Roman wasn’t planning to hook up tonight. He’d just gotten back to town yesterday. With several nights in a row here, he was staying at home rather than getting a hotel to bring someone back to.

He rarely brought anyone back to his place. It was out in the suburbs—way easier to grab a hotel for a wild night. He was just looking in on the bar to see who was around.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise to see Oscar at the gay bar. Knoxville wasn’t exactly overflowing with said gay bars or gays in said bars, so the odds were good.

It was a surprise to see him downing a shot while holding another in reserve in the other hand. Before Roman even made it over to the bar, both shot glasses sat empty on the counter, and Oscar’s eyes were closed as he rode the high.

Roman leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Boo.”

Oscar gasped and slipped off his stool. “Motherfucker!”

It was a good thing Roman caught him, hands on his waist and shoulder to pull him upright again until he had his balance. “Getting a dancer off-balance has to be a rare feat.” Oscar swayed slightly under his touch, so he kept his hands there. “You all right?”

“Fuckin’ fine.”

Roman snorted and slid his hands off that gorgeous, slender body with great reluctance, taking the stool next to him. “That sounds like a lie.”

“Well done.”

Oof. He had some prickle to him today. Roman tilted his head and looked at him, then flagged down the bartender. “Two Cokes, please.”

“Maybe I don’t want a Coke.” It sounded sullen, not offended, though.

“You had a Coke the first time we met.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but accepted the drink. Finally, he turned to actually look at Roman, his gaze thoughtful.

He looked like shit, but Roman was pretty sure he’d earn a slap for saying so. Instead, he studied Oscar for a moment before his eyes dropped to the bulge around his knee. Bandages? “What happened?”

“Just a minor dislocation.” Oscar’s tone was deeply bitter, though.

Roman didn’t really know how to proceed. “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”

“Enough whiskey and I’ll pretend I’m over it. Oh, yeah. And then I have to go home.”

“Where’s home?” Roman asked. Surely he hadn’t been away for long enough for Oscar to get an apartment here. For that matter, what did he do when he was back in town?

“Falcon’s place. The studio loft.” Oscar sounded miserable as he looked down at his knee.

It clicked: his best friend’s boyfriend’s place was at the top of a rickety old building. No way did it have an elevator. Sharing that studio had to be uncomfortable in good health, let alone with an injury.

“Come home with me.” Roman didn’t even know where it came from—it just slipped out, like many of his words.

He didn’t mean it sexually, though Oscar had teased Roman throughout his time in Hong Kong with dirty photos, apparently not contented with one hookup as the culmination of all that sexual tension.

Oscar’s head snapped up and he stared at him. “What? I can’t…”

“Why not? I don’t mind. I’ve got a spare room. We can keep it all nice and clean and tame for our friends,” Roman smirked at him.

Oscar’s eyelids were heavy—what hour was it by now, anyway? And how long had he been in here mainlining alcohol?

“In any case, you gotta get out of here, and I’m not carrying your ass up the stairs.”

That got a reaction. Oscar drew himself up to his full height on the stool and backward, looking down his nose at Roman—as much as he could, since Roman was several inches taller. “I never asked you to carry me.”

“Well, I’m not letting you drag your own ass up there, either. How many flights of stairs is it?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Not the point.” Roman got to his feet and offered Oscar his arm.

Oscar sneered at it and stood up. He immediately braced himself on the stool and the bar, then carefully let go.

“Pride,” Roman said softly. “It won’t get you anywhere.”

Oscar shifted his weight onto both feet, his face suspiciously blank. “Except into cute guys’ pants, all over the world. Right? It worked on me.”

“No, that’s ego and a slick attitude,” Roman smirked. “In between committing too fast and scaring every goddamn boyfriend off.” He leaned in, wrapping an arm around Oscar’s shoulders to support him. “And that’s jealousy.” Distracting Oscar from the pain was all he could do. The idiot better not be on painkillers and drinking.

His concern for Oscar was… brotherly. That was what he told himself, anyway.

“No,” Oscar mumbled, but his cheeks flushed. He finally leaned on Roman, and they headed for the door. His weight was slight, but the warm, firm presence by his side made Roman’s chest warm in turn. “Where do you live?”

“Not really the heart of the city.” It was Roman’s turn to be briefly embarrassed. His house was nothing to be ashamed of, but it was so… well, cozy. Homely. Not the bachelor pad most people would have associated his name with.

“Suburbia? I wouldn’t have thought it.”

“Houses were cheap, and I wasn’t paying downtown rent for a place I’m not in half the time.”

Oscar hummed. “Makes sense. Like me, crashing with Falcon for a couple months out of the year. Some people split AirBNBs or stay with their parents or whatever.”

“Your company tours a lot, then,” Roman observed as they stepped into the chilly evening together. “Don’t most dancers do a couple tours a year or something? If that?”

“It depends on the company, yeah.” Oscar’s speech was clear, at least, and he wasn’t swaying on his feet. He wasn’t quite the mess he’d seemed inside—at least, not now that he was talking about his company. It occurred to Roman then that dwelling on it was a bad idea.

“Oh, cool. So, where’s Falcon?” Roman asked.

“Probably Pier 1. Or Bed, Bath, Behind, whatever they call it.” Oscar rolled his eyes.

Roman laughed. “They are kind of grossly sweet together, aren’t they?”

Oscar was quiet for a moment as Roman led him around the corner to the side street where he’d parked. When Roman looked over at him again, he was surprised to see wet streaks on his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Roman asked, his brows knitting.

Oscar swiped at his cheeks and coughed. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Don’t make me keep asking. I’m not very patient,” Roman advised him. “Or, worse yet, start guessing.”

Oscar shook his head, his gaze down on his bulging knee again. Roman’s guess was that it was a splint under his jeans. “I’m screwed. I’m so fucking screwed. I can’t practice, I can’t dance, I can’t do jack shit for two months. I’m used to working out every day! I’ll be fat and ugly and unemployed and I won’t even be able to do a split. Who the fuck wants to date that?”

Roman stopped dead, then stifled his laugh for a second. It didn’t work, though, and his laugh rolled through him.

Oscar glared at him. “What?”

“You? Ugly? Never.”

Oscar’s cheeks flushed, but he still looked annoyed as he stared around at the street signs instead.

“Fat? Doesn’t mean anything. A little extra padding makes the ride better,” Roman winked, pulling Oscar into his side and squeezing his ass.

“Should’ve known you’d be molesting me,” Oscar muttered, but he was starting to smile. “Fuck you, I’m trying to be… pissed off at the world.”

Roman hummed and rested his chin on Oscar’s head. The moment Oscar leaned into him, he drew him into both arms and pulled him into his chest, an instinctive reaction so deep-rooted he didn’t even think twice before he did it. He just wanted Oscar to feel better.

“You’ve spent hours doing that already, didn’t you?” Roman asked. “I’m not gonna let you mope. And seriously, dude. Nobody will want me if I can’t do a split?” Roman started laughing again.

Faintly at first, as if reluctant, Oscar chuckled, then joined in. “Fuck off. I know my assets.”

“You sure do,” Roman said. Before he could get a good grope in, the sound of passersby at the end of the alley made Oscar step back from him. Roman playfully pouted, then told him, “Come on. My car’s here. I’ll let you have one more diva moment, but only after I’m home with a beer in my hand.”

Oscar dramatically sighed and wiped his cheeks again, but he was smiling as Roman helped him into the passenger seat. “Asshole.”

“You know it.” Roman grinned at him and shut the door.