It was the Monday after Bill's first day as a grocery store stock assistant. Night had long since fallen as he stumbled into his apartment, hunched over and struggling to keep his eyes open. Feet are sore. Back hurts. Hungry. Can't remember what happiness is. He kicked the door shut and slumped against the wall, sighing.

At the sound of the door closing, Dipper popped his head out of the kitchen, sucking some sauce off his fingers. He smiled. "Hey. How was your first day?"

Bill walked further into the cramped apartment as he began undoing his apron. "It was … a day." He caught a whiff of the spaghetti Dipper was cooking and almost felt like crying. Bless this tiny man, he thought stealing a quick kiss from his boyfriend's lips. "I'm alive, at least. That's got to count for something, right?"

Dipper winced. "That bad, huh?"

"Bad? Oh no." Bill collapsed onto the uncomfortable dining room chair and groaned as pain flared in his lower back. "Bad is a word you use when you're leaving the movie theaters only to find it pouring and you don't have an umbrella. This was … a nightmare."

Dipper sat in the adjacent chair and took Bill's limp hand, his expression full of sympathy. "You want to talk about it?"

Oh boy, do I. Bill straightened up, readjusting his hand until their fingers interlocked. "Jesus, where do I start? Well, for one thing, the manager that they assigned me to spits when he talks, and he talks a lot. I was drenched by lunchtime." Dipper made a noise of disgust. "Yeah. And then while I was getting some huge boxes down from storage, some idiot kid ran into the ladder I was on and I fell down."

Bill regretted saying that last part when Dipper paled with worry. "What? Did you break anything? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, it's just …" He groaned again, taking his other hand and digging her fingers into his shoulder. "I mean, it hurts, but nothing got broke, I don't think. It's fine," he repeated when the worried look wouldn't go away.

Dipper creased his brow. "I'm sorry, Bill."

"It's not your fault that there are idiots in the world, kid," Bill insisted, though it fell on deaf ears. Pine Tree would blame himself for everything if he could. I won't let him. Dipper had student loans to pay off, and Bill wasn't about to watch him take another job on top of his classes and his unpaid internship at the studio. An 8-hour shift, five days a week at a grubby grocery store was the least he could do to ease the burden. "Really, I'm just be overdramatic," he continued, forcing a big smile, "it wasn't that bad."

The crease in his forehead indicated Dipper believed otherwise, but he didn't push it. Instead, he let a small smile twitch his lips, and squeezed Bill's hand. "Thank you. I'm really proud of you, you know?"

Bill waved him off. "It's fine. Now, bring me my victory spaghetti, mortal! The only things I had to eat today were a granola bar and half a fish stick."

Dipper inclined his head and did as told, returning to the stove. Bill missed his warm (albeit sweaty) hand, but figured it was all for a greater cause. He resumed kneading the stubborn knot on his neck, though it seemed to do little good. It felt as if someone where shoving a hot poker on his shoulder.

A moment later, Dipper returned with two plates, and Bill's mouth began to water. He barely gave himself enough time for Dipper to hand him the fork before he began shoveling the food into his mouth. Pathetic, half broken moans escaped his lips from time to time as the sauce consumed his taste buds. You've outdone yourself this time, Pine Tree, he thought, helping himself to seconds, followed shortly by thirds.

With a clean plate and his belly full and warm, Bill's mood improved substantially. He rested his head on the table, convinced if he were a cat he'd be purring up a thunderstorm. The moment was ruined when another flare of pain stabbed his shoulder. He grunted, bringing his hand to his shoulder and resuming his ineffective kneading.

Dipper watched on, that familiar worry still clear in his eyes. Bill snorted impatiently.

"I said I'm fine, Pine Tree."

"Okay, okay." Dipper held up his hands in surrender and made to scoop up Bill's plate, but Bill stopped him before he could.

"You made dinner, that means I have clean up duty."

Dipper rolled his eyes.

"Usually, yes, but you look like you've been through hell. Well, it's retail, you practically were in Hell." Dipper chuckled at his own joke. Bill narrowed his eyes further. "I'll take care of it," Dipper said gently. "Go relax, watch some TV or something. I'll be out in a minute."

On any other night, Bill would have pressed the issue. But Dipper was right. He was far too tired to pick a fight. Relinquishing his plate, he stood and left the small dining room with a sigh, shoulders hunched as he zombie-walked into his room. After changing into his favorite sweater and a comfortable, old pair of sweat pants, his mood climbed even higher. If only I stopped hurting everywhere, I'd be perfect, he griped, falling face forward onto the dingy couch with a sigh.

Twenty or so minutes passed and Dipper had yet to follow him into the living room. Bill was only half paying attention to the snowy television screen, wishing more than anything he had Dipper's lap to pillow his head and a calloused hand stroking his hair. The image of it made him whimper with need and his impatience grew.

"Piinee Treeee," he whined.

No answer.

Grumbling, he buried his face into the pillow. I'm a good person, dammit. Is a little bit of love and attention and petting too much to ask for? Hmm? Is it? His eyes fluttered shut and he laid there, drowning in exaggerated self-pity and melodrama. Just as he neared the cusp of sleep, however, and insistent tug on his sleeve made him jolt. He furrowed his brow when he saw Dipper standing there, smiling.

"Were you cleaning the whole goddamn kitchen or what?" he asked, trying to discreetly rub the sleep from his eyes. Dipper smirked, seeing through the façade.

"Not exactly. C'mere, I wanna show you something."

Yawning, Bill stood, stretched, and followed Dipper as he led him to the unused backroom, which still had boxes that were waiting to be unpacked. Thinking Dipper just needed something grabbed from a high shelf, he was startled to find, instead, about a dozen candles placed around the floors and boxes flickering in the dimmed room. Ambient, relaxing music floated from Dipper's stereo, and at the center of the room lied a cushy floor mat with a clean cloth thrown over it.

"Surprise!" Dipper held out his arms. "I was thinking I could maybe give you a massage. I know it's not much," he gestured sheepishly to the arrangement, "it's all I could scrounge up on such short notice. But it'll do the trick."

"Pine Tree." Bill had flushed several layers of red, backing up until he almost hit his head on the wall. Dipper's hand on his arm steadied him. "Really, this is … don't you think …? You really didn't have to—"

"Bill, I wouldn't have done this if I hadn't want to, you know that."

All protests Bill could think up fell away the instant Dipper pressed his lips against his own. He knew Dipper was just trying to distract him, but the taste of his tongue was too good to be ignored. He sighed into the kiss, parting his mouth as Dipper continued to melt all the resistance out of him.

After they broke apart a second later, Dipper whispered against his mouth, "Take off your shirt and pants and lie down. I'll be right back.

"… kay."

Once he stepped out, Bill toyed with the edge of his sweater for a moment before sighing. Stupid, dumb boyfriend with his stupid romantic gestures. He yanked the sweater over his head, kicking off his pants as well before settling down on the floor in nothing but his boxers. Asshole probably gets a kick outta embarrassing the crap out of me. Stupid … loving boyfriend …

Dipper returned, brandishing a bottle of strange oil. He had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and Bill's stomach fluttered at the sight.

"Alright then," Dipper said, closing the door to the room. "Now we can get started. Bill …" He gestured to the floor mat, and then made a 'roll-over' motion with his finger. The heat returned to Bill's face, but he crawled over onto the mat and flopped onto his stomach, stuffing his face into his pillow and grumbling under his breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Light footfalls signaled Dipper walking around him, and he waited in anticipated breath. The gentle music suddenly increased in volume and, without warning, Bill felt the pressure of Dipper straddling his waist. The flutters in his stomach became stronger, and he forced himself to breath.

"Okay. Here we go," he heard Dipper whisper. Bill turned his head so that he could look at him through the corner of his eyes, watching as he rubbed the oil between his palms. Then, he brought his hands down, and they glided across the expanse of Bill's back. Bill sighed, relaxing into his touch.

Dipper continued to spread around the oil, starting at the base of his back and moving upward in long, even strokes. The sweet scent of the oil made Bill's nose twitch, and he sneezed.

"Bless you," Dipper said.

"…fanks," Bill murmured a second too late. A sudden thought struck him. "Where did you even get this stuff anyway?" he asked, voice groggy.

"Oh, Pacifica gave it to me a while ago. We used to do this to each other all the time back when we were dating."

At the mention of Dipper's ex-girlfriend Bill tensed up, face scrunching up with disgust. "Of course …"

Dipper gently shushed him, running his fingers through his hair rubbing tiny circles into his scalp. The effect was instantaneous, as Bill sunk into a boneless heap on the floor mat with a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.

They didn't talk much after that. Bill didn't even know if he could. Dipper continued the stroking up and down his back, kneading his neck and shoulder, until Bill's skin was completely coated with oil. Occasionally he would break the silence, asking if whether the pressure was too much. It took a few seconds for Bill to respond, sometimes needing a pinch or prodding, before he eventually grunted, returning to his dozing.

Dipper steadily worked the kinks and knots out of his back. He kneaded the pinched nerves of his neck and spent almost ten minutes on a particularly stubborn in the crook of Bill's shoulder. When it finally became undone, a wave of relief swept through his body like a cool rush of water.

After finishing with his back, neck, and shoulders, Dipper moved onto his legs. Bill roused whenever he felt his hands wander a bit too close to his inner thighs, but was disappointed when they continued their descent down to his ankles. The disappointment didn't last long, as Dipper continued his relentless techniques on his feet, his hands, his head and-Mother of God this feels so good…

With every muscle massaged into oblivion by Dipper, Bill found it more and more difficult to string a coherent thought together. The room temperature was just warm enough that he felt as if he were wrapped in a large, fuzzy blanket. The gentle music made it that much more difficult to stay alert. Occasionally, Dipper would start humming if a song he knew came on, and the sound soothed Bill into a deep, relaxed trance. It got to the point where he was convinced that he had turned into a jellyfish.

It felt like an eternity later when Bill gingerly cracked open a single eye. He smacked his tongue, scrunching his nose as the taste of sleep tainted his mouth. Then, he abruptly realized where he was and what had happened, and he jolted up into a sitting position. A large blanket that had been draped over him crumbled at his side.

The room was empty, save for him. The candles were blown out, yet the gentle music still played. Embarrassment crawled over his skin has he realized that he must have fallen asleep right in the middle of Dipper's massage session. He had gotten up early that morning on top of already sleeping terribly the night before, so it made sense. Pine Tree has no one to blame but himself! With his … magic fingers … uuurgh …

With a sigh, he brought the blanket up to his chin. Dipper must have left this when he realized Bill had drifted off. With a tiny smile, he snuggled his face into the fabric and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a water bottle standing near his feet, a piece of paper propped up next to it.

Drink me! the paper declared.

Well, if you insist. Taking the bottle, Bill rose to his feet and nearly fell back down as a wave of dizziness swept over him. After he collected himself, he cracked open the water bottle and took several long gulps, turning off the stereo before exiting the room.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had felt this good. Every painful knot from earlier had disappeared, leaving him feeling as if we walking on a cloud. It was disorienting, but welcome, and the only thing he wondered was why he hadn't been begging Dipper to do this to him for years. The bastard's been holding out on me!

Bill found Dipper lounging in their bed reading a book. Dipper heard his footsteps and looked up. A wide smirk slunk onto his face.

"Well, look who decided to rejoin the party."

Bill would have sneered, but found it impossible to form anything but a mild frown. "It's not my fault you relaxed me into a coma."

Dipper smiled, closing the book and throwing his legs over the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"In one word? Amazing." Bill wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into his neck. "Pine Tree, you would tell me whether you sold your soul in exchange for magical fingers, right?"

Dipper chuckled into Bill's ear, and he shivered. "You would have been the first person I told, actually." He began rubbing tiny circles in the small of Bill's back and Bill responded with a nip on his earlobe. "You know, you should go and take a hot bath. That's what I always liked to do after a massage."

Bill hummed, now thoroughly distracted by the contours of Dipper's neck. "A bath? Now you're just spoiling me," he mumbled a second later.

"You're my boyfriend." Dipper's breath hitched as Bill drew idle circles around his naval under his shirt. Bill smiled, enjoying the way Dipper's body so readily responded to his touch. "That's what boyfriends do."

"I suppose so. You should get in with me."

"But … I already took a shower …"

"Come oooon." Bill pulled back slightly to hit dim with pleading eyes. "I need someone to help wash off all this oil." And he buried his head into his chest, demanding to be held. "I can't do anything on my own, you know that …"

Dipper scoffed, but obliged, running his hands up and down his arms. "Well, you're pathetic, I'll give you that much …"

"Sooo…?"

"Hmm … Tell me that you love me."

Bill huffed, rolling his eyes. "I love you, Pine Tree."

"And that you don't deserve me."

"I really, really don't deserve you, Pine Tree."

"Aaaaand that I'm incredibly good looking, way out of your league, and that—"

"Okay, on second thought, I'm pretty sure I can clean myself with that scrub brush—"

He was silenced by Dipper's insistent, smiling mouth against his lips. "I'm kidding, you idiot. Come on," he pushed the two of them to their feet. "I think I still have some bubble bath in a box somewhere."

If he were a lesser man, Bill would have fist pumped the air. Instead, he followed his boyfriend out into the hallway, already swept up in vivid fantasies of the two of them splashing and writhing in a hot, steamy bathtub together. It's a good life ...