There isn't a single thing going right for Dustin right now.
It's not supposed to be like this. Other people can have their lives fall apart at the seams, but damn it, Dustin's supposed to be above that. He's supposed to have a job where his talent is valued and a fantastic sex life with people who are just as hot as he is. And for a while, he'd at least had one of those things, but then the sex life had inadvertently evolved into a love life, and maybe that's where it had gone off the rails. And despite the utter trainwreck it had turned into, he can't think of anything now but getting it back. It's lonely without Will, and quiet, and Dustin's never known anyone before whose absence could make him miserable. He doesn't know what to do with this.
He should know better by now. Will was nothing but a distraction, and that's the last thing he can afford right now, with Nationals looming on the horizon and his job on the line. If there's one thing he shouldn't be plotting, it's how to make Will take him back, but one night sleeping on his office couch because he hates that his pillowcases don't smell like Will's hair gel anymore is one night too many. It's beyond pathetic. He should be sleeping in his office because he doesn't have time to go home, not because he doesn't want to.
Will's convinced that Dustin is some kind of morally bankrupt abomination, and if only Dustin can prove him wrong, maybe he'll stand a chance of getting Will to forgive him. The cheating can't be taken back, but he has plenty of other moral failings that Will had been fond of criticizing. There are still things he can work on, aren't there?
He's still pondering the dilemma when he sits down in his usual auditorium seat and finds everyone there except his soloist. "Where's Sunshine?" he demands.
The others fidget, looking anxiously at each other. "Spit it out," Dustin snaps. He doesn't have time for this shit.
"She's sick," Lisa says, wrapping her arms nervously around herself. "She was puking in the bathroom last I checked on her."
Dustin is about tell her that's no excuse, because no Vocal Adrenaline director has ever excused lateness because of vomiting and he's not going to be the one to start, but damn it, there's Will's disapproving glower in the back of his mind, Will's voice hissing What's wrong with you? Why would you do that? He reluctantly bites back the lecture.
"She's got five minutes," he says. "Everyone else, get in your places."
While the others are murmuring amongst themselves with surprise, Sunshine comes dashing out from backstage, wiping her mouth and looking panicked and slightly green.
"I'm here," she says, looking fretfully at the clock. "I'm sorry, Coach, I'm really sorry..."
Dustin eyes her, trying and failing to think of what Will would say to a student in this situation. Will would probably have been in the bathroom holding her hair back. Failing that, he'd probably tell her to go home and feel better, and Dustin's not going to go that far.
He sighs. "Just get into position. And if you have to throw up again, leave the stage. You have permission."
It's not much, by most standards, but the kids are staring at him now, and he wonders uneasily what he's getting himself into. He remembers how devastated they were when they'd been wrong about his having changed, and he hadn't even realized then that they'd thought he was deliberately being kinder to them. Now he's going to have to figure out some way to maintain this level of decency, or...to be honest, he's not sure what might happen.
Probably nothing, objectively speaking. The kids will perform as mechanically well as they ever did, and if their spirits are crushed, well, that's a time-honored Vocal Adrenaline tradition. He doesn't have anything to lose, really, either way. And he could tell Will about this. He could make Will listen to him, make Will give him another chance, if only he could prove that he knows how to be something like a teacher.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go."
He'd been concerned that being too lenient with them would make them lazy, but he's almost startled by the routine they launch into, because he can't put his finger on what's different, but it's good. Maybe the energy is higher, maybe they're smiling even more furiously, but whatever it is, he's pretty sure the judges will like it. Hell, maybe this bears further investigation.
The song wraps up with a bang, and the kids wait expectantly, panting with exertion. Dustin realizes that he has no idea what to say, because all of his usual loud, disdainful criticism has suddenly ceased to apply.
"Keep doing it like that," he says finally. "I want you to maintain that energy level. That's not bad."
He's completely, utterly unprepared for the genuine smiles they give him in response.
Predictably, mornings are the hardest thing about not having Dustin around anymore. Will likes routines, and he'd been...attached to theirs. It's lonelier than he'd expected, eating breakfast without company, and he's taken to just skipping it and bringing yogurt or a muffin to work with him so he can eat with Emma.
He's been leaning on her more than usual recently, and he tells himself it's because he feels bad about neglecting their friendship, but he thinks she suspects otherwise. "Well, gee, Will," she'd said, not making eye contact with him as she'd anxiously buffed a strawberry. "I don't know what happened, I mean, I thought maybe you were mad at me or something, because you haven't really been talking to me much this semester. I'll be glad to have lunch with you, but it would be nice to know what's been going on, you know?"
He hasn't told her what's been going on. He hasn't even told Shannon, though he's pretty sure she's put two and two together. He's just been going through the motions and focusing all his spare energy on the preparations for Nationals.
He'd had to scrap everything they'd been working on, for safety's sake, and for a while they'd been scrambling, fearful that their chances might already be blown. He'd felt so deeply, crushingly ashamed when he'd had to tell them they'd been infiltrated, and he couldn't possibly have explained to them how and why it was his fault. There'd been nowhere for all that guilt to go but inside, festering, and every time he sees Rachel's devastated face in his mind, it's easy to hate Dustin all over again.
But they've improvised before and they'll do it again, and they're better at it than Vocal Adrenaline. He was an idiot to believe Dustin, hyper-competitive Dustin with his unresolved mommy issues, could ever really be okay with that. He should have gone with his gut instinct to begin with. It doesn't matter what else they've come to feel for each other, or how good he feels about himself when he has Dustin's arms wrapped around him, or how surprisingly warmly Dustin can smile when Will does something affectionate. First and foremost, they'll always be rivals.
He leaves rehearsal that night with the intention of just heading home, maybe coming up with some ideas for costume designs, but he doesn't want to be alone. Not yet, anyway. He needs a drink first, and not the kind of drink that involves staring into his fireplace and thinking of the empty space next to him on the couch. And music would be nice, too, different music than what he's been rehearsing over and over all month.
He pulls into the parking lot of the little karaoke bar and shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks inside. Maybe he'll sing something. Something loud, and distracting, and maybe a little angry. He squints through the dim light, looking for his usual spot at the bar, and makes out a tall, broad figure already sitting there.
When he locks eyes with Dustin from across the bar, he knows that they haven't been trying to avoid each other. Not really. It would have been easy to just stop coming here, because the karaoke isn't even that good; the bowling alley would be good enough. They'd both known this was a possibility.
He's not naive enough to think Dustin will try to apologize, or anything like that. It's not his way. To be honest, Will doesn't want him to, because he wouldn't accept it, and he doesn't want to be cruel.
After a moment, Dustin turns away and starts chatting with the bartender. Will recognizes that flirtatious smile of his, the way he's holding eye contact with her because he knows how arresting his eyes are, and he can hear that deep, wicked laugh from where he's sitting. Will has no claim on any of that anymore, but it makes him flush with sudden and unexpected jealousy anyway. He's doing it on purpose, he thinks, trying to get to me, but honestly, knowing Dustin, he'd probably be hitting on the bartender whether Will was there or not. It doesn't do anything to quell the restless, churning agitation in his stomach when he thinks of Dustin sharing that laugh with anyone else, going home with someone else and singing in their shower in the morning. Will wonders if he already has.
It doesn't matter, and a newly self-aware part of Will knows he's being a hypocrite. He's been wondering more and more lately if he can talk to Emma about giving it another shot, wondering if those eight months with Dustin weren't just a wrong turn on the weird, convoluted road that is his love life. He can't fault Dustin for thinking along the same lines.
The woman at the karaoke machine finishes "These Boots Were Made For Walking" and puts down the microphone, and Dustin gets up to go claim it. If he notices the way Will's eyes follow him, he doesn't acknowledge it. Will looks away. He's being an idiot.
He's staring down into his drink when the first jaunty notes float from the speakers, and he frowns, processing them.
"I try to discover / A little something to make me sweeter / Oh baby, refrain / From breaking my heart..."
He raises his head again, meets Dustin's eyes, and knows, with an unwelcome jolt of excitement, that his attention hasn't gone unnoticed. When the thrill dissipates, though, Will almost has to laugh. Not because he feels like mirth right now, or because he wants to hurt Dustin's feelings, but just because who but Dustin, with his endearingly bizarre sense of romance, would try to woo someone with Erasure?
"I'm so in love with you, I'll be forever blue / That you give me no reason / Why you're making me work so hard..."
You know exactly why I'm making you work so hard, Will thinks grimly, and then has to correct himself, because he's not making Dustin work for anything. That would imply that he's willing to consider taking Dustin back, and he isn't.
It's not entirely about the lyrics, though. This is exactly the kind of song they would have sung together, on those rare mornings when Dustin got to the shower first, because it's fun and it's loud and it's well-suited to his voice and it would leave them warm and happy and joking around with each other over breakfast. Will feels a pang of regret that they never had sung it together.
"And if I should falter / Would you open your arms out to me?" Dustin's not looking at him anymore, but Will knows when he's being sung to. Against all rational judgment, there's a part of him that's completely melted, because for Dustin, this is romantic. Romantic, sweet, begging forgiveness that Will wishes he could give, because he can't resist being seduced with song. It's how anyone who knows him would try to win his heart. It's how he would do it, were their positions reversed.
But they never would be. That's the whole problem. He'll never know what it's like to be in the position of having to apologize for cheating and stealing and betraying a loved one, because he has a conscience.
"What religion or reason / Could drive a man to forsake his lover?" Nothing to do with religion, and everything to do with the fact that Will hadn't been the one doing the forsaking. "I hear you calling,/ Oh baby, please / Give a little respect / To me..."
Will stays long enough to hear the end of the song, because he's missed Dustin's voice. He hails the bartender to settle his tab, and walks out the door before he can change his mind. He doesn't look back to see Dustin's reaction. He doesn't want to know.
There seems to be a damper on the next day's rehearsal, and he doesn't know why, because spirits had been perfectly high yesterday. The kids' confidence is unstable, swinging from assured to despondent, and Will can't help but think it's his fault. It's not a comfortable feeling at all. He's not used to blaming himself for anything, but he knows they wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for him, and it eats at him.
He comes across Rachel one afternoon, sniffling in the corner of the room and clutching a folder of sheet music to her chest. "Rachel?" he asks, frowning deeply. "What's wrong?"
"It's my fault, Mr. Schue," she sniffles. "That we had to redo our set list. I'm the one who let it happen."
Will swallows back another wave of guilt. If he didn't know for a fact that it was his own damn fault, he might not have had trouble believing her, but this just makes everything worse. "No, Rachel, it's not your fault at all. I promise you, it's not. Don't worry."
"But I think it was Jesse who betrayed us." Her eyes well up with tears, making the pinpricks of guilt stab all the harder. "I should have learned my lesson after what he did two years ago. I'm so stupid! Why did I keep talking to him? It has to have been him. It couldn't have been anyone else."
"Rachel." Will rubs his eyes, trying to think how he can phrase this. "I know that it wasn't Jesse, and I'm absolutely positive it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. And we're going to win this thing even if we did have to start over, okay? Just keep believing in that. We're going to beat Vocal Adrenaline no matter what it takes. Everything's going to be okay."
Rachel wipes the tears from her face, seeming to brighten a little. "All right. As-as long as you're sure." She straightens up, pulling herself back together, and gives him a shaky smile. "You're right, Mr. Schue. Everything's going to be fine."
If only Will could convince himself so easily.
He's in no mood to deal with Jesse the next time he turns up, after a couple weeks of yo-yoing morale. He's never in the mood, but especially not now. "Jesse," he says, summoning all his patience, "I've told you more than once that I don't need your help. Please leave."
Jesse, as ever, is unfazed. He shrugs and heads amiably for the door, but pauses with his hand on the doorframe and turns around. "If you want, I'll go. I just wanted to bring you some good news."
Will narrows his eyes. "What would that be?"
"Vocal Adrenaline won't be a problem for you anymore." Jesse smiles brightly. "Goolsby's landed himself in the hospital. Rehearsals have completely stopped until they can find a replacement, because it doesn't look like he'll be back anytime soon. This is your chance to overtake Vocal Adrenaline while they're weak, so I'd-"
"What?" It's taken time for that sentence to register, even when he'd only really heard the first part, and his chest is filling with ice. "What do you mean, he's in the hospital? What happened to him?" Another deranged violent parent? Is he sick? He didn't look sick when I saw him, he looked fine, he never gets sick...
There's too much overt concern in his voice, and the arch of Jesse's eyebrow suggests that it isn't lost on him, but Will doesn't care.
"I heard it was a car accident," says Jesse, shrugging noncommittally. "I don't know how bad it is, I just heard he was likely to be out of commission for a while. This is a good thing for you, isn't it?"
"What hospital?" If ever there was a time when Will actually needed Jesse's wealth of knowledge about these things, it's now.
Jesse folds his arms, scrutinizing Will with a critical eye. "I actually did look into that," he says, "just because it seemed like the kind of info that could end up being useful for something later. But why do you want to know?"
"Because I need to talk to him," Will grinds out. His heart is pounding in his throat, and he can't handle being toyed-with when he doesn't know what's going on. Jesse nods slowly, and Will wants to grab him and shake him.
"You're going to try to get info out of him when he's all doped up on painkillers, huh? Smart move. Good payback for what he did with your set list. I'm pretty sure he's at St. Mary's, but I could be wrong..."
Will doesn't bother thanking him. He's out the door before Jesse can finish the sentence.
The drive to St. Mary's Hospital takes about half an hour, and Will's heart doesn't stop hammering for a second the entire time. He's reminded, perversely, of the last time he'd driven to see Dustin after a conversation with Jesse, when he'd been armed with the incriminating video and he'd known Dustin had betrayed him. This is different. There had been no painful uncertainty last time; he'd been angry then, but now he's scared. For all he knows, Dustin could be in a coma. Jesse wouldn't have cared enough to find out.
I'll talk to him, he thinks, I'll hear him out like he wanted, just as long as he's okay. He has to be okay. I'll listen to him this time... He doesn't know who he's mentally bargaining with, but he feels like it has to have some effect as long as he's sincere, and he is, he really is. All his anger at Dustin feels petty and stupid right now, when he doesn't even know if Dustin will be in any shape for talking.
He's never been to this hospital before, and the layout is disorienting. He approaches the woman at the desk, shaken and anxious. "I'm here to see Dustin Goolsby," he says, "but I don't know what floor he's on."
"Give me a minute." She takes her time looking it up, and Will's palms begin to sweat. "Fifth floor. No visitors allowed right now. Are you family?"
"What?" The question isn't completely out of nowhere, but it throws him. He feels lost and inarticulate right now, unable to pull his thoughts together. "No, I-he doesn't have any family here; they all live out of state...I'm a friend. Please, I just need to make sure he's okay."
"I can't let you in to see him." The woman turns back to her work, leaving Will helplessly at a loss.
"He'd want to see me," he protests, unable in his anxiety to say anything more compelling. "I don't even know what happened to him-I just need to know what's going on."
"Relatives only. There's really nothing I can do." The woman is completely unmoved, and without even intending to, Will finds himself raising his voice to get through to her.
"He doesn't have any relatives here!" he shouts. "They're all four hundred miles away! They probably don't even know anything's wrong! I'm the only family he has around here!"
"What's going on?" The conversation is interrupted by a young doctor in surgical scrubs, who seems to have been listening in for a few minutes.
"I'm going to have to ask this guy to leave if he doesn't calm down," says the receptionist. Will throws up his hands.
"I'll handle it," the doctor says. "Don't worry about it." As suspicious as the receptionist looks, she's eager to wash her hands of the problem, and she shakes her head and leaves them to it. The surgeon motions for Will to follow him.
"Look," he says. "I'm not allowed to tell you anything about his condition other than that he's stable, and I can advise you to come back later, but I understand that this is urgent and you're worried. If you're his partner, I can...fudge the rules a little."
"I..." Will swallows. He's clearly expected to confirm or deny in some way, and he doesn't know how to do that. He can lie, or he can explain and risk getting turned away, but he can't hesitate for much longer.
He doesn't want to wait until he's allowed to visit. He wants to see Dustin now, because he knows damn well nobody else is likely to visit him. The thought of Dustin lying alone in a hospital bed, with no company except the knowledge that his career is over, makes Will's heart ache.
"Yes," he says, "I'm his partner."
The fifth floor is a relatively quiet floor, and Dustin's room is silent, without even the TV on. Will takes a seat by the bed, swallowing a pang of sympathy, because he knows how much the quiet must bother Dustin and he doesn't know why there's nothing to offset it. Dustin's asleep, and from what Will can see, he looks all right, just ashen and bruised and completely out of place in the pale blue hospital gown. Somehow, it's incredibly jarring to see him in clothing that isn't black.
He takes Dustin's unresponsive hand, and waits. It occurs to him, after a minute or two, that he's never actually done this before-that for all the other unexpected intimacy in their relationship, they've never actually had occasion to hold hands. Certainly not in public, where they'd always pretended to be platonic acquaintances, and not in private, when they had other things to do. The weight of Dustin's hand in his is unfamiliar, and the regret that comes with that realization is a little stunning. You're such a fucking sap, he can imagine Dustin saying, and it only makes things worse.
Dustin's fingers curl around his, finally, and he raises his other hand to rub his eyes before evidently remembering that he's got an IV drip attached to that arm. "...Will?"
"Yeah." Will exhales, and it strikes him that he could probably have been using the last ten minutes to think of what exactly to say, because right now, he's drawing an absolute blank. "It's me."
Dustin lets out a familiar, disdainful huff, but he squeezes Will's hand tighter as if afraid Will might withdraw it. "How'd you find out I was here?"
Will absently strokes the side of Dustin's palm with his thumb. "Jesse St. James."
"That little weasel." The disgust in Dustin's voice is almost comforting; it's evidence that he's still himself, but that's not enough to ease Will's concern.
"How are you doing?" he asks, because it's more relevant than 'what happened,' although he wants to know that, too. Dustin exhales slowly, glancing away, but he seems gratified that Will would ask.
"I broke my leg in two places and apparently they took out my spleen, but who needs a spleen anyway, right?" He shrugs. "I'll live. I'm trying to get them to just let me out of here already."
"What?" Will knows how much Dustin hates having to depend on other people, and he knows this must be torture for him, but it's clear that Dustin's in no shape to leave the hospital just yet. "You were in a car accident. You just said you're recovering from surgery. If the doctors are telling you to stay here, you stay here."
Under other circumstances, this might have started an argument. Now, though, it provokes the ghost of a smile as Dustin turns back to look at him. "Are you fussing over me again?"
It's impossible not to soften at that, just a little. "Where would you be if I didn't?" Will asks. Dustin laughs, quiet and mirthless, and twines his fingers tightly with Will's, as if still afraid that he needs to physically make Will stay.
Will's not going to leave him. He disentangles his hand after a moment, pulling away, and Dustin looks hurt, but Will only wants to brush Dustin's hair away from his face and examine the stitches in his forehead. It's a small wound, but there are bruises around it and around his eye, near where they'd been the last time Will had found himself doing this. His fingers gradually settle into a rhythm, stroking Dustin's hair, and Dustin closes his eyes and leans gratefully into the touch.
"God, that feels good," he murmurs, his whole body relaxing as if a weight's been lifted from it. Will's heart melts.
"I think we're going to be okay," he says quietly.
"Yeah?" That's the first genuine smile Will's seen from Dustin in a long time, and god, he's missed being the only one who can make him do that.
"I know it'll be hard," he says, fingers still gently massaging, and Dustin gives a soft, half-asleep hum of acknowledgment. "Your job was your life. But you'll find something better than Vocal Adrenaline. And I'll be there."
Throughout all of this, Dustin's been starting to doze off, lightly nuzzling against Will's hand. At this, he snaps sharply to attention. "What?" He jerks away and sits up in one swift motion, wincing at it pulls at his stitches. "What are you talking about? My job isn't going anywhere."
"But-" Will had taken for granted that Dustin knew they were looking for a replacement. Or even if he didn't know, that he would accept it now as penance for what he'd done, because he knows as well as Will does that this can't work as long as they're rivals. He'd thought Dustin wanted this. He'd thought Dustin had chosen him over Carmel. "Jesse said they were already looking for a replacement. It's too late, Dustin. Why do you even want to go back, if they won't even allow you a few days to recover from something that could have killed you?"
"Because I have a fucking career to think of, that's why," Dustin snaps. "That replacement they're searching for is temporary. There was nothing in my contract about hospital stays. Probably an oversight on their part, but if they try to fire me for this, I'll sue their asses into the ground for wrongful termination. You tell Jesse St. James to tell them that I'll be back at work tomorrow if I have to break out of here while the nurses are switching shifts."
"No," Will snarls back, still reeling from having the second chance he hadn't even expected to give thrown back in his face. "I'm not going to be your messenger boy so you can stay in the competition when you don't deserve to be there. If you want to go back to work at the expense of your health just so that you can screw me over after you lied to me-"
"Just so that I can screw you over? You think I want to be doing this?" Dustin's clearly struggling to keep from raising his voice. "You think I don't want to tell my boss to go fuck himself and go home with you instead?"
"No, I don't think you want to!" Will gets up from his chair, ignoring the way Dustin compulsively moves as if to get out of bed. "Nothing will ever mean as much to you as winning does. I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you would change."
"Why should I have to change?" Dustin demands. "I thought you liked me the way I was. I mean, aside from the cheating. Forget the cheating."
"Forget the cheating?" Will actually laughs at that, an incredulous breath of a laugh, completely devoid of humor. He can't believe Dustin would actually have the gall to say that. "Forget the cheating. Forget that you used me. Forget that there's no way this is going to be the last time Carmel asks you to sabotage me. Forget that you shouldn't even be at Nationals, because you got there with material that you stole from me. Is there anything else I'm supposed to forget, Dustin?"
"I didn't mean it like that," Dustin says, and Will can't tell whether he's angry or chastened. "Five minutes ago you were telling me everything was going to be fine, and now as soon as you find out I'm not going to quit my job for you, you hate me again? What the hell do you want from me?"
"I want you to be sorry, and I want to be sure you're never going to do this again!" That's most of what Will wants out of Dustin. But it's not all of it. He wants justice. It isn't fair that Carmel can get away with such dishonesty year after year and nobody ever calls them on it. "I want you to face the consequences for what you did," he growls. "I want you to admit that you shouldn't have won Regionals. You want me to forgive you, Dustin? You really, truly want this to be behind us?"
"Of course I do," Dustin says, but he knows there's got to be a catch, because his voice falters.
"Forfeit," says Will quietly. "Own up to the cheating, and forfeit."
He should have known Dustin wouldn't take that lying down. He can't help but be disappointed by the horror on Dustin's face. "What? No, I can't do that!"
"You should have been disqualified for what you did," Will says, unwavering. "You know you shouldn't be there. It isn't right for you to be there. You don't deserve to be at Nationals, and I know that you know that."
"And what about my kids?" Dustin demands. "You know how hard I work those brats. They didn't have anything to do with the cheating."
"Oh, come on!" This, this is just an insult now. "You don't give a damn about your kids. You've never cared about them. You don't get to use them as an excuse now."
"You want me to walk into that auditorium," Dustin says, his voice low, "and look them in the eyes, and tell them that after all the sweat and blood and tears they put into their routine, I went and threw it away for my own personal reasons. You want me to tell Sunshine Corazon she stayed here in the States for absolutely fucking nothing. Those kids have given everything for this competition, and no, Will, I don't like the little shits very much, but I know they deserve better than that. After everything else I've done to them, I would go to hell for doing that on top of it."
And that's what stuns Will into silence. Not the words, not the logic of the argument, but the realization that Dustin means this. That whatever other motives he might have, this is coming from a place of genuine protectiveness. It's what he's always hoped Dustin might someday understand about being a teacher, and he swallows, wondering if any of that was due to his influence or if Dustin managed it on his own. It doesn't matter. Dustin's trying to do what he thinks is right, sacrificing for it, and Will can't just shove him away again now. He's not going to discourage that.
"Talk to me again after Nationals," he says, and Dustin narrows his eyes, confused.
"Why?" he asks, wary and clearly still hurt. Will's not going to be able to reassure him yet. Things haven't changed that much.
"I can't risk the possibility that you might sabotage us again. I trusted you last time, and you violated that. I want to give you another chance. Believe me, I do. And I will. But I'd be doing my kids a disservice if I didn't do everything in my power to make sure their hard work isn't for nothing. You understand that." There's a tiny part of him that feels like an asshole for making that sound like a challenge, even though it is a challenge. It's not lost on Dustin, either; Will recognizes that brief flash of mulish defiance. But Dustin doesn't argue. He looks away, letting out a resigned breath.
"Okay," he says. "We'll talk again after Nationals."
He doesn't sound hopeful, and Will feels a brief stab of regret, because he doesn't think Dustin really believes him.
He reaches out and squeezes Dustin's shoulder for reassurance. "I mean it," he says. "I'll see you later."
Getting out of the hospital is an ordeal, but they can't legally keep him, and they finally cut him loose after making him sign about seven different waivers. The surgeon could have accidentally sewn up an entire tray of surgical instruments inside him and Dustin wouldn't be able to sue them now, but he doesn't care. He's got work to do.
Getting to Carmel is even more of an ordeal, considering that he no longer has a car and couldn't drive right now even if he did, but he finds a cab that can accommodate his crutches, hightails it to work and heads straight to the auditorium. He's not going to give them the chance to fire him. The paperwork probably hasn't gone through yet, and they haven't actually notified him of anything, so he can reasonably claim ignorance.
The kids are assembled in the auditorium when he gets there, and he can overhear snippets of their conversation.
"I heard he's in a coma."
"Someone said he has third-degree burns all over his face." This from Adrian, sounding like he's trying and failing to be somber.
"That sucks," says Lisa, sounding more genuinely mournful. "He was really handsome."
"Maybe now we'll get someone who isn't a dick," says one of the sopranos. "I'm not sorry."
"Come on, guys," Sunshine urges. "We shouldn't be saying things like that, after what happened to him."
Dustin's heard enough, and he limps down the aisle toward his usual seat. "How about you all stop talking about me like I'm dead," he says, "and get into places?" He can't help but relish their audible shock.
"Coach!" Lisa gasps. "You're okay?"
He's not, exactly, but he won't disabuse her of the notion. "Yep. Handsomeness intact. Now stop wasting time and start the music already." This, he thinks, settling into his chair, has got to be better for his recovery than languishing in that hospital bed. Will can take his fake concern and his stupid ultimatum and his hollow promises and shove them up his ass.
Four hours later, he can't even focus on the music. Rehearsal is halfway over, his leg is shooting blinding pain at him, and he can't tell whether his stitches are bleeding or whether he's just sweating like a pig under the spotlights. This was a bad idea. Oh, god, was this a bad idea.
"Take a ten-minute break," he orders them, cutting off the music with a dizzy wave of his hand. He's expecting gratitude for the extra five minutes, or at least surprise, but the confusion on the kids' faces evaporates as soon as they take a good look at him. That can't be a good sign.
"Are you okay, Coach?" Adrian asks, as the kids file out into the lobby. Dustin can't summon the energy to be touched by the concern. Everything in the world is pissing him off right now.
"Shut up," he says, grabbing his crutches and making his way to the backstage bathrooms.
No wonder they're asking. His face is positively gray. His hair is matted with sweat and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He closes his eyes and fumbles in his pocket for the painkillers they'd given him at the hospital, praying they won't make him too loopy to direct.
"Come on, Dustin," he murmurs to himself. "Get your shit together. You can do this."
How he manages to get through the rest of the night, he'll never quite know. He suspects a lot of it does have to do with the drugs, but he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of staying coherent. By the end of the night, all he can think about is finding somewhere to curl up and fall asleep. Home, preferably, but he knows that's not really an option; the cab company had given him a hard enough time about driving all the way out to Carmel when it wasn't past midnight. He'll just sleep in his office. He's used to that by now.
He leans against the door for a moment, appreciating the coolness of the wood against his forehead, but the handle won't budge when he turns it. The chill down his back this time has nothing to do with the temperature, and he jerks frantically at the handle despite knowing it's not going to open. They can't have changed the locks on him already-but they can, and they have, and he has no clue what the hell he's going to do now. "Come on," he snarls, kicking at the door with his good leg, "come on, open, you motherfucker-"
"Coach?"
Sunshine, with Adrian following close behind, is peering nervously at him from around the corner. Dustin doesn't even have the energy to yell at them, though he otherwise would.
"What?" he says, defeated. Can't they just go the hell home and leave him to his humiliation? He'll sleep out in the hallway before he'll bring himself to suck it up and call Will for help. That's not an option, and if it were, it would be the only option he had.
Sunshine and Adrian exchange glances, taking in the locked door and Dustin's crutches. "Do you need a ride?" Adrian ventures, finally.
Of all the things Dustin might have expected them to say, that wasn't one of them. His instinctive reaction is to tell them to fuck off, because he doesn't need help from a couple of kids. Except that he does. He's stunned that they're even offering it, because he knows perfectly well how much they hate him, but he can't afford to decline, even if he may never live it down. Christ, he thinks, how the mighty have fallen.
He swallows his pride, but it's a long, long moment before he can force himself to say anything. "Yeah," he says, "that would help."
"We carpool a lot," Sunshine explains, as they head for the deserted parking lot, "but Adrian had to get something from his locker and we had to find a way to get into the building and that's why we're still here..."
On any other occasion, Dustin would probably be telling her to shut up, because her cheery voice gives him a headache when she's not singing. Now, he does her the courtesy of merely tuning her out. He's not going to insult them when they're doing him a favor. He just wants to get home.
The passenger seat of Adrian's car almost has enough room to stretch out his injured leg, and he silently thanks the booster club for that. They'd offered Sunshine an even fancier car, hoping to convince her to stay another year after graduation, but she doesn't seem to have a valid Ohio driver's license or any desire to get herself one. Dustin has to admit, sometimes he gets just a little bit of a kick out of the way the obnoxious PTA parents trip all over themselves to butter Sunshine up when they don't really know the first thing about her.
He leans his head on his hand and rubs his eyes, not particularly thrilled that his students are going to know where he lives now, but there's nothing for it. He doesn't look up until Adrian turns on the radio.
"We like to sing together on the way home," he explains, a little sheepishly. "You don't mind, do you, Coach? I mean, it's good practice."
Dustin hates the pang of loneliness that crops up every time he's inadvertently reminded of Will, and it's worse than ever right now. It makes him feel weak. He's already shown enough weakness in front of his kids for one night.
"Whatever," he says, looking out the window. "I don't care."
He doesn't give a shit what they do on their own time, really, and he tells himself he'll just tune them out, but he can't seem to restrain his automatic instinct to listen with a critical ear.
"Now and then I think of when we were together, / Like when you said you felt so happy you could die..."
Dustin only vaguely recognizes the song, but he can tell Adrian is slightly off-key, and has to stop himself from correcting him. Sunshine is cheerfully humming harmonies in the backseat, and that sounds great, but he doesn't say that either.
"But you didn't have to cut me off, / Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing, / I don't even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough..."
Dustin eyes the radio balefully, starting to resent this station. He doesn't need to be hearing this shit right now, and Adrian is flat on the chorus anyway and that just makes it worse. Will would have been pitch-perfect if he were singing this.
"Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over..." Dustin winces a bit for reasons that have nothing to do with Sunshine's voice. No, her voice is great, which is the one comfort he can think of here, because it bodes well for Nationals. Otherwise, his sympathies are with whoever wrote this stupid song, partly because it sounds like his love life sucks as much as Dustin's does, and partly because Adrian's butchering the chorus again. It's a far cry from what Dustin's used to.
Well, if his kids can't sing along to the radio without fucking it up, it's his duty as a coach to set an example, especially as he'd been half tempted to hum along anyway. He joins Adrian, pointedly making sure to sing on-pitch. "You didn't have to stoop so low, / Have your friends collect your records and then change your number, / Guess that I don't need that, though, / Now you're just somebody that I used to know..."
Rather than seeming chastened, Adrian grins. Apparently, he's taking this as a compliment, or something. He takes the alternating lines of the ending, his pitch much improved, leaving Dustin the other half while Sunshine keeps going with the background.
Just a little, just a tiny bit, Dustin is kind of enjoying this. It's not often that he gets to show off for his students, not like Will's always doing, and he hasn't had anyone to sing with at all since Will left. It's kind of nice.
He'll sing along with the next one, too, because why the hell not. He needs some cheering up, and it's an exuberant, cheerful song. He files it away in his mind as a good one for the shower, and then promptly wishes he hadn't, because it instantly deflates his good mood again.
"So...what happened, Coach?" Adrian looks over at him, taking his eyes off the road. Dustin stares back, not sure what he's talking about.
"What happened with what?" he says.
"With the accident," Sunshine clarifies. Dustin rubs his eyes, not especially wanting to go into detail.
"Some drunk guy plowed into my car," he says. "It wasn't my fault."
"And you just broke your leg?" she asks. "It looks pretty bad."
"They took out my spleen, too," he says vaguely, wondering why they're even bothering to ask. Are they just probing for weaknesses they can exploit? What do they want from him?
Adrian stares at him, and Dustin really wishes he'd stop doing that, because he's already been in too many car wrecks for one lifetime. "You're back at work two days after an emergency splenectomy? Coach, you can't do that. You're gonna hurt yourself. You looked like you were in a lot of pain earlier." Sunshine nods along earnestly.
Dustin remembers that Adrian's mother is a doctor or something like that, but that doesn't mean the kid knows whereof he speaks, and the presumption is pissing him off. "What have I spent the past two years telling you people?" he demands. "If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong. Pain is the price you pay for greatness."
Silence falls in the car, and after a moment, Dustin starts to regret his outburst. They're almost to his neighborhood. He sighs, slumping in his seat. The painkillers are starting to wear off.
"It's not your problem," he says. "Your job is to focus on winning. I can handle myself just fine."
"We were just saying," Adrian mumbles.
He pulls into the parking lot, and Dustin struggles to get out of the car without having to ask for help. Adrian reaches over to hand him his crutches.
Dustin's not sure what to do about all this, or what to say now. He clears his throat, feeling the awkward, unfamiliar compulsion to be civil.
"Thanks," he says curtly. Sunshine gives him a wan smile through the window.
"See you tomorrow, Coach," she says.
As he turns away and limps towards the building, he realizes, to his surprise, that he really does feel a little less dismal now.
New Directions' flight to New York is uneventful. The kids aren't quite as giddy as they'd been the first time they'd come here, but there's an anticipatory tension. Will can hear them behind him on the plane, intently discussing choreography and practicing their harmonies. There's no last-minute writing now; they're not doing original songs this year when it hadn't gotten them into the top ten last time. Watching them work this devotedly makes his heart swell with pride, and he knows, he's sure, that it's going to pay off. It has to. They deserve it. They've worked every bit as hard as Vocal Adrenaline, in their own way, no matter how Dustin would beg to differ.
Maybe he should be supervising the kids more closely than he had last year, given what had happened with the pillows, but he trusts that they've learned their lesson, and they're all almost adults. They'll be all right without him for a few hours.
He doesn't leave the hotel this time. He's not planning to spend his day singing to an empty auditorium. It might cheer him up a little, but instead he hovers around the bar for a little while, nurses a beer while periodically scanning the room, and finally gets up to take an absentminded walk through the hallways.
It really is coincidence when he runs into Dustin by one of the ice machines, because he hadn't even known what floor the Vocal Adrenaline contingent was staying on, and he hadn't really been looking this time. Dustin's leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, but otherwise, there's nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance. Will knows, because he's looking carefully, checking for any other sign of injury or weakness or pain. He wonders how those stitches are holding up, because he knows how careless Dustin is about them.
They stare wordlessly at each other, sizing each other up, and for one bleak moment it feels like nothing's changed at all since last spring. For all Will knows, Dustin could just be pondering how best to destroy him. He certainly doesn't seem to know what, if anything, to say, so Will does him the courtesy of breaking the silence. "How are you?"
Dustin exhales slowly. "Fine. I'm doing fine. Aside from, you know, the obvious."
"I was asking about the obvious." He wonders how Dustin's managing to get through all those long hours of rehearsal. Not for the first time, he has to admire the man's tenacity. Dustin shrugs, clearly not really wanting to talk about it, and the silence stretches on for another several awkward seconds.
"So," says Dustin resignedly. "This is it, huh."
Will sighs. "This is it." In every possible sense of the term, really. He offers a hand, to be sporting, because they owe each other that much respect.
Dustin takes it, though he makes a face that suggests that he finds it a bit absurd, and Will realizes belatedly that it is just a little absurd to be formally shaking hands with someone he'd been fucking on his living room floor not so very long ago. But this is where they stand now, apparently, and this is a competition. "May the best man win," says Dustin.
He doesn't let go, and Will doesn't let go, and they fall silent again as their grip tightens on each others' hands. Will should let go. He should get back. They both should.
This is stupid.
He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Dustin's hair and drags him down into a needy, clinging kiss, and maybe they know each other too well by now, maybe they're thinking in sync, because Dustin doesn't hesitate for even a split second, not even with surprise, before kissing fervently back. He sucks warmly at Will's lower lip and lets one of his crutches fall to the ground as he wraps his arm around Will's waist, and Will's hand has fisted itself in Dustin's shirt nearly of its own accord. Anyone could round the corner and see them, and Will doesn't even care. Not right now.
"Fuck, Will," Dustin breathes, when they pause for air. "I missed you."
Will hadn't even realized until now how mutual that sentiment is. God, he wants to take Dustin back to his room and make up for lost time, drag him into bed and put on some music and fuck him into the mattress, and just lie there with him until someone needs them for something. He wants Dustin's arms around him again, no matter how little he would have believed at this time last year that he could ever want something like that. He wants to make sure he's all right, wants to fuss over him, wants to take care of him.
He reaches into his pocket for his spare room key and tucks it into Dustin's shirt pocket, his palm sliding upwards nearly of its own accord to cup Dustin's face. "One more day," he promises. "It'll all be over tomorrow. We'll talk then, I swear."
The auditorium is packed already by the time Will winds his way through the crowd to his seat. The kids are all seated around him; they're not performing until near the end, which Will thinks is a good omen-they'll be fresher in the judges' minds than Vocal Adrenaline, who are stuck right in the middle.
He needs to stop thinking of Vocal Adrenaline as their only competition, when there are dozens of others here that they also need to beat, but he's trained his mind into thinking that way and now he can't make it stop. And as the performances wear on, none of them, with the exception of the white-clad girls who'd sung that Usher song last year, really stick out to him. His kids are better, and he knows it, with confidence that doesn't feel shaky and blustery like it had last year. They're prepared for this. They've returned to their roots, to the classics they're best at.
Vocal Adrenaline, according to the program, is performing something by Florence and the Machine. What Dustin was thinking, Will isn't sure-it's a gamble; the judges are stodgy and set in their ways, some of them old enough that he's sure they probably miss the days when ancient Broadway show tunes and folk songs were de rigeur.
As the Carmel kids take the stage, though, he notices his kids fidgeting. The costumes are impressive, he has to admit, with a bit of a sinking feeling. They're more flamboyant than what Dustin usually goes for. Vocal Adrenaline tends to be rather minimalist about the costuming, and Will wonders if Dustin's trying to make up for shortcomings in the performance itself. There's a lot of red in them, which surprises him. Dustin never uses red or green; he always costumes in blues and yellows and neutrals because he doesn't want anyone to find out that he's colorblind. Will might actually be the only person, aside from his parents, who does know that.
He's overanalyzing this, and falling into his old habit of psychoanalyzing Dustin, before the song's even started. His own kids are whispering amongst themselves, but they quiet, reluctantly, as Sunshine reaches for the microphone.
"Regrets collect like old friends, / Here to relive your darkest moments, / I can see no way, I can see no way..."
Will folds his arms and leans back with a frown, studying everything. There's not a hint of his own influence in the choreography, for which he's both relieved and a little guilty. Maybe he could have afforded to believe Dustin. Just maybe.
The dancing is typical of Vocal Adrenaline, all synchronized lifting and twirling and pirouetting-all perfectly coordinated, all rather generic, as if Dustin couldn't find it in him to be imaginative on short notice. The spectacle is still impressive, though, flashy and gymnastic even if it's not hugely inspired, and the audience gasps when one kid executes a perfect aerial backflip. Sunshine's still wailing; the dancing can't distract from her voice for long, because she's got everything the song needs, raw rough emotion and absolute perfection on the high notes.
"And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back, / And given half the chance, would I take any of it back? / It's a fine romance, but it's left me so undone, / It's always darkest before the dawn..."
Will still has to wonder what made Dustin choose this song. Then again, it's not exactly like his own revised set list is any less suspiciously pertinent.
He can't say that Vocal Adrenaline didn't bring the goddamn house down. The judges might be put off by the song choice, but the thunderous applause from the audience has to make up for at least a bit of it.
None of the other teams can really follow that, and despite Will's anxiety, his protectiveness of his own team, he can't help but feel the tiniest little seed of pride for Dustin too. It's dwarfed by his concern for New Directions, as it always has been, but...that had been well-done.
He squeezes all of his kids' hands in turn as they get up to rush backstage, and settles back into his seat, his heart pounding. Just for a moment, before the lights darken, he scans the auditorium once more for Dustin, but he's nowhere to be seen.
"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, / Darlin', you give love a bad name..."
He'd had to fight for this set list, with the kids' age-old argument that his choices are too dated and lame and embarrassing. There isn't a whole lot that's less edgy than a Bon Jovi medley, he'll admit. But he'd researched the judges, as he knows Dustin must have too, and he's pretty sure this is about as edgy as they'll put up with. And his kids are good at it, amazingly good, joyful and smiling dazzlingly, their choreography organic-looking and fresh. It brings him back to that day in the auditorium, years ago, when he'd first heard them singing "Don't Stop Believing."
They've come full circle, he thinks, in a way. Dustin would be mercilessly mocking the tears that have welled up in his eyes, so maybe it's a good thing he's nowhere in the vicinity. It doesn't even matter if they win now, Will thinks. They've gotten what they came here for.
But that doesn't mean he doesn't still want to win.
It's the moment of truth. Will swallows hard to clear the trembling nervousness in his chest. The kids are crowded behind him, grabbing onto each other with anticipation, and he's dimly aware of the Vocal Adrenaline kids doing the same thing somewhere off to his left. Last chance, he keeps thinking, this is their last chance to know what it's like to win Nationals, but behind that is the unwelcome knowledge that it's Dustin's last chance too, and it's one or the other.
Dustin's standing beside the board, leaning on his crutches, but his eyes are averted, and he hasn't read the results yet. Will can hear a few of the more impatient Vocal Adrenaline kids pushing him. "Come on, Coach Goolsby, what does it say?" They'd never have been brave or comfortable enough to do that last year, and god, Will wishes it wasn't heartwarming, because that only makes things worse.
He glances up at Dustin, and with a tiny mutual nod, they steel themselves and look at the results.
1. New Directions - Lima, Ohio
2. Vocal Adrenaline - Akron, Ohio
3. Portland Scale Blazers - Portland, Maine
The list continues, but neither of them processes any more of it. Will's never felt anything quite like the combination of elation and painful sympathy that seems to be stepping on his insides right now, and he spares a look at Dustin, who's still staring at the list with utterly frozen features as if he hasn't read a word of it.
"I'm sorry," Will murmurs, and even though their kids are staring, he reaches out for just a second to touch Dustin's shoulder. It seems to snap Dustin out of his trance, and he swallows, nods, and turns to face his students. Will doesn't hear what he says to them. He's got good news to impart to his own kids.
Ten minutes later, as they're all finally beginning to disperse from the lobby, the kids dashing off to celebrate, Will takes a last look back at Vocal Adrenaline. He can remember how delighted they'd been over their second-place trophy last year, cheering and laughing and raising Sunshine onto their shoulders to parade her around. There's none of that this time, but neither do they look chastised or humbled. They look pleased. They're smiling, they're hugging, and Dustin's off to the side leaving them be, like he had last time. Before Will turns to head back to his room, he overhears Dustin address them.
"Good work. All of you."
Will swallows, throat tightening. They don't know why that has to be one of the hardest things Dustin's ever said. It breaks Will's heart, and he's reminded now of everything, every little detail, that had ever convinced him he was in love with this man.
He walks back to the elevator with the kids' little gasps of shock and elation ringing in his ears, wishing he'd been able to catch Dustin's eye, just for a moment.
He knows he should be making himself available to the kids, in case they should need him, but Dustin needs him too, doesn't he? Dustin needs comfort right now. The kids can celebrate responsibly on their own.
He takes a bottle of wine from the minibar, throws on a relaxing music channel, and stretches out on the bed, making himself comfortable.
Twenty minutes pass, his mind lost in meditation. Will takes his shirt off and tosses it aside, the better to save time when Dustin arrives. Dustin always did like to admire his abs.
Another twenty minutes, and he's starting to get antsy. They hadn't agreed on a meeting time or anything; he'd just assumed they had an understanding. Maybe that had been a stupid thing to assume.
The practical thing to do would be to call Dustin, and so he does. He never had gotten around to deleting Dustin's number from his contacts, even if they haven't spoken on the phone in weeks. But the phone rings and rings, and with each passing second Will doesn't know whether to be disheartened or angry.
He puts his shirt back on, jaw set tightly, and debates the wisest course of action. Dustin had said he missed Will. He'd given every indication that he wanted to reconcile. Is he just being a sore loser? Had he been so certain he would win that he just can't handle the alternative?
Making up his mind, he stalks out the door and down to the bar, figuring there's a pretty good chance he'll find Dustin there. A thorough scan of the place reveals that he isn't, and Will's irritation mounts. He realizes that he doesn't even know where Dustin's room is, which makes this all exponentially more difficult.
Dejected and pissed, he retreats upstairs, to the ice machine, where he runs into a tipsy-looking kid he recognizes from Vocal Adrenaline. Clearly they're still in a celebratory mood, and even if Dustin should be supervising them a lot better, Will feels a little wash of affection. No matter what that second-place trophy will cost him, Dustin's still not going to rain on his kids' parade.
"Hey," he says to the kid, who arches an acerbic eyebrow. "What room is your coach in?"
"Why do you want to know?" Okay, so the rivalry is still alive and well; Will won't begrudge them that. He shrugs, trying to be disarming.
"Because I want to congratulate him," he says. "You guys did great."
"He'll probably tell your patronizing ass to fuck off," says the kid. "But he's in room 502. Knock yourself out."
"...Thanks." He's always felt a little sorry for Dustin's students, but if they're all prizes like that, maybe they deserve his drill-sergeant attitude. Not that it matters now, anyway, when Dustin's not going to be their coach anymore. He keeps forgetting that.
He knocks on the door of room 502. "Dustin? You there? It's Will."
There's no answer, no matter how many times he knocks or how long he waits. Will feels his jaw tightening with hurt and anger again. So this is how it's going to be, then. If all of that 'oh, of course I want this to be behind us, of course I want to make things right' was contingent on Dustin winning, then to hell with him, Will thinks. If he's changed his mind, let him change his mind. He can wallow in defeat on his own. Fuck him. Maybe Will can send him a t-shirt.
He doesn't sleep much that night, even though he knows they've got an early flight the next day. He drinks half the bottle of wine on his own and leaves the rest and spends the night tossing and turning and intermittently trying to distract himself with TV. It doesn't work.
He said he missed me, damn it, he thinks, knowing how petulant he sounds even in his own mind, and unable not to be. He doesn't know where he went wrong. He just doesn't know what happened. He doesn't want to face the realization that he'd been counting on this, that he doesn't know what to do now that it's not working out the way he'd been convinced it would, but he feels lost.
He gets the kids through the airport and onto the plane in a fog, barely able to ensure that the enormous trophy gets checked safely and that nobody gets left behind. The kids are still rejoicing, and at least a few of them, Puck in particular, look distinctly hungover, but Will doesn't want to intrude on their excitement. He settles himself into his seat and focuses on the Skymall catalog without actually absorbing a word of it.
"Are you okay, Mr. Schue?" Finn, behind him, is peering at him over the back of the seat. Will looks up.
"Yeah," he says, "I'm fine. I'm just tired, guys; don't worry about me."
They don't, which is at once comforting and disheartening. Will flips back and forth through the catalog and the in-flight magazine, unable to concentrate on either, until the plane lands in Ohio.
He feels a little more anchored now, clearer-headed, and he makes sure to get the kids all sent home safely. Rachel and Tina and Mike all hug him, and all of them thank him, and it manages to genuinely make him smile.
"Don't forget, Mr. Schue," Puck says. "You promised us hard cider. Don't disappoint us."
"I'll see what I can do," Will assures him. He hadn't, in fact, technically promised them anything alcoholic, but he had promised a pizza party, and it'll be his pleasure to make good on that. Right now, it's the only thing he's got to look forward to. Nationals are over, graduation is impending, and what then? His classroom will be as empty as his bedroom, and the realization of that, one that hadn't even begun to sink in before, hits him like a truck, hard enough to make it difficult to breathe for a moment.
He's not going to give up on Dustin. He's not going to let Dustin force him to give up.
He drives home long enough to toss his suitcase and change his clothes, to grab another bottle of wine just for good measure, and then he heads for Dustin's apartment. He doesn't know when Vocal Adrenaline's flight is supposed to get in, but it doesn't matter. He's still got a key, and he doesn't give a damn if it's creepy to use it.
When Dustin gets through the door half an hour later, struggling with the suitcase and the crutches, Will's there to take them off his hands. "Don't strain yourself," he says. "I got it."
Dustin, for once in his life, seems to be at an utter loss for words. Will doesn't think that's a good thing, but he waits, because he knows Dustin will break the silence soon enough.
"Why are you here?" he asks, his voice completely monotone.
Will stands his ground, looking him in the eye. It's easier when Dustin's on crutches; he's still taller, but he can't loom like he usually does. "We agreed that we were going to talk after Nationals," he says firmly, "and that's what I'm here to do."
He doesn't know what to expect, honestly. Anger, maybe, or derision. Contrition would be nice, but he doubts that's going to happen. What he doesn't expect is for Dustin to look so thoroughly, exhaustedly defeated.
"We didn't agree on anything," Dustin murmurs, dragging himself over to the couch and easing painfully onto it. "You kept saying we were going to talk, like that means anything. 'Talking' could be anything. For all I knew, we could be doing more 'talking' about why I'm Satan incarnate."
"That's not-Dustin, for god's sake. You had to know that's not what I meant." Why would he think that? In Will's mind, it's as if Dustin's being deliberately obtuse. "I'd wanted to talk about us."
"You could have been clearer." Dustin rubs his eyes, and doesn't even bother to look up. Will narrows his eyes. "I don't want to talk, Will. I sure as fuck wasn't up for it last night, and today's not any better. I don't have a job, I don't have a car, I don't even have a fucking spleen anymore, and I've got about two months' rent saved up before I lose my apartment too. You really think I feel like dealing with more rejection right now? You think I want to take that risk? If you wanted to get back together after you kicked my ass and got me fired, you would have said so. None of this 'we'll talk about it' bullshit. Forgive me for taking that to mean 'we'll talk about how we had a great run and everything, but I still haven't changed my mind about you.'"
In the two years of their acquaintance, Will's always known Dustin to be the rational one, the calculating one, whose calm, controlled facade never falters for a second except sometimes in the throes of orgasm, or right afterward. Even with Will, Dustin doesn't do emotion, and it honestly scares Will that Dustin's voice sounds like it's on the verge of breaking now.
He crosses over to the couch and sits down, reaching up to touch Dustin's face and not letting him pull away. "What I haven't changed my mind about," he says, "is loving you."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Dustin does jerk away at that, with the sneering disdain Will knows so perfectly well by now. "You can't just say that, you jackass. You don't mean it; you just think it sounds good because you love that sappy shit."
"Why would I say it if I didn't mean it?" Will demands, ears burning hot.
"Why would you mean it?" Dustin counters, raising his voice for the first time Will can ever remember. "What do we even have in common anymore? We're not even rivals, we're just-I don't even know what we are; you're a winner and I'm an unemployed bum. We were equals before, okay? Now we're just..." He trails off, putting his face in his hands.
Will's heart aches. He feels, somehow, like this is some fault of his own, some horrible miscommunication on his part, because he doesn't know how else Dustin's understanding of their relationship could be so completely, tragically backwards.
He reaches for Dustin's wrist, pulls his hand away from his face and winds their fingers tightly together. "Listen to me," he says softly. "What we had-it didn't work because we were in the same career field; it worked in spite of that. That was what almost tore us apart, not what kept us together. I don't love you for your choreography, or because you're my rival, or you keep me on my toes, or we can talk about work, or whatever it is you're thinking."
"Well, it's obviously not for my moral fortitude." Dustin's laugh is helpless and humorless. "Why the hell do you love me, Will?"
Will has never had to articulate this before. Honestly, he's almost gone out of his way not to think too much about the reasons why he loves Dustin, and god, he's regretting that right now.
"Because you're smart, and funny," he begins. Dustin rolls his eyes with disgust.
"Generic. Not good enough. Try harder."
"Because you make me feel good about myself, like nobody else has before." Will exhales slowly, folding his arms. "You make me think about things differently. You work harder than anyone I've ever known in my life-I swear, Dustin, your ambition is inspirational. You don't give up on anything you want, not ever. You're so unbelievably talented, and it's not fair that you haven't found someone to recognize that and give you what you deserve. You have a voice like an angel; I couldn't ever get tired of listening to you sing. Or singing with you. You don't know how much I've missed that." He knows Dustin's listening, watching him, even if his face is still impassive.
"You're not a bad person," he continues, finally. "I'm sorry I ever said that, Dustin, because it's not true. I saw you, with your kids-when we were reading the results."
Dustin looks away, with a self-deprecating little sound that's barely a sound. He doesn't seem to know what to say. "Honestly," he mumbles, his voice slightly hoarse, "I think I'm going to miss the fuckers."
"I know you will." Will swallows, and reaches for Dustin's hand again. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have...made you jump through hoops to prove yourself."
Dustin shrugs. "You had to make sure you could trust me again. I get it."
"Not like that." Will strokes Dustin's knuckles with his thumb. Dustin flexes his fingers, but doesn't pull away.
"I don't know what I'm going to do now," he admits. "About anything."
"For starters," Will says, "you're going to stop worrying about it for the rest of today."
Dustin snorts. "Sure. I'll get right on that."
"You're going to get into bed," Will continues, ignoring the jab, "and make yourself comfortable, and we're going to catch up, take that however you like. You are going to let me make sure your injuries are being taken care of, because you had no business leaving the hospital like that, and you don't have any excuse for neglecting your health now. And then we're going to have dinner, and make mojitos, and listen to some music."
There's a faint smile tugging at the corner of Dustin's lips, even if it fades after a moment. "And after that?" he says, a bit guardedly.
"After that..." Will makes a face, because that is the real question here. Everything is precarious, cautious, susceptible to any wrong moves they might make, but he's determined. And if Dustin wants this, it can still work.
"I don't know," he says. "But I'm not going to set a time limit on it."
Dustin squeezes his hand, with that familiar little half-laugh. "Good enough."