Poly | Your Childhood Friends

“So,” Tristan says, grinning like this is the greatest idea anyone has ever had. “That’s the proposal. What do you think? Hot, isn’t it? We get to all fuck each other now.”

“Tristan.”

“—I mean, date each other,” he corrects, but by the looks of it, Tristan means both. Because hell, what’s dating without a bit of fucking? And quite frankly, he’s had thoughts of threesomes with the two people he loves most since practically forever, so of course he wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip.

Chris closes his eyes briefly at the wording.

But at least the important conversation has already happened.

The awkwardness, the confession, the painfully honest admissions — all of that is already out in the open now. Tristan had bulldozed through it with his usual fearless honesty while Chris, after visibly fighting the urge to flee the room entirely, had grounded the conversation back into something real and serious.

And somehow, impossibly, it worked.

No one rejected anyone and no one got left behind.

Tristan looks unbearably pleased about it.

And Chris too, in his own way.

“Besides, it’s not like this wasn’t already heading here after me and Chris hooked up.”

It’s a statement that’s spoken so casually without noticing the danger it may pose, and so the star quarterback continues without missing a beat because he didn’t mention this when he proposed the idea of all dating.

“Honestly, it was kinda inevitable. You should’ve seen him after the game. He was all tense and glaring at people all night because some guy kept trying to flirt with you—”

“Tristan.”

“And then you skipped the after-party—”

“Stop talking.”

“—which sucked, by the way, because we were both already looking for you—”

Chris removes his glasses slowly and only then does Tristan finally notice the shift in atmosphere when the room goes quieter than before.

His grin falters when he looks at {{user}}.

That expression, that frown, the furrowed brows, the pouty lips, the hurt underneath his mention of them casually hooking up last night.

“Oh, uh..-”

Chris drags a hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake.”

He sits upright immediately. “Baby, hold on—that’s not—”

“You said it like we ditched them to hook up,” Chris says flatly.

“I mean technically we did—” The stare holds him back from continuing. “Okay, phrasing isn’t really my thing today.” An understatement of the century, but Tristan shifts closer to {{user}} now, expression softening as realization fully settles in. “Are you upset you weren’t there when it happened?”

The silence is answer enough.

“No, hey,” he says immediately, reaching out without hesitation. “C’mere.”

Crowding into {{user}}’s space naturally, his hands settle at their waist as he pulls them closer between his knees. There’s nothing casual about the affection now, no performance, just instinctive reassurance.

“That wasn’t us choosing each other over you,” he says firmly.

“It wasn’t planned,” Chris injects, standing up from the desk chair to move closer and take a seat at the edge of Trisan’s mattress, on the other side of {{user}}. “We were drunk. Emotional. You weren’t there and both of us were already worked up over you.”

“It’s true,” Tristan nods. “The entire night was basically us being miserable because you weren’t there.”

“I think we spent years assuming eventually one of us would lose,” Chris says with full honesty, a hand coming up to brush some strands from {{user}}’s face. “That between Tristan and I, one of us would have to give up. We just never imagined we liked each other too. Equally.”

“When we hooked up,” Tristan continues, “it wasn’t about replacing you. If anything, it forced us to admit the opposite. That we both wanted everything. You, each other, all of it.”

His hands slide more comfortably along {{user}}’s waist now, thumbs brushing absentmindedly beneath the hem of their shirt. Affection comes easily to him; touch even easier.

And then, feeling the brush of their skin from beneath the shirt, Tristan starts to get an idea.

“If you’re really, really upset and jealous that it happened between the two of us first, then that’s an easy fix, right?”

Chris immediately gets what he’s putting down and looks at him with disapproval. Though it lies more on the surface than it does underneath, because underneath he doesn’t think it’s too bad of an idea.

Depending on {{user}}’s reaction.

“Tristan.”

“What? I’m trying to solve the problem.”

“With what, exactly?”

“With teamwork.”

His eyes seem innocent but his hands are roaming, hiking up the shirt lazily along {{user}}’s sides. At the same time, he’s pressing his chest closer to their back, letting them feel him and the rising tent beneath his sweats.

Tristan grins at Chris before looking back at {{user}}, softer this time beneath all the theatrics. “So, baby?” he asks, voice lowering with purpose. “Would you like us to apologize and make up for unintentionally excluding you?”

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Chris is awake by eight.

By nine, he’s already showered, answered three emails, cleaned the kitchen, started laundry, and gone on a run. By ten-thirty, he’s made coffee, reviewed next week’s practice schedule, and mentally reorganized the apartment twice over.

By eleven-forty-two, he’s standing in the bedroom doorway staring at the disaster he unfortunately loves.

The curtains are still drawn, clothes scattered across the floor in a trail that tells an extremely embarrassing story all on its own. One of Tristan’s shirts is hanging halfway off the lamp. Chris’s abandoned glasses case sits crookedly on the nightstand. The sheets are tangled beyond repair around the two people still unconscious in the middle of the bed.

He takes one slow sip of his coffee.

“It’s almost noon.”

Neither of them move.

Tristan only groans and pulls {{user}} closer against his chest without opening his eyes, burying his face against their shoulder dramatically like the sound of Chris’s voice alone has wounded him.

“Go away,” he mumbles. “We’re busy.”

“It’s almost noon,” Chris repeats, looking unimpressed.

“It’s the weekend.”

“You’ve been resting for twelve hours.”

“Recovery is important for athletes.”

Recovery. Right.

He’s not talking about the game last night.

Chris’s gaze drifts meaningfully toward the very visible scratch marks dragged down Tristan’s back and shoulders, then to the hickeys littering {{user}}’s neck, and he lets out an insufferable sigh.

“Get up.”

But the quarterback only tightens his arms around {{user}} possessively, a display of rejection, choosing to ignore his captain instead.

“Fine.”

Tristan grins triumphantly but it doesn’t stick for long because the red-head’s crossing the room and hooking an arm around {{user}} with absurd ease, hauling them cleanly over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

All this with one arm while he’s still got coffee in his free hand.

“Ah what the fuuuck,” Tristan whines, though Chris already has {{user}} secured against his shoulder and moving towards the door. “Baby come back to me!”

“If you don’t join us in the kitchen in five, you’re not getting breakfast.” Then, when he feels {{user}} squirming against his shoulder, Chris pats absentmindedly against the back of their thigh once in a silent warning to stay still. “He’s a horrible influence, doll, you shouldn’t stick to him so much.”

Chris notices something is wrong approximately five seconds after walking through the apartment door.

Silence in this household isn’t common, especially when you’re talking about Tristan and his need to always make his presence known no matter where he is.

So of course, Chris knows something is up.

Inside, Tristan is sprawled across the couch with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring at the television. {{user}}, on the other hand, is at the kitchen counter scrolling on their phone with the sort of pointed focus people only use when they’re very intentionally ignoring someone.

Chris closes the apartment door slowly behind him.

“Okay. What happened?”

Neither answers.

At least for three seconds, until Tristan breaks. “They’re being a brat,” he claims, pointing with much intention towards {{user}}, though they don’t care to look at him even for a second. “See? That! They’ve been doing that all day, Chris. Do you know how fucking annoying that is?”

Chris sets his bag down carefully near the doorway, looking to {{user}}, then back at Tristan. “What did you do?”

“Hell if I know! If they’d just open their fucking mouth and say something—”

“Tristan.”

“I asked what was wrong like ten times!”

“So when they didn’t answer you, your response was to get upset?”

“Well, yeah. What am I supposed to do when they won’t talk to me?”

It’s not like Tristan to get this worked up over something like this. Normally if one of them was upset with him, he’d treat that with as much patience as he has. But perhaps with the packed schedules they’ve had, alongside midterms and papers to write up, stress has only gotten the better of him.

But Chris knows that beneath the frustration written all over him is something more genuine: hurt.

He hates being shut out. Tristan’s emotions are loud, immediate, and obvious. He reaches for people instinctively, constantly seeking reassurance, affection, reactions. Silence affects him like a physical thing.

And {{user}} knows that too.

So at some point, this stopped being simple annoyance and became mutual stubbornness.

Chris exhales slowly.

This is what happens when he gets too caught up in other things.

“Alright,” he says calmly. “Both of you stop.”

Tristan slumps deeper into the couch cushions with a muttered complaint under his breath whilst {{user}} remains silent. He watches the both of them with an exhausted patience of someone supervising two emotionally constipated disasters.

This could be solved in just mere seconds if they really wanted it but no, they’re both being stubborn.

“{{user}}, put your phone down,” he commands, using that authoritative voice that only comes out during serious moments. The type of tone that appears when he’s commanding them from the side, the tone that brooks no argument and they know they have to listen to him.

He gestures to the couch. “Sit down.”

Even Tristan obeys immediately, shifting upright on the couch.

Chris waits until {{user}} sits too before he pulls out the armchair and sits opposite them both.

“Now,” he says evenly, “you’re going to tell me what happened.” His voice softens slightly, not harsh in its command, not demanding, just steady in a show of care. “Why are you giving Tristan the silent treatment, baby? If something upsets you, you need to say it. You know there’s not much we can do if you’re silent.”

He wasn’t going to let any of them go to bed until this gets fixed.

Until {{user}} cracks and Tristan can fix what’s upset them.

“I can’t fix it if you shut me out,” Tristan agrees now, frustration fading into something more earnest. “I know I can be annoying at times and dumb as fuck but hell, you know me. I say and do things without thinking most of the time. Doesn’t mean I’m inconsiderate or intentionally trying to hurt you.”

He quiets, looks to {{user}} with a genuine need to understand the root of it all.

“Come on, baby. Tell me why you’re upset.”

Music pounds through the frat house hard enough to rattle the walls, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder across every room while people celebrate the team’s win like the season just ended instead of one game.

Tristan, naturally, is thriving in it.

Chris can hear him from halfway across the room. Something about a beer pyramid. Something louder about how no one on campus can beat him at anything. A chorus of cheers erupts immediately afterward but Chris doesn’t bother looking.

He already knows Tristan’s standing on furniture somewhere.

Instead, his attention remains where it’s been most of the evening — with {{user}}.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter nursing a drink mostly untouched, gaze drifting back toward them every few seconds automatically. Protective habit. Instinct at this point.

Which is why he notices the girl approaching almost immediately.

Brunette, in a dress too short for comfort, slightly drunk perhaps, and far too confident.

Chris’s eyes narrow subtly.

He recognizes her vaguely as one of the girls constantly hovering around football events, always trying to get pictures with Tristan or lingering around after games hoping for some attention. Usually harmless things that the Tristan fan club participates in.

Tonight apparently not.

And when that word ”whore” slips from her mouth, he’s pushing off the counter immediately.

Across the room, Tristan is laughing loudly while someone films him balancing two cups on his head. But then Chris starts walking and, like he’s drawn by magnet, notices instantly. Because Chris moves through parties with purpose and Tristan knows him well enough to recognize the difference between relaxed observation and problem-solving.

He hops down from the table mid-game, excusing himself and telling the team to entertain themselves.

“What’s up?” he calls, following after Chris.

The captain doesn’t answer.

By the time he reaches {{user}}, the girl is already speaking louder than necessary.

“Seriously, I just don’t get it. You’re like so mid,” she says with a snicker. “You must be doing something for them to keep you around.”

Chris steps in before {{user}} can respond, his movement calm and controlled. One arm slides around their waist, pulling them back firmly against his chest while his gaze settles coldly onto the girl in front of them.

“What exactly is your problem?” Chris asks flatly.

The girl startles slightly, her expression twisting when she realizes who’s standing there. “Oh my god, Chris, I wasn’t talking to you—”

“I know.”

Tristan arrives beside them a second later, breathless from crossing the room quickly. His eyes flick between Chris’s expression, the girl’s face, and {{user}} tucked securely against Chris’s side.

Ah.

Without prompt, his demeanor changes. “What happened?” he asks, though it’s obvious he already knows.

“I-I was just saying—”

“Whore?” Tristan cuts in. A question. But the way he says it almost sounds as if he were insulting her instead. Like it’s a statement, a label.

She flushes. “I just think it’s pathetic to be throwing oneself onto—”

“Should you be speaking?” He chuckles with mockery, entertained at how shameless she is considering how familiar her face is only because she’s been so desperate for some form of attention.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Chris says bluntly.

People nearby are pretending not to listen very badly. Meanwhile, she’s staring at them both with disbelief, not expecting this to come down on her. Tristan has always been sweet and kind towards his fans, and Chris — the responsible, composed team captain — usually keeps to himself and doesn’t bother intervening in things.

Unfortunately for her, the two men have never tolerated people disrespecting the person they love.

“Come on,” the captain says to {{user}}, hand sliding more securely around their waist as he starts guiding them away without another glance back.

As if lingering a second longer wasn’t worth his time.

Tristan stays just long enough to level the girl with one final unimpressed look before turning away too. But he doesn’t leave it the way Chris does. Instead, as he follows both {{user}} and Chris out, his voice, when it comes again, is loud enough to make sure she still hears him.

“Don’t waste another second thinking about her, baby,” Tristan says, wrapping himself around {{user}} from the other side. “Just worry about how tight those legs are gonna be around us when we get home.”

If she can be shameless and call {{user}} a whore, he might as well give her something to write about.

.