After Everything I’ve Done For You (Part Three)

A lavender cloud of incense drifted diagonally across the exposed brick like something summoned during a séance for unresolved trauma.

Juan twirled in a slow circle, palms out, barefoot on the hardwood. “It’s amazing what a room does without negative energy clogging up the chakra ducts.”

Tristan was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Darcy and Cole, who were still zip-tied and gagged like failed escape artists.

“I miss him,” Tristan murmured, staring wistfully at the sealed fireplace.

“Who? Omar?” Juan asked.

“There was something about him. A gravitas. Like he’d seen things. Real things. Pain.”

Juan nodded solemnly. “And fear. Like a man who once had to flee in the middle of the night with just his passport and a moka pot.”

“Exactly,” Tristan whispered. “His eyes said I have been broken, and yet I remain whole.”

“Not sexual,” Juan clarified, raising a finger.

“No, no. Paternal. Surrogate daddy-ish.”

“Absolutely. Though—if you two were to run off …”

“Run off?” Tristan said, baffled, “Why are you even going there?”

“I saw the way you were leering at him, Tristan!”

“Juan,” Tristan gently chided, “this is you—projecting again.”

“Oh, is that who this is? Or maybe this is just someone who is not ready to lose someone else to some sweaty Palestinian, Tris-tan! Okay? I know he’s f*****g gorgeous and earthy, but you don’t have to leer at him like you’re not getting it at home.”

“I was not leering!” Tristan protested.

“You were leering like you wanted to smoke his ass!” Juan snapped back.

Darcy suddenly let out a gagged, wet grunt. AOC barked.

“Is there something you’d like to add, Darcy? I’m sure Cole has something on his mind as well.” Juan said, quite perturbed.

Tristan leaned back on his hands. “What do we do with them? I mean, the energy has shifted. We can’t just let them go. That’s practically gentrification.”

Juan sat beside him, pulling AOC into his lap. “Let’s spitball.”

AOC growled low, like a tiny espresso machine warming up.

“Art installation?” Juan offered. “Something like a ‘Cisgenders—Not Okay’ display.”

Tristan tilted his head. “Hmmm, maybe. What about mixed media? We could wrap them in newspapers. The Times for Cole because he clearly loathes himself. Daily Mail for her—she vibrates like someone raised on sidebar content.”

Darcy squirmed and hissed behind her gag.

“Ooh, she’s passionate,” Juan noted. “What about a performance piece? They scream their microaggressions live on the hour. Tip jar for reparations!”

Tristan twirled a palo santo stick between his fingers. “Mmm, too edgy.”

Cole raised one brow—just one. He was too tired to raise two.

Juan paced the living room like a militant choreographer, arms gesturing with wild precision. “Okay. Here’s a thought experiment-slash-practical strategy: we offer them as hostages to Omar as leverage.”

Tristan’s head whipped around. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You know,” Juan said, too casually, “he uses them to negotiate with the landlord. The Israeli guy. Full building occupancy in exchange for the straight couple.”

“If only they were worth the karma, Juan.” Tristan pointed directly at his own heart. “I have boundaries.”

They stood in a stalemate of principle and delusion. AOC broke the silence with a soft, approving growl.

Juan nodded. “AOC votes for un-gagging.”

Juan knelt behind Cole and ripped the pillowcase strip from his mouth with the flourish of a magician. Cole gasped. No