead or turned off; neither of which made any sense. 


Why would Justin have hung up on him and then turned his phone off? And why had he been acting so strange? Justin was never that quiet; not unless he was really, REALLY, angry at Brian. 


Which was what Brian had half expected, seeing as how he’d left town so abruptly without telling Justin first. All afternoon he’d worried that Justin would be angry or scared, maybe even panicky, when he found out Brian had taken off like that. After all, it WAS the first night they’d be spending apart since they’d returned to Pittsburgh. But the kid had seemed completely unconcerned. If anything, Justin had acted kind of taciturn and maybe even a bit insolent. Which wasn’t at all like the ‘Justin’ Brian had come to know. His Justin didn’t hold grudges or give people the silent treatment. His Justin was open and honest - and would give you hell if he was pissed off at you - but would always forgive you. Justin didn’t hang on to his resentments or blow you off. 


And he would never, ever hang up on ‘His Brian’.


If Justin truly wasn’t angry or scared, then he should have been ecstatic to talk to Brian. He should have been babbling, like he always did, when he came back from school; bubbling over with excitement, talking Brian’s head off, telling him every detail of his day’s adventures, enthusing over his classwork, relating amusing stories about ‘Simon Says’, and laughing over Brian’s complaints about him misplacing his ‘travelling phone’. That was the kind of guy Justin was; a refreshingly happy and animated youth who was thrilled to the gills by life. It was the thing that Brian loved the most about his young partner. Justin was the exact opposite of his own jaded, indifferent, disenchanted, world-weary self; it was a contrast that Brian treasured. 


But the kid he’d just spoken to on the phone hadn’t sounded like that at all. That Justin had sounded just as apathetic and hackneyed as Brian back in his pre-Sunshine days. To be honest, he hadn’t sounded like he missed Brian at all. He didn’t try to tell Brian the hundred and one little tales from his day like he always did when they spoke. He hadn’t used any of the funny little word mannerisms that Brian had come to cherish.  


He hadn’t sounded like Justin at all.


Brian picked up his phone and sent another text message, demanding that Justin call him back, and then, when the message showed as an unread green bubble again, he growled and tossed the phone against the wall of his hotel room so hard that the thing shattered into a dozen pieces.


“Fuck! Now *I* have to get a new fucking phone. Should probably buy stock in Apple considering how many fucking phones I’ve had to buy this year . . .” he grumbled and then stalked off to take a long, cold shower, in the hopes it would calm him enough so he could get some sleep. 


A feat he didn’t think would come easily, especially since he wouldn’t have any Sunshine in his bed to warm him up after his shower. 


 

 

Chapter End Notes:

10/12/20 - This is for those of you asking when Brian would realize that his Justin is missing... (Soon coming!) TAG

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