Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes as the Monopoly money in his hands started to turn blurry. The lines, numbers, and faces on the thin strips of paper seemed mushy and indistinct, almost like ink that hadn't yet dried before being smeared all over the place by fingers. Some doubled down like a poorly done 3D animation, offending the eye. Staring at it didn't do the job, so Tristan repeatedly blinked until everything returned to its rightful place. What the hell? Did he need glasses like Gabriel? It could be. Their father also wore glasses, and genetics didn't lie.
'Or I may just be exhausted.'
It didn't take long before Tristan pondered a second option, as he was very against the idea of wearing glasses. Fatigue wasn't unplausible, either. Thanks to his brothers' business trip, he barely had any rest over the past few weeks. Moreover, right after the plane touched down this afternoon, they rushed to clear security and scramble over to Misha's house. They had missed Misha just as much as he had missed them, and they didn't want to waste a second. Rest? Who needed that? Also, they more or less slept in the plane, so shouldn't that count as resting? With this in mind, Tristan thought the jet lag shouldn't be too harsh on their bodies, especially his. But maybe he was wrong. Being young didn't prevent him from getting tired.
"Are you alright?" Gabriel's worried voice startled Tristan, whose eyelids had started to drop. "If you're tired, it's better to go to sleep."
"But…"
"There's no but!"
"Don't treat me like a kid!"
"But you are a kid."
"No," Tristan puffed his cheeks, making them bulge like a squirrel, "I'm a pre-teen. Pre-teen, you hear? It's not the same!"
Whether Tristan was saying it purposely or not, it drew laughter all around. His age was a sore spot for the boy, just as it had been for Misha. Although he knew he wasn't a grown-up and his brain wasn't fully developed, he still had memories of two whole lifetimes packed inside, and he was also living through a third life, thanks to Pierrot. Because it wasn't a transmigration from his past self to his youngest self, but rather his youngest self remembering what his past selves had gone through, his body's way of handling things differed from Misha, who went through hell because his child body couldn't adapt to his grown-up mind. Regardless, Tristan thought of himself as more mature than his peers and didn't like being reminded that he was still a child. He wanted to be treated as an equal!
"You do know that a pre-teen needs sleep to grow tall, right?" Misha reminded the boy. "Otherwise, you're going to stay small."
"And you do know that I'm not as crazy as you about my height, right?" Tristan cocked an eyebrow, shooting the arrow without mercy. He followed by pursing his lips and pouting, "Obviously, I'd rather stay small and spend more time with you than grow tall and spend less time with you."
…What was Misha supposed to answer to that? His stunned face told people he didn't know. How could he? That was so darn cute, he just wanted to hug the boy! But it seemed like Tristan didn't even realize he blurted out something sweet as hell. It wasn't the first time he did it, but as always, it made butterflies fly about in their stomachs. Despite their effort, they knew Tristan still believed deep down that he wasn't worthy of their love, always afraid to ask for it. However, how could they not love him? Especially when Tristan was the cutest child on earth? He spouted words of affection at every opportunity without even realizing it, tugging at their heartstrings.
"I guess we should all go to sleep, then," Jake said matter-of-factly, aware that his little brother was stubborn. Misha had influenced him somewhat, and perhaps a bit too much in this aspect. "It's still a bit early, but I'm tired, and I'm sure Gabriel is, too."
"Now that you mention it," Gabriel played along, "I'm feeling quite tired, too. So, let's get the futons ready."
"No complain here," Stephan nodded, grateful the game was coming to an end. He was losing so miserably that he felt like crying. He always turned into a beggar in that darned game! "And I need to wake up early tomorrow, so."
That said, they began preparing the living room for the sleepover, putting the game back into its box and pushing the table and couch out of the way. They laid the five futons side by side and went to the bathroom or one of the bedrooms to change into their pyjamas. It was done in an orderly manner, as it was a routine they often did. Misha's home didn't have a guest room, so his parents bought the futons to accommodate them. They had carefully chosen the said futons as well. So what if it cost a little more? They wanted premium futons for these esteemed guests. The Laflamme brothers slept over so often that they even bought the trio their own toothbrushes and made space in the bathroom for their toiletries. Misha's mother sometimes joked that it felt like she had three more sons. Stephan was omitted, as he was considered the troublemaker among her children's friends. She did not want this one as her kid, rightfully so.
After getting ready for sleep, they returned to the living room and snuck into their futons. As always, Tristan took the place between his brothers, while Misha snuggled against Gabriel on the other side, and Stephan lay beside Jake. It didn't take long before everyone fell asleep. Everyone except Tristan. Although he was tired and groggy, he could not fall asleep for some reason. Closing his eyes and counting sheep didn't help.
After rolling in his futon for over an hour, Tristan sighed and sat, glancing at the peacefully sleeping people. He felt a slight jealousy. For whatever reason, he was wide-awake tonight despite almost dozing off when they played Monopoly. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes, which felt like they were burning. He really needed to sleep.
"Maybe a glass of milk will help," he grumbled to himself as he stood up and went to the kitchen, fumbling his way in the dark. He didn't want to wake the others by turning on the light.
With his glass of milk in hand, Tristan decided to go outside and sit on the balcony. He took a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. September was settling in, accompanied by Autumn, and the nights were growing colder by the day. The breeze sent shivers running down his spine, and Tristan bundled up a bit more in his blanket. Once comfortably seated, he lifted his head to gaze at the sky. His thoughts wandered and came to a halt on Pierrot. The guy's days were tormenting his nights, and at this point, there was nothing the man did that Tristan didn't know about.
"So, why can't we catch him?"
Over the past two years, they had been trying to lay trap after trap to catch the man and his parents in the act, but whatever they did was constantly thwarted. Pierrot was always one step ahead, if not two. They did manage to ruin many deals for Angela and Matthew, but nothing substantial enough to warrant jail time. Same for Pierrot.
It was frustrating.
Unable to help himself, Tristan brooded over their numerous failures. And as irritation and resentment started to twist his stomach, a sudden sharp pain traveled from his forehead to his temples, making Tristan stifle a cry. He almost dropped his glass of milk as he swiftly put it on the balcony to bury his head in his hands. It hurt, it hurt so frigging much.
"Not again…"
Tristan pinched his lips to keep himself from wincing. These past few weeks, these kinds of sharp pain shooting through his brain had started to pop up every now and then, always when he expected it the least. Thankfully, they didn't last long - a few seconds at most - but they were incredibly painful and annoying. He hadn't yet told his brothers, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to. Of course, he hadn't forgotten his promise to tell them if he started to have frequent headaches. However, this didn't feel like a headache. No, he thought it was the stress. He didn't show it, but he was anxious. No matter what information he brought to his brothers about Pierrot, they couldn't apprehend him and round up his parents at the same time. Their inability to do so was starting to eat the child from the inside out. What if his dreams were, in fact, useless?
What was the point of being tormented every night, then?
"Stop it with the depressing thoughts," Tristan told himself, massaging his temples as the pain subsided. "You can't expect everything to be done in the snap of a finger. We need more time, that's all."
The boy brought his knees to his chest, encircling his legs with his arms as he nestled his head on his knees. It wasn't easy to pretend to be alright. He did not want to worry his loved ones and wanted to keep everyone smiling, so he hid his demons. And as that thought passed through his mind, he fell asleep on the balcony.
But that night, Tristan dreamed of something that shook him to his core. It started with Pierrot barking orders to his underlings, which wasn't anything new. Then, the man ate dinner before retiring to his room. There, he took a paper and wrote something. His handwriting was strangely elegant and posed. He wrote slowly, and after dabbing the end of the sentence with a bold dot, he stared at it for a long time, long enough for Tristan to read it until the words got anchored into his brain. The sentence read as follows:
"Go see the doctor, you moron."