Chapter 36 #2
“As opposed to other onions,” Greg clarified. “Are they better? How many colors do onions come in?”
“Not too many colors,” Cathy said, eyeing Greg as if she wasn't sure if she was being messed with. “The yellow ones are sweeter.”
“Like ice cream? Or more like milkshake?”
“Neither.” Cathy tore the list off the notepad. “Garrett's should have everything,” she said, handing it to Dustin.
Garrett's. 414 Third Street.
“Great,” Greg said. Very cheerfully.
When the dishes were done, Dustin went to the living room and dropped onto the couch.
His shoulder ached. Everything ached, actually. He shouldn't have offered to go on a grocery run, but at least it wasn't an urgent task. Later would be soon enough.
He grabbed the remote with his good hand and started flipping through channels without really seeing them. He landed on some sort of renovation show and let it run.
It was weird to be back home.
Greg sitting down with him was a welcome distraction. Except that the little reaper sat too far away. He'd settled on the opposite end of the couch with his back straight and that stupid, forced smile still on his face.
Dustin reached over, grabbed Greg's wrist, and pulled.
Greg startled. “What?”
“Get closer.”
Greg looked at the space between them as though measuring it. Then, slowly, he shifted closer. Dustin loved the little yelp he made when Dustin pulled him into his lap, rearranging him so he sat with his back against the armrest and his legs across Dustin's thigh.
He blinked up at Dustin, looking lost for a moment.
Dustin rested his hand on Greg's shin. “Something wrong?”
Greg looked away, gaze settling on the TV. It showed people swinging sledgehammers at walls.
“Why are they doing that?” Greg asked.
“It's a renovation show.”
“They don't look like they have a plan.” Greg stared at the screen. “That was a perfectly functional kitchen, and they're destroying it.”
“They're replacing it with something better.”
“You can't know that. They haven't built the new one yet.”
Dustin's thumb traced a slow line along Greg's ankle.
Why was his reaper freaking out over a TV show?
It probably wasn't about the show at all, was it? Dustin had never been good at reading other people's feelings, but even he could tell there was something else bothering Greg.
It had to have something to do with last night.
Dustin exhaled softly. Even the memory of that night made him shudder. I have more to lose, he'd said, and meant it.
One of those things was the reaper in his lap. The one who'd tried to end his life and then turned around and sold his soul so Dustin wouldn't have to.
The one who'd felt warm and safe inside his arms when he'd gone to sleep.
Dustin wanted him in a way he hadn't let himself want anything in a long time. But how could he keep him?
He didn't know.
And in the light of morning, that thought seemed even more unsettling than it had in the graveyard.
Having something to lose was just as terrifying as it was wonderful, but now that the feeling had settled in Dustin's chest, he couldn't will it away again.
More than that, he didn't want to.
He squeezed Greg's ankle. “Talk to me.”
“I am talking to you. We're discussing renovations.”
“You've been acting weird all morning. I want to know what's up with that.”
Greg tensed.
Dustin pressed on. “Is this about what happened to your soul? Are you—” Dustin stopped himself. He'd almost said dying. He rerouted. “Are you okay? Physically?”
“I'm fine. Physically I'm fine.”
“Then what?”
“I can't tell you.”
Dustin's jaw tightened. “What do you mean, you can't tell me? Aren't we in this together?”
“I'm not — it's not that I don't want to—”
“Then just say it.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because telling you would make it worse.” Greg's face was pale. He looked like something inside him was tearing. “Dustin, please. I need you to trust me.”
Dustin stared at him.
“I know that's a lot to ask right now,” Greg said, quieter. “After last night. I know you're upset. But there's something I need to handle and I need you to let me handle it. I promise I'm not doing this to hurt you.”
Instead of saying anything, Dustin wrapped his arms around Greg and pulled him against his chest, tucked under his chin. Greg made another one of those small, startled sounds and then his hand found Dustin's shirt and gripped the fabric.
Dustin held him there and pressed his mouth against Greg's hair.
He could feel Greg's heartbeat. Too fast. Way too fast.
“If you're about to do something stupid,” Dustin said into his hair, “I will kill you.”
“Wouldn't that be counterproductive?”
“I'm serious.”
“I know you are.”
Dustin closed his eyes.
For years he'd never stopped for long enough to feel a moment of fear.
Now here he sat with Greg's heart beating against his ribs. Fast and present and alive.
And Dustin was afraid.
He tightened his arm. His hand moved to the back of Greg's neck and pressed there — fingers against warm skin, against the pulse point, against the proof that Greg was solid, that he was here, that he wasn't dissolving.
Yet.