Somehow, Will's cunning plan of simply putting the entire Dustin incident out of his mind entirely is not going as well as he'd hoped.
It's not like he can talk to anyone about it. And it would help, really massively wonderfully help, if he didn't remember all of it, but he does. The only thing that's still fuzzy is who exactly initiated it, and Will is happy to pin that squarely on Dustin, though he knows he'd been guilty of starting the shoving match in the first place. What they'd even been arguing about, he doesn't remember. He doesn't recall what had provoked him enough to get physically violent, because it's not that he's a sore loser. Twelfth in the country is nothing to sneeze at; the kids were happy, they'd laughed over their tiny trophy and hugged and gone off for the summer with huge smiles on their faces. Will doesn't give a shit about losing to Dustin, even after that signed t-shirt had turned up on his doorstep with some kind of gloating personal message from Dustin on it. He doesn't even remember what the message had been. He's been using the shirt as a dishrag.
There is nothing about any of this that doesn't bother him. He's never questioned his sexuality before, or at least he's pretty sure he hasn't, or if he has, he hadn't allowed himself to think about it for very long. And if he had to, if he was going to, why Dustin? The man is an absolute world-class asshole, smug and slimy and coldhearted, and Will has every right to loathe him even more than he already does.
That's why it bothers him that Dustin hadn't really done anything overtly offensive the morning after. What kind of asshole says good morning and politely offers a hangover remedy? An asshole who isn't being an asshole, that's what kind, and Will doesn't want to accept that Dustin Goolsby is capable of sometimes being kind of decent. Dustin Goolsby is not a good person, and Will has mostly convinced himself that that is what's at the root of his horror at all of this. It's not about Dustin being a man, although...no, it is kind of about that, he has to admit. It's not about sleeping with the enemy, it's not about them being rivals. He'd made out with Shelby before going up against Vocal Adrenaline last year, and that was all right, because Shelby at least had some concept of honor, or something. And he could hardly, in good conscience, hate Rachel's mother. And Shelby had been a fantastic kisser, which is anything but a useful argument in this scenario, because so is Dustin. The point is that no matter how sweet and hot and perfectly rough that first kiss had been, Dustin Goolsby is an awful human being.
Will swears to himself that every time he finds himself thinking of how Dustin's mouth had felt crushed against his own, how he'd tasted like scotch and spearmint and smelled like leather jacket, he'll remember how devastated his kids had looked when he'd walked into that hotel room. He'll remember how bravely they'd tried to be happy for him, and how lost Rachel had sounded, and how hard Mike had tried to smile, and how tightly Puck had hugged him, and he'll put Dustin and his ridiculous Batcave bedroom decor out of his mind for the rest of the summer.
He's not going to let it chase him away from his favorite karaoke bar, either, because that would be letting Dustin win. Perhaps he loses the right to complain when he smacks into Dustin there two weeks later, though, since he really should have expected it. He's just ordered a beer, and he nearly turns around and walks right back out.
"Jesus," says Dustin, sounding infinitely disgusted. "Calm down. I'm not going to touch you inappropriately."
"We're not talking about this," says Will flatly.
Dustin sips his scotch with a pointed arch of his eyebrow. "About what?"
"About anything."
"And I was all geared-up for a real heart-to-heart, too." Dustin rolls his eyes. "You're making a way bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. I enjoyed myself. I mean, I think I did. It's still a little blurry around the edges." He shrugs. "Just take it for what it was and let it go."
The more blasé Dustin acts about this, the more it pisses Will off. It's not fair that he's been agonizing over what this means for his sexual orientation, while Dustin doesn't have a goddamn care in the world. Will wants to punch the bored, above-it-all look off his face. He wants to kiss Dustin hard enough to make him whimper and grab onto Will's shirt.
"Take it for what it was?" He leans in, gripping the edge of the bar. "What was it, Dustin? You taking advantage of me? Both of us doing something incredibly stupid? What am I supposed to be taking this for, exactly?"
He can see some tension in Dustin's jaw; Will's clearly getting to him somehow. "I'm not disputing that it was stupid. We were both trashed. I just don't see what's getting your panties in a bunch about it, except for your little crisis of masculinity or whatever."
"It doesn't have anything to do with that," Will lies, face flushing. "You're a complete bastard, Goolsby. You've hurt my kids and you've tried to sabotage me and my club at every turn. Why the hell should I be okay with sleeping with you?"
Dustin's looking at him with a completely unreadable expression again, but the smirk is gone. "All's fair in love and show choir, Schuester," he deadpans. "And I was trying to be a gentleman about it. I would've made you breakfast if you wanted."
Will has absolutely no idea what to say to that. The idea of Dustin wanting to be friendly to him, with no ulterior motive, is just...uncomfortable. It feels wrong. "There are other things I'd rather you have been a gentleman about, but you weren't," he says darkly. Something's been bothering him for a while, and he sits down, since his beer is getting warm.
"Why did you hit on Holly?" he asks. "If you're so into men, why try to seduce her? You really didn't have any motivation except trying to fuck with me, did you?"
"Of course I was trying to fuck with you," says Dustin dismissively, because clearly this is so obvious as to be unworthy of mention. "Sue Sylvester put me up to it. She recruited your ex-wife and that pedo who sells weed behind the bleachers, too." He swirls his drink thoughtfully around in his glass. "I still probably would have slept with her if she'd been up for it, though. I mean, why not."
"Unbelievable." Will is seething quietly, for reasons he can't fully articulate. It's like the universe is concentrating all of its massive energy on just ruining his life in every conceivable way sometimes, and Dustin is the mouthpiece of the cosmos, casually discussing all the plans to destroy him. "Are you really that pathetic, Dustin? You're really that bent on making my life hell because I coach a rival club that doesn't even have a fraction of the resources yours does? Or is this some sick romantic fixation on me? Why would you do that?"
"Because it's all about you." Dustin snorts, a sharp, cutting little breath of derisive laughter. "Yeah. Everything I do is carefully calculated for the effect it's going to have on you. Every single person in Ohio structures their life around you and your whiny martyr complex, because you're just that important, Schuester. It couldn't possibly just be that your girlfriend was hot, and if she happened to get sick of you and your freakish infant hands, I wouldn't have minded being the rebound. I didn't really give a shit what Sue Sylvester wanted, I just didn't want to turn her down and risk finding a cheerleader's head in my bed."
Will's hands are itching to hit him, or shove him, or something, anything. He wants to grab the front of Dustin's shirt and drag him close until their noses touch, and he doesn't even know why, because it wouldn't facilitate hurting him. He wants to take this outside. Instead, he finds himself fighting fire with fire.
"You didn't think my hands were too small for you the other night," he says, locking eyes with Dustin, seeing if it intimidates him. "You seemed pretty damn happy with them." And it does, it works, because there's an unmistakable flicker of alarm in Dustin's eyes before he recovers. When he does, though, alarm dissolves into heat, and Will's seen that expression on him before, that icy blue it's on, bitch gaze.
"Are you kidding me? I had to do everything myself, don't you remember?" The corners of his lips twitch with vicious mirth, and his voice drops down sinfully low again, until nobody else can overhear them. "You couldn't even fit those hands around my cock, Schuester. Not that you tried. At least your mouth is useful for something. That bitemark's still there, you know. It won't go away. It hurt like a bitch the next day, but it felt fucking fantastic when you were doing it."
The sudden spike of heat in Will's stomach feels like it could knock him off his barstool, and he can feel his face flushing bright and warm. Goddamn, he should have expected something like this, some way for Dustin to trip him up, and he'd be angry at himself for bringing it up and leaving himself open to it if he could focus on anything but making Dustin whisper 'fuck' like that again.
"Good thing your hands are big enough for the both of us, then," he murmurs, because it is a good thing; it had been amazing, Dustin's skillful fingers curling around both their cocks together and stroking slow and firm as Will had straddled him and left bruises in places Dustin's shirt only just managed to cover, catching skin between his teeth and tugging. "I held you to the mattress just fine," he recalls, thinking of how he'd pinned Dustin by the shoulders and made him gasp for mercy.
"I'd let you do it again." Dustin's eyes are so intently focused on him they could freeze breath. "I mean it, Schuester. Just say the word."
They both know damn well it had been a ridiculous mistake the first time, that Will's been protesting that mistake since he woke up the morning after they made it, and that there's no justification that can possibly make this a good idea. Will isn't even entirely willing to accept that Dustin isn't setting him up for some kind of sabotage or humiliation; it would be completely consistent with every single thing he knows about the bastard. But Will's never been known for making rational decisions when it comes to sexual partners.
"Meet me outside," he growls quietly, and oh, he relishes the way it makes Dustin flush pink.
The parking lot is empty of people, and a section is devoid of cars, just sparse gravel leading to a rusty aluminum storage shed behind the bar. Dustin approaches with some caution, but Will doesn't leave him time to react; he seizes Dustin by the front of his shirt like he's been wanting to do all goddamn night and slams him up against the wall, pressing against him to hold him there with body weight. Dustin, exhaling with a soft shudder, lets him.
Will kisses him, swift and deep and without any warning, and Dustin opens his mouth to welcome it, tongue sliding hot and rough against Will's as he grasps Will by the hips and digs his fingers in. Maybe they'll have matching bruises now, mirrored ones, Will doesn't care, because that scotch-spearmint-leather combination is assaulting his senses in the best possible way and he wants more. He has to reach up to kiss Dustin; it's not that he's never noticed before how much taller the man is, but it's never been relevant until now, when he realizes that the only thing enabling him to keep pinning this 6'4" slab of muscle against a wall is Dustin's permission. He presses in harder, one arm twining around Dustin's neck, the other reaching up to slide fingers through his hair, deftly working around the Bluetooth. Dustin's arms snake around his waist and chest and hold him nearly tight enough to restrain him, and he inhales sharply when Dustin bites at his lip, fingers tightening in the man's hair hard enough to pull. Large, strong hands slide warmly under his shirt, resting against the skin, and he nudges his knee between Dustin's legs in return.
Dustin breaks away, just enough to speak, still digging fingers into his skin. "Come back to my place," he breathes. "We're sober this time. It'll be better." He captures Will's lips in another kiss, but Will doesn't respond this time, verbally or otherwise.
What the hell am I doing? They're sober this time and they're still doing this, even though they know it's going to end badly; it has to end badly. Whatever happened to thinking of his kids, huddled on those hotel beds like puppies abandoned by the side of the road? Whatever happened to thinking of Holly, arms folded forbiddingly as Dustin stood far too close to her and whispered 'consider my offer' in her ear? Whatever happened to Sue Sylvester's League of Doom? It doesn't matter how sincerely he kisses, or how tightly he wraps his arms around Will's waist, or how good he tastes. Dustin's betrayal is already a foregone conclusion.
Christ, what is he doing?
"I can't do this," he says, taking a step backward. "It won't work, Dustin. You know that."
Judging by the look on Dustin's face, he hadn't known that at all. "What? Why the hell not?"
"Because you're a creep. You're a lying, cheating, manipulating scumbag." He doesn't take pleasure in saying that. Not really. He would have, yesterday.
He's never seen so visible an expression of frustration on Dustin's face, as he throws up his arms in complete bafflement. "Yeah? And? This is not new information, Schuester!"
It's not, that's true, but willfully forgetting something for a while is almost as bad. Will's made a royal fuckup of things again, he's pretty sure of that.
"I can't, Dustin. I'm sorry."
Smug and slimy and coldhearted though Dustin Goolsby may be, it doesn't feel any better to drive away and leave him standing there.