Dustin's never been one for long-term relationships. He tells himself it's because he doesn't like to be tied down. Prospective romantic partners usually tell him it's because he's an insensitive workaholic douche who hates children like the Grinch hates Christmas, but he thinks it's about the same difference.
Will Schuester, of course, hadn't been a prospective romantic anything. Dustin has standards, for christ's sake. But it doesn't make the blow to his pride sting any less, and it's all the worse because he just doesn't get it. Schuester knew exactly who he was dealing with when he'd ordered Dustin out behind the bar and pinned him against a wall. Why slam the brakes on at that point? What a bizarre fucking time to have a crisis of conscience.
And there's nothing about Dustin that really requires a crisis of conscience, is there? From Schuester's theatrically tormented reaction, one would think Dustin was on trial for war crimes or something. It's a show choir competition, for fuck's sake, and it's over, and they don't even need to be rivals for the next few months before Dustin resumes trying to destroy him. It's just business.
It would probably be best, Dustin concedes, to cut his losses and simply avoid Will for the rest of the summer. And when competition season starts up again, he can just use this to fuel their professional rivalry and really give Schuester something to hate him for. It's definitely best to stay away at least until his indignation cools off, lest he say something he'll regret. Nothing makes Dustin more uncomfortable than the thought of letting his rivals know what gets to him, really gets to him, and he's already veered dangerously close to really letting his guard down around Will. He needs to back off and regroup.
He doesn't hate Will. He might pretend to, just for show, but he thinks Will is a worthy enough opponent, in his own stupid sappy way. And if he's honest with himself, he's jealous of him. It's jealousy mixed with a lot of grudging respect, and frustration, because Will's voice is enough to actually get him places, and Dustin's...obviously isn't, because nobody ever dropped a Broadway role into his lap for him to just throw away. Will Schuester doesn't fucking work for anything, he's just lucky, and he has talent, and Dustin respects talent even if it sometimes makes him want to punch Schuester in the throat.
He's driving around without a real goal in mind, but as long as he's dwelling on the subject of his professional shortcomings, he finds himself drifting towards a little community theater in a modestly well-off part of town. This place is the whole reason he's stuck here in Ohio to begin with, and it's for that reason that he's avoided it altogether for the past couple years, but it's mostly empty right now and the receptionist thinks he's cute enough to let him in.
The stage is empty, too. There's a piano, for some sad reason, all alone in the corner near the wings, but there's no set, no show going on. Dustin remembers when he'd had this place packed to the rafters, bringing in more acclaim than this miserable little theater had ever dreamed of before, and the fuckers had let him go anyway. The least they can do is let him relive what passes for his glory days for a few minutes, with no audience, no orchestra, just the tinny little piano.
He sits down. The bench is covered in dust. If there's one aspect of performance he isn't tragically rusty on, it's this; the official Vocal Adrenaline pianist is worse than useless, and more often than not, he'd ended up shoving the guy off the bench and just doing it himself. He tests out a few keys to see how out-of-tune the piano is, plinking out some notes that are a lot more cheerful than he really feels, letting them build into something more graceful.
"...Goolsby?"
Schuester's unexpected voice startles the hell out of him, but he keeps his cool as he turns to stare. Why would he be here? What would even bring him to some random little low-budget theater in the middle of Akron? These are all perfectly neutral, pertinent questions to ask, but what comes out instead is "Did you say something? I can't hear too well down here in my dark pit of lying, cheating scumbaggery."
He winces internally. That, as Shakespeare would say, was ill-done. It had been audibly bitter; it had made it obvious that he's still thinking about last time they met, and that it's still bothering him. Will gives him an odd look, but his tone, when he responds, is surprisingly civil.
"I just came in to see if they were casting for anything here," he says, with a shrug. "I...had a falling-out with the director of the Lima community theater."
Dustin is vaguely aware of that little bit of gossip, recalling it having something to do with what sounds like the world's most ridiculous production of Les Miz, but he keeps his mouth shut, merely turning around on the piano bench to face his opponent. "They're not," he says. "I think they might be closing; I wouldn't really know." He glances out over all the fixtures that are beginning to fall into disrepair. "I used to work here. They don't keep directors around for long. Maybe their supply of gullible saps finally ran out." What is it with him and never shutting up when he means to? He always ends up saying something personal, something Schuester doesn't have any business knowing and doesn't care about anyway.
"I just wanted something to do for the summer," Schuester muses, starting to zone out of the conversation in that obnoxious way he has. Dustin rolls his eyes, leaning back against the decrepit piano.
"Let me guess, because you just miss your kids so much and don't know what to do without them distracting you from the fact that you don't actually have any friends your own age. Am I close?"
What he thinks he really hates about Will Schuester, more than anything, is the way barbs like that never seem to faze him in the moment, but he'll pull them out and use them as self-righteous ammunition later. For now, he just shakes it off, snapping out of his reverie as if he hadn't even really heard Dustin.
"If they fired you," he asks, "why are you here right now?"
It's a fair enough question, and Dustin considers it for a moment, realizing that he doesn't really have anything to gain by lying about it. "Nostalgia, I guess," he says. "Not the good kind of nostalgia; the feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of nostalgia."
Schuester raises a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Surprised you'd admit to that. You're not as formidable when you have actual human emotions."
"I've seen you cry, Schuester. Don't give me that shit." Dustin's not about to put up with a lecture on feelings from a guy who gets the sniffles when he thinks about students. This is just getting ridiculous.
"Look," he says, "can we just...drop this whole arch-nemesis thing for a little while? I mean, don't get me wrong, I fully intend to destroy you and everything you hold dear in competition next year, but come on. It's summer. We don't have to work for three whole months. I don't know about you, but seriously, I can't keep up this level of scheming and plotting and general malice for 12 months out of the year. It's exhausting."
Sincere as he may have been, he can tell Schuester's not buying it. Smart of him, but it's demoralizing nonetheless.
"You know what, Dustin?" Will folds his arms. "Give me one damn good reason why I should believe you. It would be exactly like you to lure me into some kind of trap with this. Last time we tried to have a friendly conversation as professionals, you told my kids I was abandoning them to move to New York."
That seems long enough ago that Dustin has to think for a second just to remember the details. "That was the day before Nationals, Schuester. There was nothing friendly about that conversation. You should have known that. This is different. We're not competing for anything right now." Sure, maybe he isn't helping his case with his lack of remorse about that little stunt, but really, there is a difference. "Some of us can separate our personal lives from work. Novel concept, I know."
"Uh-huh." Schuester's staring at him with narrowed eyes, and god help him, Dustin can't help but find it hot. "I didn't know Vocal Adrenaline allowed personal lives."
He'll let Will think that was a decent burn; it's kind of adorable how pleased with himself he looks. "It does over the summer." Not that Dustin has one to speak of, or else he probably wouldn't be trying to seduce Will Schuester, no matter how good he is in bed for an ostensibly straight guy. They're pretty much in the same boat, and they both know it. Neither of them has any real sexual prospects right now, or anything better to do this summer than sit on their asses eating cold pizza and watching So You Think You Can Dance, and as much as it pains Dustin that his life has come to that, at least this can be an exciting challenge. At least this gives him something to strive for, something he actually wants, even if he shouldn't.
"You're worried about your kids," he says, because it's always about the goddamn kids. "That they'll find out or something, or just that you're doing wrong by them by sleeping with the enemy. Let me tell you something, Schuester. They won't care."
"You don't know my kids," Will snarls, going from zero to threat-level-yellow in two seconds flat. When he's angry, he leans in, intimidates, advances, but Dustin doesn't flinch or back away. He wants Will to know he's relishing the closeness. "You don't get to tell me what would hurt them and what wouldn't. You don't give a damn about them."
If Dustin were angling for a punch in the face, he would point out that Will Schuester's kids are about the last people on earth who can judge anything, given that two of them were molesting each other in front of an audience of thousands and one of those nasal-voiced background singers nearly gave birth onstage at Regionals last year, but he knows that would be crossing the line. He wants to provoke Will, not drive him away for good.
"You're right. I don't. I don't have any kind of ill will towards them or anything. They just aren't relevant right now." He moves closer, slow and confident, and Will lets him, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. "What's relevant is that you are a hell of a lot more attractive than I've given you credit for, and I keep thinking about all the things I want to do to you. I want that ugly vest on my bedroom floor, Schuester. I want to remember all of it this time."
They're standing nearly close enough to feel body heat now, and he isn't being pushed away. Schuester had initiated this last time; he'd had second thoughts, sure, but Dustin knows what that smoldering-angry look means. They're both a little too good at reading each others' expressions, given how damn clueless Schuester usually is, and given the relatively short time they've known each other.
Dustin reaches out to slide a hand behind Will's neck, fingers winding themselves through the tight curls, and pulls him into a kiss, not so much rough this time as it is thorough. It's slow and insistent and deep and then deeper still, not enough to bruise this time, just enough to make breathing an afterthought. He doesn't want to rely on anger and heat and caught-in-the-moment momentum now, but maybe that's the only way Will can bring himself to do this, because he bites Dustin and grabs onto a handful of his shirt as if trying to rip it, tries to push him backwards again to make the edge of the piano dig into his skin.
Dustin stands his ground, because he won't let Schuester provoke him again. Not this time. This time, he holds the damn cards. He's going to take his time because he can, because it feels good to slide hands under Will's shirt and rest them there as he sucks slowly at the man's lower lip, because winning isn't satisfying when you have to concede even a little, and he doesn't want Will Schuester to see him lose his cool again. Maybe it isn't entirely truthful to say he wants to set their rivalry aside for the summer, because this is a power struggle, in its own way. He pulls Will closer until their bodies are flush against each other, but he's not thinking of how to pull the rug out from under him, or how to turn this to Vocal Adrenaline's advantage, only of how badly he wants to feel more warm, solid muscle under his hands. He wants to make Will shudder and press against him and he wants those hands in his hair again, and Will obliges, even if he's still trying to make it hurt.
Dustin tilts his head to suck lightly just under Will's jaw, wanting to taste, and the only drawback to this is that it leaves Will's mouth free to whisper "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He trails a few heated kisses downward. "I'll be more considerate than you were. I won't leave any marks where you can't cover them up."
"That's not-ohhh." Whatever that complaint would have been, it trails off into a breathless noise of encouragement, and Dustin doesn't mind it when Will's hand clenches tight in his hair. "This isn't right. We can't do this here."
"We are literally the only two people in this building right now except for the woman at the front desk." His hands slide downward, hungrily mapping every detail as they go, and he grasps onto Will's ass to drag him closer still as he shuts him up for a moment with another deep, breath-stealing kiss. "We could have sex right here on the stage and still not get caught. I could blow you against the piano and we'd be fine."
He can feel the tension in Will's body, knows that suggestion is turning him on like wildfire, just like that whispered dirty talk in the bar, and a wicked, sharklike grin spreads across Dustin's face when Will murmurs "Is that an offer, Goolsby?"
"You want it to be?" If he drops his voice into that low, purring register and whispers that into Will's ear, punctuating with a light little nip to the earlobe, of course he'll want it to be. Will closes his eyes, lips parting, and takes a long moment to catch his breath.
"Yeah," he says, and that smug, cocky look of his just isn't as effective when he's flushed and breathless and his clothes are already all askew, but goddamn if it isn't one of the hottest things Dustin's seen in a long time. "I think you'd look pretty good on your knees, actually."
"Please," Dustin snorts. "I'd still come up to your shoulder. You're a midget." But he does it anyway, pushing Will back against the piano with a hand flat on his chest and sinking to his knees, hands running down the backs of Will's thighs, and Will bites his lip and reaches behind him to grasp onto the piano and it makes something vibrate inside Dustin like a guitar string.
Will probably thinks this is some kind of victory, that it constitutes surrender when Dustin reaches up to cup the bulge in his jeans and unfastens them with nimble fingers and presses his lips to the strip of bare skin above Will's boxers. Of course he wouldn't understand the subtleties of a real power struggle. It's not about who's kneeling; it's about how he can make Will react, when he doesn't plan to let Will have the same influence on him. It's about having Will right where he wants him. It's about the sharp intake of breath when Dustin tugs Will's underwear down to his thighs and trails the tip of his tongue along the juncture between thigh and hip, and the choked little sound Will makes when Dustin's hand closes around his cock and strokes.
"Been a while?" he says, thumb sliding over the head just to wring out another needy little gasp. Will, eyes still closed, shakes his head, though it doesn't seem to be a confirmation or a denial, just a 'get on with it.' Dustin laughs softly, resting his free hand on Will's side, and takes Will's cock into his mouth, tongue curling around the head as he keeps lightly, languidly stroking. If he's honest with himself, he's wanted to do this; he's thought about what Will would sound like, if he would keep pulling Dustin's hair like he's doing now, all of the little details. It's half power play and half genuine raw attraction, because he can't tell himself that his sexual fantasies about Will are just because he really wants to beat him at Nationals next year, but if that's what Will believes, Dustin's happy to let him.
Will is breathing something vaguely profane, one of his tiny hands cradling the back of Dustin's head, and Dustin takes him in further, resting both hands on Will's hips now with a hum of acknowledgment that makes Will tilt his head back and hiss through clenched teeth, speeding up the pace and sucking more forcefully and sliding his tongue along the shaft. His fingers dig sharply into Will's skin when Will's fingers twist in his hair; he lets his nails press in just enough to sting, and that seems to be what really makes Will whimper and grab onto the piano with white-knuckled fingers. "I'm close," he gasps, as if Dustin couldn't tell, and Dustin teases him with three long, slow strokes before resuming his rhythm, still clenching tight onto Will's hips. Will shudders hard when he comes, half relying on the piano to hold himself up, and that deep, breathless groan makes Dustin's cock strain against his pants.
He's not about to give Will the opportunity to ditch him again. He stands up with a single fluid movement and grabs onto his shoulder, pulling him in for another long kiss, making him taste himself. Will's tongue meets his with all the same eagerness he'd had before, and maybe he regrets last time or something, because he doesn't hesitate to trail his hand down over Dustin's chest and stomach and slip it into his jeans. Dustin bites back a gasp of pleasure, unwilling to give Will the satisfaction, no matter how badly he needs this right now. It's not like Will's stroking has any practice or finesse to it; he clearly hasn't gotten the hang of doing it from this angle, and for a moment the control freak in Dustin makes him want to grab onto Will's hand and show him how it's done. He doesn't, because even if Will sucks at this, it's exactly what he needs, and he rocks into Will's hand with a barely-audible little growl, pressing his lips to Will's throat again as Will strokes faster and Dustin has to force himself to keep quiet. He can't keep from panting; that's the one thing he can't regulate no matter how hard he tries, and he's breathing raggedly into Will's shoulder and squeezing onto his bicep. Now, finally, Will seems to have the right rhythm, and Dustin rewards him with a whispered curse and another needy arch of his hips, and by then it's a slippery slope because he can't stop himself from gasping out another "fuck" when Will's hand twists just right, or a trembling little "oh" when he squeezes a little harder. And then maybe Will deserves the same courtesy of a warning, and so he breathes "Just a little-yes-" and that's about all he can bring himself to do, because it seems to be enough. He comes hard, gasping, feeling as weak-kneed as Will had, and trying hard not to lean on him.
As fervently as he'd told himself Will wasn't going to get the better of him, it takes a long moment for him to pull his thoughts back together. He's better at acting matter-of-fact than he is at feeling it, and he hands Will a tissue while casually zipping his pants back up.
But before Will can turn to leave the stage, Dustin catches him by the arm again, spinning him back around and pulling him close one more time. "I want to see you again, Schuester," he murmurs, and he damn well means it.
Will scrutinizes him, as if debating who exactly has the upper hand here, and whether he ought to use this to his advantage. Finally, he pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper, scribbles a phone number on it and tucks it into Dustin's pocket. "Maybe I'll let you," he says, with a smirk Dustin has to admire, and walks away.