“You must be bored shitless.”

Oscar couldn’t deny it. It felt like he’d been trapped on his own for weeks, even if it had only been two days since Roman left.

But what a hell of a couple days.

Roman was still blowing hot and cold, coming on to him and then acting like buddies the next morning. Oscar wasn’t sure exactly what the hell was going on with him, and thinking about it made his head hurt. Especially when he couldn’t do anything, just wait for Roman to say something more clear than a muddy farm track.

He wasn’t gonna be able to relax until Roman was home and dry.

Maybe it was that weakness that made him say yes when Jef texted to say he was coming over to hang out. Not that Jef asked, exactly; he assumed and then swanned his way in, as he did in all of life. Oscar had to admit it had worked just fine for him in life thus far.

“Out of my mind,” Oscar agreed, fidgeting with his hair as he leaned back on the couch. Jef had insisted on bringing them both water and snacks so Oscar didn’t have to move, but the snacks he chose were all high-sugar. “They’re letting you eat this stuff?”

Jef laughed under his breath and joined him, passing over the fruit roll-ups. “Not a chance. They’re for you.”

“How sweet.”

“I have my moments.” Jef grinned at him and joined him on the couch, a decision that didn’t go unnoticed by Oscar.

Are we… what the hell are we doing?

Oscar never quite wanted to ask, though. Especially now, when Jef was recounting the stories he was missing, like practice gone awry one day when Ty had a wardrobe malfunction and caught a contagious fit of the giggles.

Most of his life went—or had gone, until now—into this career. It wasn’t until he saw the dance-shaped hole in his life that he realized how dangerous that was.

Maybe Raj was right.

The worst part was how quickly he seemed to have fallen out with his former coworkers—a group of men who he counted as his best friends, confidantes, competitors, and co-creators, at different times and in different ways.

It had happened before, when he thought about it. When someone got cut, he’d been appropriately sad, said goodbye like everyone else, and then… kept moving, kept dancing, while someone else’s world stopped.

Now that he was the one stopping, watching everyone pull out of reach, and nobody looked back at him, he regretted for a moment some of those partings.

“What’s on your mind?” Jef said lightly.

Oscar wasn’t going to bring down the mood, and the part of him that still viewed Jef as competition—even if he’d won, a fact that bitterly stung if he lingered on it—didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “What I’ll make for dinner when Roman comes back.”

“Oh, you’re a househusband too!” Jef grinned. Somehow, this conversation direction wasn’t better.

Oscar eyed him and rolled his eyes. “Never. Can you see me cooking?”

“King of the road ramen.”

Despite himself, Oscar laughed.

They’d once been given a cheat day on their diets while acclimatizing to jet lag after landing in the Midwest, but their motel was so far out of town that nobody wanted to grab a taxi into town. Instead, they’d picked up cheap ramen from the corner store, and he’d turned his coffee machine into a ramen maker for everyone.

The memory was another kick in the gut as he played with the gummy bears in his hand, squishing them together until they stuck, then prying them apart.

At least he’s here, trying to make me laugh. It’s not his fault I’m losing everything.

Oscar forced a smile onto his face. Maybe Jef liked him when he wasn’t competition. Better than the rest of the company, ignoring him when he was right here in town with them.

When Jef slid his hand up Oscar’s thigh, he wasn’t even surprised. He turned his head to study his expression, raising an eyebrow.

“Shame it’s not your arm.”

“What?”

“So I could do some pickup line about giving you a hand,” Jef snickered. “Oh. Was that insensitive?”

Oscar rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to laugh. Yeah, to say the least, but Jef didn’t really care what he said now. Experience had taught him that. “Whatever, man. What are we doing?”

“What do you want us to do?” Jef slipped his hand under Oscar’s thigh, his other hand going behind his back. Before Oscar could react, he stood, sweeping him off his feet and into his arms.

“How chivalrous,” Oscar dryly remarked. Being cradled against a man’s chest felt right, but this man? No. There were no butterflies, no barely-concealed grins. There hadn’t ever been between them.

“Which way is your room?”

Oscar pointed, wrapping his hand around Jef’s shoulder.

It felt wrong—too angular, too sleek and lithe. A fellow dancer’s body, not…

Not Roman.

Fuck off, he told himself. He’s not giving you anything. He’s giving you ‘let’s be friends’ and ‘stay at my place’ and then going hot-and-cold.

Roman wasn’t there, and Oscar wasn’t sure he ever would be. What surprised him was not that; what surprised him was that he was thinking about something more than a fling with a buddy. And Roman. And those two things together.

His brain was short-circuiting. By the time Jef crawled over him on the bed, Oscar shifted uncomfortably.

He’d never fucked a guy while thinking about another guy before. He had the sneaking suspicion that if he tried sleeping with Jef, he was going to have that experience for the first time.

Which made him uncomfortable.

And sex wasn’t something that made him uncomfortable—or something he overthought, and his brain had spun through all these thoughts at ninety miles per hour.

“Whoa,” Oscar breathed as Jef straddled him, unbuttoning his shirt in swift, efficient movements. He winced when Jef settled back onto his thigh, his knee angled wrong. “Ow.”

Jef shifted his weight off him and frowned. “Sorry,” he murmured, running his hand up Oscar’s stomach. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Will you, though?

Oscar’s heart pounded as Jef unbuttoned his shirt, one at a time. The tease, the anticipation, was good. It wouldn’t last long, but it was hot. Right? This was hot. He was supposed to find it hot. Why didn’t he?

Oscar’s uncertainty prickled into annoyance, then anger, as emotion welled under his skin.

Was he a victory prize for the taking? The star role, and now the man who he’d beat to get it? And not even fair and square. Was this his way of “winning” against Oscar?

He grabbed Jef by the shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss. Just as he’d thought, Jef angled his head away and Oscar tensed up. It wasn’t attraction, really. So what the fuck was this, between them?

Was it because he was injured? Was this a pity fuck? He couldn’t stand that idea.

And all of this in Roman’s house and bed? He made it clear I’m not trading sex for shelter, or even romance… but… it just feels wrong.

The problem kept shifting. He couldn’t put his finger on why this felt so wrong between them—whether it was because it was Jef, or because he was hung up on Roman, or because he had some crazy self-image issues of his own now that he’d screwed up his leg and felt like a useless lump…

Oscar choked back a gasp when Jef touched his bare chest at last, and he pushed Jef’s hand away. “No.”

Jef sat back slowly, his expression startled, then wary. “What? You want the lights off or what? We’ve done it before. I won’t freak out if you can’t bend into a pretzel tonight.”

“It’s not that. It just hurts. It’s distracting,” Oscar mumbled, averting his gaze. The excuse came out all wrong even as he said it. His cheeks burned.

He might sleep around, but he was always honest about it. If he didn’t plan to see a guy again, he said it outright and upfront. Lying about why he wanted Jef to leave was…

Well, necessary, because he couldn’t tell Jef. He didn’t even know why yet.

The anger that still sizzled deep in his gut wanted Jef gone, because he was a reminder of what Oscar had lost, and the rivalry between them, and how much of a dick Jef had been in the past. Wasn’t that enough reason?

Jef took a deep breath and swung himself off the bed, not being careful of Oscar’s leg. The jostle made Oscar bite his tongue, but he didn’t let his expression shift.

“Yeah, right. You’re a dancer. You work through the pain, you can fuck through it.” Jef buttoned up his own shirt, his eyes dark with anger.

“I don’t want to.”

“Yeah. You said so.” Jef left, and Oscar listened for the thump of the front door slamming. It came a minute later, leaving him alone in the house again.

Oscar let out his breath in a long sigh and rolled his head back on the pillow. He still smelled Jef’s cologne on his own shirt, still felt the phantom warmth of a hand on his thigh.

Of someone who wanted him, even if he wasn’t sure how, and even if he didn’t want Jef in return.

The thought he was really afraid of came next: But is Roman any better?

As long as Roman was dancing around the question of them, he wasn’t getting any satisfaction from him, either.

“How the fuck is my life a soap opera?” Oscar pulled a pillow to cover his face and groaned into it, then propped himself up awkwardly so he could punch it a few times. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

Jef didn’t care about him—that much was clear. He’d torn out of here like a bat out of hell. So it had been some weird revenge or victory sex, or pity sex, or… something that Oscar didn’t want. So they were well and truly done.

That took him out of the picture, leaving Oscar alone with… just Roman.

He had to allow for the possibility of some hypothetical man who might see him and sweep him off his feet and offer him a place to live and cook delicious food, but not run away the second feelings were possible.

Oscar lay back down slowly, pressing his cheek to the cool fabric, as it sank in for good: he didn’t want that other imaginary guy, even if he existed.

He wanted Roman. And his heart was involved now. And he’d probably felt cold toward Jef because of those… feelings… he had for Roman.

I don’t do feelings. I’ve always said I don’t do feelings. I want him, and I don’t do this. And I don’t want to fuck anyone else to take away the sting, and that’s a new one for me. Oh, Christ. What the fuck do I do now?

He groaned in a loud, long grunt, then pulled the covers over himself and rolled into a burrito of blankets and his own self-pity. He was fucked—or, quite possibly, not going to be fucked for a long time.

It was up to Roman.