Chapter Text
Robert thought that the kettle seemed louder than usual. Usually its whistle wasn’t all that noticeable, but now it was as if it was ringing in his ears. He could barely think over it. Frankly, it was giving him a headache. However, a headache wouldn’t take him away from his cup of coffee. He survived off of this coffee.
Every lunch break, he'll turn on the kettle, grab “his” (company sponsored) mug, and throw a bunch of grains into the cup. There was a coffee machine, but he found it didn’t give him enough energy as the instant coffee did. Maybe it was because he put much more than the recommended amount, but it wasn’t really an issue.
To the relief of Robert’s ears, the kettle finally turns off with a click. One hand goes to grab the handle and tip it near the lip of his mug; his other hand rubbing the corners of his eyes. There has been this weight that has been pulling down his eyelids. It's been persistent for a few days, maybe a week. It wasn’t like he was getting any less sleep, in fact he’s been getting more than usual. He just feels so tired.
The mug fills with dark, steaming liquid. Robert sets the kettle down and picks up the mug, his hip leaning on the counter. He hits his hip a bit too hard on the counter, the bone and the countertop banging against each other. A long, deep yawn escapes his mouth, his eyes watering.
It was going to be a long day.
“Hey, boss,” Sonar breaks the silence in the breakroom.
Robert’s shoulders shoot up, his coffee splashing up in response. Luckily, none of it spilled anywhere.
“Jeez, I’m not gonna kill you. Chill.” Sonar leans calmly against the doorframe, watching Robert compose himself.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t think anyone was here.” Robert runs a hand through his hair, trying (and failing) to look steady.
“Sure. Yeah.” Sonar walks towards the fridge, opening it and grabbing some plastic box with his name on a sticky note. He goes and puts it in the microwave, punching in the time and closing it up. He then glances at Robert.
“Don’t you always have a twink or whatever for lunch?” Sonar notices Robert’s Twinkie-less hands.
“A what? Oh, Twinkie. Yeah. I guess.” He didn’t expect for Sonar to remember anything about him, especially not what he used to eat for lunch. “Not in the mood, I guess.”
“Are you just gonna have coffee? Isn’t that… not sustainable?”
Robert blinks once. Was he concerned?
“I mean, it’s not a big deal.” He could feel the goosebumps climb on his arms.
“Come to think of it, you are kinda scrawny.” Sonar leans in a bit, giving him an up-down.
“Hell yeah, motherfucker has the build of a fucking stick!” Prism joins in from the table, her feet propped up on the surface.
“I’m not like… skinny… It’s how I was born, you know?” Robert tries to reason, not enjoying the spotlight on his figure.
“Girl. No one is born that skinny.” Prism’s glasses tilt down, now giving Robert another up-down.
“I’m not that skinny.”
“You are dude. How much do you even weigh?” Sonar pipes in, chewing with his mouth open. Bits and pieces of red meat were displayed as he spoke.
“I don’t know, average?”
Sonar and Prism give each other a look. Prism’s mouth was turned upwards.
“It’s not that big of a deal. Why are we having this conversation again?” Robert brings his mug to his lips.
Prism shrugs and goes back to occupying herself with her phone.
“Just asking, man.” Sonar grabs his plastic container and leaves the breakroom.
Was he skinny? He was always skinny as a kid. It wasn’t a bad thing to be on the leaner side…
A sort of pride filled up in Robert’s chest. Some sort of tangible evidence that years of battle and struggle had affected him. Or something like that. It was a problem to think about later, so later he would think about it. (He will not.)