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“Michael.”
“God, you REALLY love that first-name basis, don’t ya?”
“You can’t ignore me forever.”
“Willing to make a bet on that?”
Disapproval hangs heavy in the air. Robby is trying to pretend it doesn’t exist, but Caleb’s unflinching gaze makes it very clear that the disapproval is there, it does exist, and no amount of deflection or blatant ignorance is going to make it go away any faster. But Robby wouldn’t be Robby if he didn’t ignore the blatant, emotional elephant in the room.
Their relationship has always been complicated—Caleb, therapy, all of it.
Caleb had been one of the rare exceptions to Robby’s seven-week agenda. It was never meant to last longer than that; it was never supposed to get personal, and there weren’t supposed to be feelings involved. But as Robby has perfectly demonstrated, he did let his feelings get involved, he allowed the strings to attach themselves to his back like some kind of emotional marionette, and he’s paying the price for it.
Caleb was a lovely man. Kind, deeply introspective, a great listener, a truly empathetic soul if Robby has ever met one. What was supposed to be just one morning spent in the other's presence became two, then three, then four. Robby lost count after it had gone beyond the seven-week deadline. Before Robby realized it, he had begun to look forward to the many quirks that accompanied a man like Caleb Jefferson, mentally cataloging them within a dusty file cabinet that hadn’t been touched in years.
The way his hair, usually neatly combed on both sides, looked like someone had run it through a hurricane when he rose out of bed. The sunlight would catch on those silver patches in his facial hair, gleaming off them, making him look utterly transcendent. Caleb would fumble for his glasses on the nightstand, only to realize he left them dangling around his neck, forgotten for hours on end. He’d place a gentle kiss at the corner of Robby’s eyebrow, urging him to sleep, to let the problems of today and the day after wait for just another hour or two.
Caleb’s presence always announced itself silently, non-verbally. The squeaky hinge in his wheelchair would give him away as he’d roll past Robby and right towards the coffee pot. That little squeak had become so commonplace in Robby’s world that it made him act on instinct. That little sound was how he knew to prep a cup of coffee in advance, handing it to Caleb in passing. Caleb would look at him with a smile, and Robby’s entire worldview would narrow down to those little upturns at the corners of his lips. Caleb constantly badgered Robby to remind him to get that squeaky hinge fixed, but Robby never did. He was attached to that slight sound and the sense of familiarity it brought into his life.
Before Robby knew it, Caleb was beginning to sprout roots, and those roots were beginning to attach themselves to the complex neural pathways that make up Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. He knows he should have dug out those routes when he had the chance, chopped them out, and discarded them. But it was too late; they were in deep, and Robby simply didn’t have it in him to put a stop to their growth.
Seven weeks had gone by. Caleb was still here, and Robby was drowning in the deep end, not wanting to resurface. Morning coffee’s turned into walks in the park. And every time, Robby found himself insisting on pushing Caleb through the lush greenery. Caleb would give him hell for it, and Robby would give him equal amounts of hell right back.
“Michael, I can roll my own wheels just fine. You don’t have to push me around like an invalid.”
“Oh yeah?” Robby’s lips would turn up at the corners ever so slightly, his words teasing but carrying a certain warmth to them. “Then stop me, tough guy.”
Caleb would relent, giving Robby a glare that had no real heat behind it, and Robby would count it as a personal victory and continue on their walk. Their talks were quiet, often pointless, but special in their own way, blending in with the birds' chirping and the locals' passing conversation.
Those small talks and quiet conversations always left Robby with a lingering warmth in his chest, like a tickle in his throat that he can’t rid himself of. It always left him feeling lighter on his feet, giving his step a pep he never realized he lacked. He became addicted to it, and before long, that warmth began to take priority over all else. Caleb’s own well-being always ended up coming before his own.
If Caleb was displeased with something, so was Robby. He’d put all his time, all his focus into dealing with all of the minor inconveniences that came up in Caleb’s life. If his glasses were askew by even an inch, Robby gave them a small nudge, a slight adjustment. If the pages of Caleb’s favorite book remained stubbornly stuck together, Robby would separate them. Anything and everything, as long as Caleb would look at him with that smile, that warmth in his eyes that chased away the cold, hard cynicism that etched itself into his skin like a permanent scar.
Caleb noticed this, of course, he did. He noticed everything. He wouldn’t say anything, not at first. Not until the topic of conversation turned to Robby. Caleb would ask him how he’s doing, and Robby would freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Michael, I’m flattered you want to make sure I’m taken care of, but…” And then those eyes would look up at him, affectionate, loving, concerned. “...how are you doing?”
And Robby would stand there, mouth hung open like a fish on a hook. And then the reality of it would all come crashing down around him. Robby’s feelings are kept in a regularly maintained glass bottle, a bottle he polishes at least once or twice a month. Every new problem that pops up in his life, he shoves into the bottle. The glass would crack, and Robby would pay it no mind.
The cracks only got wider the longer Caleb was around. In favor of ensuring Caleb’s comfort and contentment, Robby neglected his own. Not that he ever paid it much heed to begin with. So he’d just stand there, looking at Caleb, looking into those eyes that pleaded for him to open up the bottle, to let it all pour out, and all of Robby’s old defense mechanisms would begin to creak and creak, rusty from disuse, a horrible screeching.
Robby would give a weak, half-hearted response, “I’m fine.”
Because he was fine. He was. As long as Caleb was fine, he was fine; that’s how this works. That’s how it was supposed to work. That’s how it was always supposed to work. But things are just never that simple, never that easy.
Caleb is a kind and understanding man. But even the most patient of souls has its limits. Every attempt to open the bottle of Robby’s emotions was met with the same response: crossed arms in a feeble attempt at protection, and a series of quiet and gruff I’m fine’s and Don’t feel like talking about it right now.
Without even realizing it, those roots that Caleb had established within Robby’s brain were beginning to shift, to pry themselves loose. Robby never lifted a finger. It was all Caleb’s doing. His patience had reached its limit, and he could no longer wait on a man who refused to take some time for himself.
It all culminated in one big argument. Words were thrown, childish insults shot back and forth like active gunfire. A warzone of emotional detachment and silent cries for help. Robby’s tipping point came fast, and it didn’t hit the brakes for anything.
“Will you just GET OFF MY DAMN BACK FOR A SECOND?!”
Robby’s arms swung wildly, a last-ditch effort at emotional self-defense. It connected with something heavy and solid, a lamp that Caleb insisted went well with the interior design. It went down to the ground, the ceramic that made up its foundation shattering on impact. The yelling stopped, the insults halted, and Robby’s ragged breathing seemed louder, like his own emotional turmoil was being blasted on loudspeakers.
Caleb said nothing, his breathing only slightly uneven. He would look Robby in the eyes, a last-ditch silent plea for Robby to pop the top off of the bottle, to just let him in. But Robby doesn’t. He keeps the lid on tight with superglue, refusing to let it budge so much as an inch. Robby’s decision was made, and so too was Caleb’s.
There were no dramatic farewells, no tear-filled goodbyes. Just the squeak of Caleb’s wheelchair as he turned himself around to the door. The squeak grew farther and farther away, a sound that had once been a comfort to Robby. Now it scares him. Not because of the implications it brings, but because of the reality that he might no longer get to hear it in the early mornings, that there’d no longer be a reason to prep that second cup of coffee in the morning.
Caleb would pause at the door, warring with the decision to look back just one more time or keep on moving. He kept on moving, and he didn’t stop. And when the door closed behind him, the cracks on Robby’s bottle of emotions were too much. They shattered, and so too did he. A crumpled mess on the floor, eyes burning with tears that just wouldn’t stop, rocking himself back and forth like a scared child who just had a horrific nightmare.
That’s what Robby would hope for. That this was all just a nightmare. That any moment from now, he’d be waking up next to Caleb, being the first one to watch his eyes drift open, to see the smile on his face that had become a staple in Robby’s life.
But this was no dream.
This was reality.
And the reality is that Michael Robinavitch is simply a man. A man who pushes people away, keeps them at arm's length, and holds them there. A man who will rebuild that emotional glass bottle over and over again, watching it crack, listening to it creak, waiting for it to shatter. And then he’d repeat the whole process all over again like a broken record.
He’d mutter quietly to himself between sobs.
“Don’t go…”
But Caleb already left.
“Come back…”
But Caleb wasn’t coming back.
“I’m sorry…”
And he was. He really, truly was. And he wants to say that to Caleb’s face, but he can’t. Not anymore. He lost that right.
Fast forward to now, to the present, and things haven’t changed.
Robby continues to pretend like everything is normal, all while intentionally avoiding eye contact. And Caleb would fight his damned hardest to make that eye contact happen.
Look at me, please, Caleb’s eyes would say. Let me see the man I know is in there.
But Robby won’t budge, not so much as an inch. His eyes will remain glued to the patient board as if it’s the most fascinating subject in the world. He’ll drown himself in work, work, and more work, and he won’t spare a single second of it for Caleb.
Caleb lingers for a few moments longer. Robby’s stubbornness knows no end, and just like before, Caleb knows when to stop fighting a losing battle. So he turns his wheelchair right around. The squeak of it registered in Robby’s brain for a second, two seconds. Familiar, warm. But Robby’s head refuses to budge.
And just like the day Caleb wheeled himself right out of Robby’s life, that squeak grows further and further away, blending in with the beeping machines, the nurses' voices, and an announcement over the PA system. Until it became a faded hum, just another noise, just another distraction.
Caleb would pause, just as he did that day. He doesn’t turn his head, but his voice reaches Robby all the same.
“Michael.”
There’s a pause, a shift in the air. Robby’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t turn his head. Caleb’s mouth opens and closes, wanting to say so much but knowing it’ll only be met by a wall of resistance. Still, he tries. Just once more.
“...my door is always open if you change your mind.”
And then he’s wheeling himself off, disappearing among the crowd of various other hospital goers. The words had, in fact, reached Robby. Like a tiny little whack at the glass bottle. It didn’t break, didn’t shatter, not even close, but it did crack. A small splinter that will eventually expand with enough pressure.
It shows in the way Robby’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He doesn’t let them fall. He won’t let them fall. Not now. Not when lives need saving, not when other people’s needs have to take priority over his own. He drags a hand over his face, gripping his own jaw with more force than necessary. He mutters a quiet curse under his breath.
“...fuck.”