Chapter Text
When he comes home, James is on his back, lifting weights. This place is now home only in the sense that it's a roof over Robert's head and a place for him to eat—they might not have exchanged more than a handful of words since the fight, but James is still insistent on making sure Robert doesn't go hungry… for some reason. Maybe he plans to poison him, or maybe he's been doing that for the past few days, little by little, so that tonight Robert will slip away in his sleep…
"Hey," James says, without looking up. "Dinner?"
"I'm not hungry."
He gets no response. Robert hasn't had much of an appetite for a while now. James is probably used to it… or waiting for him to starve so he doesn't have to—
Robert crosses the corridor and sits in James's guest room, the one reserved for family—he figures, given the persistent dog stench and the framed photo on the wall of at least two dozen people, some of whom don't even look related.
It is here that the crying begins.
The wave hits him so fiercely that its force is nearly concussive. Something rings in Robert's head, in his ears, a great godawful noise tears out of him and makes him wail harder for fear that blood will come out of his mouth and stain the beautiful quilt he's sitting on. Then the same noise again, and again, and again. Fat tears roll into his nose and salty snot pours into his mouth. Trying to stop the drama is like trying to hide a body: it always finds a way out. He can't sink his teeth into a pillow, because that's vandalism, and he can't sink them into his hand, because that's self-harm, which is bad, apparently, though no one has sufficiently explained to him why; so Robert flaps his hands uselessly, bursting at the seams with shame, seeing in his mind's eye a spoilt child throwing a tantrum the very first time he's ever been told no.
And as if it couldn't get any worse, a dumbbell clatters to the floor.
As soon as the door opens, Robert draws in one last wet, sucking breath before he falls silent. He's gotten good like that. He remembers getting so good that Master would technically let him cry as much as he liked, sometimes, if he happened to be feeling charitable, so long as Robert could stop when Master needed him. James won't suspect a thi—
"…What's the matter?"
Fuck.
Fuck, Robert realizes, no, not now, you can't be nice to me now or I'll cry again…
He's vaguely cognizant of James sitting next to him. "Sugar, talk to me."
I can't! How can I possibly! Robert buries his face in his hands. His body shakes with another desperately-suppressed wail.
James is quiet for a long time.
"You know I love you, right?" he says at last, an unbearable sadness in his voice. Robert is very still. Any answer is the wrong answer now—now, when he doesn't even know what love looks like anymore, when he's forced to admit that maybe he never did.
He doesn't know. But he wants to believe.
"…I know."
At last. Robert can breathe a little. Shakily, shallowly, but he can breathe. This, whatever it is, feels much better than clinging to the war drum of Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you ruined what love was for me, you took it away.
He says it again now, feeling the shape the words take in his mouth. "I know. I—Jay, I—I love…"
James's ears rise. His eyebrows, too, his whole, poor, sweet face lifting in hope. But Robert can't say it. He chokes. If James's face falls again, he won't ever forgive himself.
But it doesn't.
"…I'm sorry I got snippy with you," James says softly, without meeting Robert's eyes. "That's as good a place to start as any, right?"
"I did it first."
"I know that. I just don't understand why. I didn't do anything." When James finally turns to him, his eyes are clear, earnest, frankly heartbroken. "All I wanted was to do somethin' nice for you, like I always do, and you… you… it hurt, Robert, you hurt me."
"I know." Now it's Robert's turn to look away. "And it wasn't you, I swear, I—" He sniffles. "I… want to trust you, I thought I'd learned how, but I'm not used to someone being nice and I got scared, I got scared, James, I'm sorry—"
"Baby…"
"—I thought I'd do something wrong and you'd—you—you'd—so I figured I might as well get it over with, except you didn't and I hurt you—"
This time, when James pulls Robert into his fuzzy, burly arms, Robert doesn't pull away.
"Breathe for me, baby. C'mon. You can do it… there you go… easy… that's better…"
God. Normally he hates this. This breathing shit. How it works sometimes but not always, when he's stressed but not when he's panicked out of his mind. But this time every inhale fills his head with James's scent, his sweat and cologne and the motor oil he works with all day, and as soon as it hits his olfactory bulb he relaxes.
"Good job." James really doesn't know what he's doing, does he? He can't know, how could he, about the soft warm unthinkingness those two words instill in Robert. "I… can't say I fully understand… but I forgive you. Okay?"
"Thank… you…"
"You're safe with me." There's a smile in James's voice. "If I wanted to be a bully I would be. It wouldn't be very hard for me. But I'm not. Right?"
"Right… but—"
"'But' nothing, sweetie. Shhh. I forgive you, and I promise I won't hurt you if I can help it… but only if you promise me the same."
He pulls Robert away by his shoulders to ensure he can answer lucidly.
"You promise?"
Robert crawls out of his haze to find himself exhausted. Blue eyes meet brown. All he wants is a burrow to crawl into, a place to fly to when it gets cold. And he has it. Right here. He has to believe that. What else is there to believe in? What else is there? This time he really does look into his own eyes, into the eyes of a man who forgives like a dog.
He can’t abuse that. So he won’t.
"…I promise."