Get What You Need by Jeanette Grey

day. He’d told Greg it would all be okay, and it had felt so good.
    And Greg wanted that, so badly it competed with the throbbing in his skull and the squeezing of his heart, the fear there.
    The door eased open, shining a line of light into the darkness, and Greg squinted. A shower of firecrackers went off in Greg’s skull, but he could make out Marsh’s face through the gap. Marsh’s gaze darted around the room before settling on Greg, and he frowned. “Sorry, were you asleep?”
    “I wish.” Greg shaded his eyes with his hand against the brightness. Haloes still ringed his vision, but the auras weren’t dancing quite so sickeningly. He waved his other hand toward his head. “Just…migraine.”
    “Ouch.” Marsh made a sympathetic face.
    “Yeah.”
    And there was a moment, awkward and stretching as Marsh hovered in the door. Greg’s stomach, already unsettled, sank a little. Except for that first time, Marsh had only ever come to Greg for sex. He hadn’t come here to watch Greg be a shivering mess or to rub warmth into his skin or comfort him with mumbled reassurances.
    Marsh’s uncertainty was written into every line of him as he hovered. He jerked a thumb to point behind him. “I’ll come back later, I guess?”
    “Do you wanna come in?” And it was stupid. So dumb.
    “Um…”
    “You don’t have to,” Greg backtracked, and he closed his eyes. “I mean, I’m not up for…what we usually do.” Sex was beyond off the table right now. “But you could hang out for a bit. If you wanted to.”
    Marsh laughed, a little uncertainty clinging to the edges, but the sound was rich and warm. “Yeah, I can stay a little while.” Did he sound…relieved?
    Marsh slipped inside and closed the door, leaving the room comfortingly dim again. The scuffing sounds of his feet on the carpet paused, and Greg could almost see Marsh looking between the chair and the bed. With a groan, Greg shoved himself over, leaving room. Just take the invitation.
    There was another moment’s hesitation when Greg scarcely breathed, then movement again, coming closer to the bed, and Greg melted into the mattress.
    “Can I?”
    “Yeah,” Greg said. Please.
    The mattress shifted as Marsh sat where Greg had been lying, his back against the headboard. It was probably pathetic to be so comforted just by having Marsh close. He wanted to shift even farther over and settle his head in Marsh’s lap. Reach out and place Marsh’s hand on the base of his neck. Instead, he slid his arm forward to rest his own hand on Marsh’s thigh. The muscle there was solid and warm through a layer of denim, and it was enough.
    Except then Marsh brushed Greg’s hair from his face. A broad palm settled, light as can be, on the back of Greg’s head, thumb stroking gently at his temple, and Greg let out a little noise, it felt so good.
    “Sorry—”
    “No.” Greg grabbed at Marsh’s wrist when he made as if to pull away. No. Please. “Just—” He didn’t have words for what he wanted, but Marsh seemed to hear them all the same. The tension went out of his body, as fingers resumed massaging gently against Greg’s scalp, and it was soothing and perfect and made the pain simmer down just a little. Just enough to be okay.
    “I’m not hurting you?”
    “No.” Greg let go of Marsh’s wrist and put his hand on Marsh’s thigh again, relaxing into the simple pleasure of touching and being touched and not being alone.
    For a few blissful minutes, he soaked it up in silence, but the motion of the fingers in his hair wasn’t as easy as he would have liked. The muscles beneath his hand weren’t lax and soft, and then all Greg could hear was the beating of his own heart, and it echoed, guilty and hollow. He looked up to find Marsh staring into space. Greg swallowed and closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “This probably isn’t what you wanted.”
    “It’s fine,” Marsh’s hand stuttered against Greg’s scalp. “Do you want—do you want to