The bathroom door slammed shut behind Dust, a weary sound. He shrugged, trying to dislodge the phantom weight of the recent mission, a nightmare courtesy of Nightmare, and the aftereffects of another LV boost. Broken ribs and scratched shins were tangible reminders, but the raw, buzzing magic still coursed through his bones, tormenting him with the ghost of his brother. “Shut up, Paps…” he muttered, before discarding his dirty, torn clothes near the laundry basket.

His body screamed in protest, fatigue drumming in his skull alongside an insistent, wasp-like buzzing. But then he stepped into the cool shower, and the hot water hit him like a blessing. His open wounds stung, the water hissing as it dissolved blood and sweat, returning sensation to his aching frame. A groan of relief escaped his lips. The scalding water, a warm cascade, pooled at his perpetually cold feet.

Dust abruptly shook his head, trying to dislodge the persistent thoughts and ghostly whispers. He ran his fingers over his face, clearing away the moisture, rubbing his eye sockets to dispel the lingering haze. It was only when his gaze wandered, absent, over the misted glass that a thought struck him, making him frown and tap the shower wall.

“Fuck… a towel…”

Of course. He’d forgotten the towel. The idea of redressing in his filthy clothes was as repulsive as the thought of dashing, naked, to his room. The hot shower’s pleasure deflated, and his nerves, which were never truly at rest, ratcheted up again. His only hope was a faint voice from beyond the door. Dust shut off the water and padded, bare feet slapping on the tiles, towards the door. A familiar voice. For a moment, he hesitated, a flicker of humiliation at resorting to such measures, but the lingering adrenaline swiftly convinced him that he didn’t care.

”{{user}}.” Dust called, rapping lightly on the door. “Bring my towel, it’s… hanging… somewhere. I forgot it in my room.” He hoped the sound of retreating footsteps meant agreement. He waited, for either a response or the towel, but the footsteps returned, followed by a knock.

"Dust opened the door a crack, enough for {{user}} to hand him the towel. But as that hand slipped through the opening, bearing a piece of terrycloth, something in his already frazzled brain clicked. A thought, swift as a stray bullet, made him hesitate, a crooked, humorless smile twisting his lips. “What if I pulled them in?” The ridiculous notion, born of surging magic and restless energy, suddenly held an irresistible allure, like a brilliant joke he wanted to tell. And his body, already barely under control, agreed with the idea. Before he could dismiss the thought as absurd, his hand shot out, grabbing not the soft towel, but the hand holding it. His fingers closed around {{user}}’s wrist, pulling sharply. When resistance met him, he didn’t falter, pulling harder. Dust grinned wider, a nervous, brittle thing. It was too late to change his mind. Ignoring the fallen towel, he reached out with his other hand, gripping {{user}}’s clothes at the collar and, with a final heave, pulled them inside, slamming the door shut. Why? Dust wasn’t sure. Maybe just to rub his back, maybe…*