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It starts small; a gadget here, a component there – tiny things, trinkets that simply happen to catch Dustin’s eye for whatever reason – and soon he’s got a growing collection taking over the surface of his desk.
It’s a nice collection, he decides. The things he’s gathered for himself are all useful, each and every one something that he can use for his projects; components like shiny copper wires, resistors and capacitors and transistors, microprocessors and sensors.
He feels good knowing the collection’s there, safely stored in his bedroom, and he sometimes finds himself fussing over it – rearranging the order of the items, grouping them in different clusters according to their material or size, or the projects he’s thinking about using them for.
He’s always been a bit of a collector, especially when it comes to things he might be able to upcycle, so he doesn’t think too much of it at first – at least not until two months into his freshman year when he accidentally sets his bed on fire.
//
He dreams of the Russian bunker, of flashing red lights and sirens as he makes his way through its bowels of hallways, frantically trying to find a way out.
Steve’s there too, beaten and bloodied in his stupid sailor’s uniform, unsteady on his feet as he tries to keep up, but he’s too slow – falling behind, breathing ragged and sounding strangely wet in a way that can’t be good.
Dustin runs his hands along the walls but there are no doors – why are there no doors? – and there’s a chittering sound coming from somewhere below; when he looks down, past his feet and through the floor grating, he can see shadows moving, circling beneath the spot he’s standing like a giant school of sharks.
The sound of claws on metal is somehow audible even above the blare of the siren, and Dustin has the clarity to think that strange just before the floor warps, grating bursting open as a herd of demodogs come clawing their way up and out. Dustin’s knocked on his ass, helplessly scrambling away as they hiss and growl, scenting the air, and there are too many of them and they’re too fast, and he can’t do anything but watch as they descend on Steve.
They tear him to pieces, his screams echoing along the hallway, and Dustin screams too, until his chest is burning and all he can taste is smoke—
—and then he wakes up, feeling the flames nip at his fingertips.
It’s a small fire – tiny enough that he’s easily able to smother it with his pillow before his mom comes barging into his room, beckoned by his surprised shout – but the charred sheets mean that there’s no hiding what happened.
It’s enough for his mom to pull him out of school for the day and drag him to see a specialist doctor in Indianapolis, who hums and haws as he pokes and prods at Dustin and makes him answer seemingly random questions.
Trauma response. That’s what the doctor ends up diagnosing it as, and it makes Dustin’s mom nervously wring her hands in her lap.
“But his father barely has any traits!” she says, like she’s trying to convince the doctor that he’s wrong, and Dustin squirms in his seat because there’s a burgeoning itch starting to develop between his shoulder blades.
The doctor sighs. “But it says here that his father is a drake?” he confirms as he flips through Dustin’s chart, brows furrowed.
“Only a quarter!” Dustin’s mom insists, and Dustin tries to not claw at the back of his neck because fuck, all of a sudden he feels like he’s breaking out in hives.
“It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,” the doctor gently explains. “Dragon genes aren’t diluted in the same way human genes are. Dustin might be half dragon or one-sixteenth dragon – it doesn’t matter. He’s still part dragon, and that part of his genetic makeup will make itself known with a vengeance if it so pleases. You’ll find that it’s more common than you might think, especially among children and teenagers.”
Dustin’s mom reaches out to grab his hand. “Oh, Dusty,” she says, tearful and apologetic.
The doctor passes Dustin a tongue depressor, which Dustin gratefully accepts and sticks down the back of his shirt to scratch at his upper back, toes curling in pleasure at the instant relief it brings.
“I don’t understand how this happened,” his mom laments, and the doctor takes a seat at his desk.
“Trauma response,” he says as he closes Dustin’s file and sets it to the side, “is a response to trauma, just as the name suggests. We don’t know the exact science behind it, but, as of now, the working theory is that if certain conditions are met, a highly stressful event will sometimes cause dormant dragon genes to activate in order to increase future chances of survival.”
“Oh!” Dustin’s mom exclaims as she raises a hand to her chest. “There was a fire. My poor Dusty almost didn’t make it out alive!” Her voice wobbles. “Do you think that might have caused it?”
“It’s very likely,” the doctor says. He turns to peer at Dustin, who’s desperately scratching at a certain spot behind his ear and wishing he had another tongue depressor so that he could work on more than one place at once. “When did the fire happen?”
“Three months ago,” his mom answers.
The doctor hums. “Then that could very well be it. Sometimes it takes a while for the changes to appear, but once they do the onset is rapid. He displayed no symptoms yesterday?”
“No, none at all!”
“I see,” the doctor says. “Well, there’s not much to do but let it run its course, I’m afraid. I have some material I can give you to read, and please give me a call if there are any significant physical changes. Gigantism, full-body transformation – anything of that kind.”
Dustin’s head jerks up. “Wait, what?” he says.
//
There’s a knock on his bedroom door.
“Honey?” his mom says from the other side. “Steve’s here. Do you want to see him?”
Dustin frowns as he burrows his way further beneath the covers. The Party had stopped by earlier and he’d refused to let any of them in, unwilling to answer the questions they’d be sure to have. Steve’s different, though; he probably won’t be interested in the hows and whys of what’s happening, or will at least have enough common sense to realize that Dustin’s not in the mood to talk about it – unlike certain other people – and now that Dustin thinks about it, he does feel an urge to see him, especially after last night’s nightmare.
“Okay,” he croaks, and there’s some hushed whispering on the other side of the door before it opens and Steve slips inside.
“Hey, man,” he murmurs. He’s got a soft, sympathetic look on his face, but for some reason Dustin finds it comforting rather than patronizing.
“Hi,” he grumbles in reply, face half-covered by his blanket.
“So,” Steve says as he takes a seat at Dustin’s desk. “Dragons, huh?”
Dustin sighs. “Yeah.”
Steve nods and glances at the collection on Dustin’s desk, hesitating before reaching out to pick one of the sensors up, and Dustin braces himself for the sudden feeling of annoyance-panic-anger at having someone mess with his stuff, but surprisingly it doesn’t come.
“So is the dragon thing the reason for, uh—” Steve raises the sensor, giving it a little wiggle, and Dustin suppresses the urge to squirm in embarrassment.
“It’s my hoard,” he mutters.
Steve blinks. “Your hoard.”
Dustin grunts in reply.
“Huh,” Steve says. “So you couldn’t find any gold or gems or, y’know, actual cash?”
Dustin shoves the blanket away from his face. “That’s a harmful and outdated stereotype,” he primly informs Steve, because he’s learned as much this morning from the material the doctor had given him to read.
“Sorry,” Steve says, though he doesn’t actually sound that contrite, and Dustin can’t say he minds much, seeing as he himself had honestly been none the wiser until he read the pamphlet.
“S’fine,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. He’s spent the past few hours curled up on his side because of— because of reasons, and his body’s kind of starting to protest the fact.
Steve places the sensor back on the desk – almost exactly in its proper place, much to Dustin’s pleasure – and he looks a bit concerned.
‟Your mom said that you’re in pain.”
Dustin hesitates, because while that part might be true, it’s also a bit embarrassing. ‟I’m mostly itchy,” he says instead. ‟It’s— My scales are coming in, and they’re hard to reach.”
‟For real?” Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise.
‟Yes, Steve, for real,” Dustin snaps. ‟I’m a dragon now. What part of that don’t you get?”
Steve makes a face. ‟Sorry,” he says again, and this time he does actually look remorseful.
Dustin takes a deep breath. ‟No, it’s fine,” he says. ‟I’m just— Yeah, it hurts. Not real bad, but it’s kind of like growing pains, y’know?”
‟Yeah,” Steve says, and he’s tall, so Dustin figures he knows all about it.
‟I have horns now,” he blurts out, and immediately wants to take it back as Steve’s eyebrows continue their journey north.
‟You have—”
‟Not big ones! They’re, like, vestigial!”
Steve looks even more confused at that.
‟Here,” Dustin says, ‟look,” and he reaches up to carefully part his hair, so that Steve can see one of the two small nubs extruding from his skull above his temples, just beyond his hairline.
‟Ouch,” Steve says, because the hair is caked in dry, flaking blood from where the horns split the skin on their way out, and Dustin lets his hand drop back down.
‟I heal pretty fast now,” he tells Steve, ‟so they’re just sore. And I don’t think they’ll be growing any bigger.”
‟And that’s— good?” Steve says, like he’s trying to gauge if he should be happy or disappointed for Dustin’s sake. ‟What?” he continues when Dustin glowers at him. ‟Horns are pretty cool! I figured maybe you’d want real big ones.”
‟Well I don’t,” Dustin mutters as he tucks the blanket tighter below his chin.
‟C’mon, man,” Steve says. ‟Don’t be like that. What can I do to help?”
Dustin purses his lips. His mom had asked as much before, but he hadn’t been that keen on letting her touch him. He’d eventually allowed her close enough to brush her fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe his headache, but all that had done was nearly make Dustin weep in pain when she’d accidentally managed to bump her hand against one of his horns. Still…
‟Scratch my back?” he says.
Steve blinks. ‟Scratch your—”
‟It’s my scales!” Dustin quickly explains. ‟They’re on my back and they’re really hard to reach!”
‟Relax,” Steve drawls. ‟Don’t get all worked up. I mean, I’ll do it. I was just a bit surprised.”
He gets up from his chair and walks over to the bed, and Dustin helpfully scoots over to give Steve space to sit on the edge of the mattress.
‟Show me,” Steve says, and Dustin hesitates before lowering the blanket off his bare shoulders so that Steve can lean over and see the gold scales running from the base of his hairline all the way down along his spine.
‟So, uh,” Dustin says, trying not to squirm as Steve gets a good look. ‟Are you gonna—”
Steve places his palm between Dustin’s shoulder blades, at the spot where the scales spread wider to cover his shoulders and upper back, and Dustin inhales sharply in surprise.
‟You’re really warm,” Steve observes as he digs his fingers in and starts to apply pressure, scritching his way up Dustin’s spine like he knows exactly where Dustin needs it the most, and Dustin groans and arches into the touch. ‟That good, huh? They’re softer than they look.”
‟Guh,” Dustin pants, grabbing at Steve’s knee and digging his fingers into the fabric of his jeans.
‟Are you sure you’re not half-cat?” Steve asks. He sounds amused as he works his way up along the back of Dustin’s neck, fingers slipping into his hair before starting to make their way down again.
‟An eighth,” Dustin bites out.
‟What?”
Dustin grunts. ‟My dad is a quarter dragon. So I’m an eighth.”
‟Huh,” Steve says, like he hadn’t known, and Dustin’s too out of it to remember if he ever told him before.
He rolls over onto his stomach to give Steve more room to work, burrowing his head into his pillow and groaning plaintively as Steve’s touch falters.
‟Dude,” Steve says.
‟Ignore it,” Dustin tells him, voice muffled against the pillow.
‟Ignore it—? You have a tail!”
Dustin sighs. ‟It’s fine.”
‟I know it’s fine! It’s just— Doesn’t it hurt?”
Dustin blinks his eyes open and turns to look at Steve over his shoulder. ‟No shit, it hurts. My spine is literally growing out of the top of my ass.”
Steve winces. ‟Sorry,” he says, and his hand resumes its scratching, like some kind of apology, as Dustin turns back to his pillow.
‟S’okay,” he murmurs.
He can feel himself sinking deeper into the mattress, boneless as Steve shifts closer and puts his other hand to use too. It’s like getting the world’s best massage, and Dustin’s pretty sure his toes are curling with how good it feels. If he were a dog his tail would probably be wagging, but he’s not, so it doesn’t.
‟Dude,” Steve says, ‟are you purring?”
//
In the end, Dustin doesn’t end up with any of the cool dragon traits, like wings or fire breathing he can actually control. He gets the lame ones instead – the horns that are really just bumps, and the sometimes-itchy scales, and the tail, which, by the time Dustin’s done presenting, has grown long enough to almost drag along the ground, tapered and thicker than his forearm at its widest point at the base of where his spine used to end.
It makes sitting awkward though thankfully not painful, and his mom ends up having to alter all of his pants to accommodate his new limb – appendage? – which makes for a very long afternoon of playing model as she accidentally keeps poking him with sewing pins.
Luckily no one at school gives him much shit about it, probably because they believe fire breathing might now actually be in Dustin’s repertoire, and Dustin’s not about to let slip that the most he can muster is a tiny flame and even then he only manages it if he concentrates really hard.
There’s the hoarding too, of course; Dustin’s still snatching up interesting-looking components whenever he happens to spot them, and more than once he’s excused himself from his nightly chats with Suzie simply because he’s been too preoccupied with fussing over his collection.
The urge is pretty much inescapable, but to his dawning horror, it seems to extend beyond mere things because lately, he’s starting to suspect that he’s actually begun to hoard people too.
Well, person would probably be a more accurate way of putting it. Or maybe just Steve, because Dustin’s focus doesn’t really seem to extend to anyone else.
That’s normal, of course, because Steve’s pretty awesome, but it probably isn’t healthy for him to monopolize Steve’s time the way he’s been doing lately – insisting on rides both to and from school and Hellfire Club; dragging Steve over to his house for dinner at least three times a week; going over to Steve’s house the other four times, not even to eat but just to be close to him, even if that means doing his homework on the floor of the living room as Steve and Robin enjoy a movie night.
It’s all turning a bit obsessive, but the strange thing is that Steve doesn’t even seem to mind. He takes it in stride – feigns interest as Dustin shows him the newest gadget he’s found for his collection, and doesn’t protest much when Dustin interrupts movie nights to insist on having his scales scratched, crawling onto the couch and practically draping himself across Steve’s lap as Steve huffs but readily sticks a hand down the back of Dustin’s shirt, Robin kicking at his feet because apparently he’s somehow encroaching on her part of the couch.
In fact, Steve almost seems to like it. He’ll show up at Hellfire to give Dustin a ride home, and his expression will turn undeniably smug whenever Dustin’s attention instantly and inevitably switches focus from the gameplay to Steve, with no hope of Eddie regaining the upper hand.
Eddie hates it, of course; goes as far as accusing Steve of showing up early just to derail their sessions, and it makes Dustin’s chest feel strange, like there’s something inside, twisting hot like smoke and threatening to rumble its way out his throat.
He doesn’t know if he should read anything into it or not; the pamphlets only ever mention obsessing over things, not people, but it bothers him enough to bring it up to the doctor later that week during their monthly check-up phone call.
The doctor doesn’t sound very surprised at all – assures Dustin that it’s perfectly normal and offers to send some more pamphlets for him to read – and that’s about it, until Steve comes barging into Dustin’s bedroom the next morning.
//
‟You!” Steve says, stabbing a finger in Dustin’s direction as he slams the door to the room open, and Dustin nearly drops his latest find – a coil of nichrome wire he’d extracted from the hairdryer his mom had been about to throw away – before recovering and carefully placing it in its rightful place among this collection.
‟Me?” he says, and Steve groans and runs both his hands through his hair as he steps further into the room.
‟Yes, you, you fucking—” Steve whirls around and thrusts both his arms out. ‟Look!”
At first, Dustin has no idea what he’s talking about, but then Steve rotates his arms to show Dustin the inside of his forearms and suddenly Dustin can see it; the faint glimmer of gold wrapping around Steve’s wrists, no more than a small hint, but definitely something that shouldn’t be there – that he’s pretty sure hadn’t been there last night when Steve had dropped him off after Hellfire.
‟And here!” Steve says, reaching up to tug his collar to the side, and it’s more prominent there, scales breaking through the skin along his collarbones like tiny gold flakes, and Dustin thinks they’re beautiful.
‟Do they itch?” he asks, mouth feeling a bit dry, and Steve’s eyes widen.
‟Do they—” He sputters. ‟Dustin! You’ve given me some kind of— of dragon STD, and you’re asking me if it itches?!”
Dustin frowns. ‟But we haven’t—” he starts, and then he feels the heat rise in his face because the truth is, he wouldn’t be opposed.
He really, really wouldn’t be opposed, because Steve’s awesome and Dustin loves him a lot, and he feels all warm at the thought of Steve touching his back and maybe not stopping there – of following his scales all the way down to touch the base of his tail too – and Steve jerks back as if Dustin’s face gives away exactly what it is he’s thinking right now.
‟What,” Steve says, voice flat, and Dustin’s not even worried.
It’s strange, he thinks, because he probably should be worried. He has no idea what Steve might say or do next, but for some reason, he feels completely content; Steve’s wearing Dustin’s scales, and it’s enough for the dragon in him to want to purr in satisfaction, completely unconcerned by the way Steve’s staggering back to collapse onto Dustin’s bed, like he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him any longer.
‟Hold on,” Dustin tells him, and then he turns to his bookcase and starts to rifle through the latest bunch of material the doctor sent him – the ones that arrived just the other day and that Dustin barely glanced at because his mom had been making noise about throwing the hairdryer out and Dustin hadn’t even had a chance to take it apart yet.
‟Here,” he says, handing Steve one of the pamphlets, and Steve scowls and rips it out of his hand.
‟Dragon Mates: What You Need to Know,” he reads before glaring up at Dustin. ‟You fucking mated me?!”
Dustin squirms. ‟I think it’s, like, a mutual thing?” he says, feeling a bit ashamed for not having actually read the material. ‟Probably?”
‟Fuckin’ mutual thing,” Steve mutters as he starts to leaf through the pamphlet.
Dustin holds his breath and slowly inches closer to him, watching the way the skin of Steve’s arms seems to shimmer in the light, and he can see it better now; the way the scales encircle each of his wrists in a band and then seem to gracefully swirl up along his forearms in thin, delicate lines completely different from the way Dustin’s own have clustered along his back, almost heavy-handed in comparison.
The scales disappear beneath the arms of Steve’s T-shirt only to reappear along his throat, running up behind his ears and along his hairline before emerging at his temples again, and they’re faint at the moment, but Dustin hopes they’ll grow more prominent with time because they really are that beautiful. They’re shiny, gleaming as brilliantly as any other thing in Dustin’s hoard, and Steve looks like he truly belongs there now, among Dustin’s other things, just like Dustin’s subconscious apparently always knew he would.
‟Holy shit,” Steve groans, throwing the pamphlet onto the mattress and burying his face in his hands.
Dustin’s own hands hang restlessly by his sides. ‟Steve?”
‟Ah, fuck,” Steve sighs, and then he adds, ‟Yes.”
Dustin makes a questioning sound.
‟Yes,” Steve clarifies, voice muffled against his palms, ‟they fucking itch.”
Dustin blinks at that and then he swallows hard. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to touch the side of Steve’s neck, lightly trailing his fingers along the scales running up behind his ear, and Steve shudders.
‟Fuck,” he mutters, ‟what is my life,” and then he sits up and starts pulling his shirt off as Dustin hovers and tries not to squirm in anticipation.
Steve’s back is bare. The scales that swirl up his arms run across the top of his shoulders, dipping down to follow the lines of his collarbones before continuing up his neck, and Dustin carefully cups his palm over Steve’s right shoulder and presses his thumb over where the scales swoop towards the center of his throat, feeling Steve lean into the touch.
‟That’s it?” Steve says, voice a bit thready. ‟That’s all you got?” and Dustin responds by brushing his hand along the line of Steve’s collarbone, feeling emboldened, as Steve sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. ‟That’s— That’s something, alright,” he groans, but it’s a decidedly good sound.
‟Yeah,” Dustin agrees, reaching down to slowly wrap his fingers around one of Steve’s wrists, closing them over the band of scales there and feeling Steve tremble in response. ‟Yeah, it’s pretty great.”