Usually, when he got someone into his bed, he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get there. Flirt, escalate, make them feel good, make himself feelsomething, sleep, leave or be left.
Tonight, he just wanted Greg nearby.
He didn’t know what to call that.
He didn’t go looking for a word.
“Come on,” he said.
Greg followed him upstairs.
Dustin’s room was at the end of the hall, frozen almost exactly the way he’d left it two years ago. Band posters he no longer cared about covered the walls. The bookshelf was mostly gear catalogues. The bed wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t large either.
He sat on the edge and pulled his shirt off one-handed. The sling made everything a production. Beneath the shirt, the road rash was a dark, angry constellation across his ribs.
Greg hovered in the doorway.
“You can come in,” Dustin said. “You’re not a vampire. You don’t need an invitation.”
“I know I’m not a vampire.”
Greg stepped inside, looking around with the unfiltered curiosity he applied to everything. His gaze moved over the posters, the bookshelf, the desk by the window. He picked up the small climbing hold on Dustin’s nightstand and examined it like an artifact.
“That’s for rock climbing,” Dustin said.
“Why is it in your bedroom?”
“I used to train grip strength in here.” Dustin paused. “That’s not a euphemism.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
Of course he hadn’t.
Greg set the climbing hold down and turned back to him. The curiosity was still there, but underneath it sat something anxious and tender.
Anxiety that wasn’t only about himself anymore.
Dustin looked away first and pulled open a drawer. He found a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, then tossed them onto the bed.
“Here.”
Greg looked at the clothes, then down at his button-down and slacks.
“You can’t get in my bed dressed like that,” Dustin said. “You look like you’re about to ask me to sign something.”
Greg picked up the T-shirt, examined it, then unbuttoned his shirt and folded his clothes in a way that was very Greg.
When he pulled Dustin’s shirt over his head, it hung off his shoulders.
“It’s very large.”
“You’re very small.”
“I’m average height for a reaper.”
“Sure you are.”
Greg changed into the sweatpants and had to roll the waistband twice. Then he stood there in Dustin’s borrowed clothes, bare feet on the worn carpet.
