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i. insomnia
Robert is forty years old, when he starts taking anti-depressants for the first time in his life. It’s not much of a birthday present - not what he’d imagined he might gift himself for turning forty, Robert of old dreaming of fancy holidays, and flash cars - but it’s the best gift he can come up with.
He’s tired.
The sort of tired you feel deep in your bones, tired that no amount of sleep can fix - a tired that he knows is so much deeper than long days at the farm, and the fatigue of hard graft done with your hands.
It’s a kind of mental tiredness he’s carried for years, now - longer than he’d care to admit to - and it’s a kind of tiredness that you can’t fix yourself.
That’s what Aaron had told him, when he’d knelt in front of a crying Robert, and quite literally begged him to get help, the terror in Aaron’s expression as he explained how scared he was about Robert’s mental state enough to make Robert agree to speak to a doctor about how he was feeling.
(“Not Liam,” Robert had said. “I’m not speaking to your step-dad about this.”
Aaron grimaced. “He’s not my step-dad,” he shook his head. “I’ll find someone else. Will you let me find someone else to help you, please?”
He asked in that genuinely pleading way that Robert had never been able to say no to, and so in the quiet of their new home, the aching familiarity of Emmerdale Farm, Robert found himself nodding a hesitant yes.
He needed help.)
Two months, four doctor’s appointments and six therapy sessions later, Robert’s brand new psychiatrist, a woman named Claire in her fifties who had the fashion sense of someone who both shopped, and got dressed, in the dark, advised that Robert had a severe case of PTSD, and that he could benefit from starting to take SSRIs.
(“Anti-depressants, you mean,” Robert corrected, the medication familiar. He’d lived with Aaron for years - he knew what the prescription bottle labelled sertaline that sat on their bathroom shelf did, and how it helped keep Aaron on track.
Robert had sat next to Aaron, in the appointment where they had been first prescribed, and he’d watched Aaron’s quiet relief at the chance to have something make him feel something other than sad. Sometimes Aaron felt nothing at all, because of them; but Robert knew that nothing was better than actively wanting to kill yourself.
“Well,” Claire said, her no-nonsense attitude to him the only reason he’d bothered to come back after this first session. That, and the fact that Aaron had insisted on driving him, so escaping when you had Aaron Dingle parked in front of the door was a hard sell. “You are depressed, aren’t you?”)
He was depressed.
Sometimes Robert thought he’d been depressed for a long time, even before prison - he’d just doggedly refused to accept a reality where there was a reasonable explanation for the sadness that had stuck to his skin his whole life.
Maybe - maybe prison had just been a final breaking point, the thing that made it impossible to ignore the way depression clung to him like an oil slick, never quite leaving him, regardless of how much he scrubbed at the feeling.
Claire had written the prescription for citalopram (“A half-dose, to begin with, and then we’ll reassess.”) and Robert had picked the bottle up from the pharmacy, and he’d stared at it for a week and a half before he could manage to convince himself to take it.
He had nothing against anti-depressants, was the thing.
Robert knew they worked - had seen the way they had changed Aaron’s life, when he started taking them - but he had some sort of strange mental block about them when it came to actually taking them himself. He wondered if perhaps it was his dad’s ghostly presence lingering in the back of his mind; Jack had never been the kind to take a paracetamol, let alone anti-depressants.
Robert was sure, if his dad was still alive, that he would wave off any concerns about mental illness with a snarky comment about how young people these days didn’t know how to get on with things and that would be the end of the conversation.
He’d really tried to get on with it, was the thing.
Robert was a resilient person - cockroaches, Nicola had described them as once, and she hadn’t been wrong. Robert knew how to survive - how to calculate, how to manipulate, how to get himself out of every bad situation he’d ever gotten himself into.
Except this one.
This was different.
Robert was exhausted - so fucking tired he could feel it in every cell of his body - and if taking a pill every day might go some of the way to fix it, then Robert would take his chances.
It had just taken him a while to come around to the idea of it, was all. It hadn’t been as easy as just filling the prescription, and taking the pills.
“It’s not going to kick in right away.”
Robert twisted to find Aaron standing in the doorway of their en-suite, looking tired. “Sorry,” he apologised, keeping his voice low. "I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Aaron shrugged, not looking entirely offended. “I woke up and you weren’t there,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I wanted to check if you were alright.”
Robert glanced down at the bottle in his hand, grimacing slightly. “I know I should take them,” he sighed, unable to keep the weariness out of his tone. He was so fucking tired. “I know I have to try.”
Aaron nodded. “You do have to try,” he agreed. “What’s worrying you about it, Robert? You’ve seen me take anti-depressants for years. It’s not a total unknown, is it?”
“It feels like admitting defeat,” Robert admitted quietly, because that’s how it felt - this was him admitting that he couldn’t do it alone, couldn’t handle his own thoughts to the point where he needed to take a pill to try and dull the noise.
Aaron didn’t look offended. He was calmer, these days - not all the time, no, but he tended to be in the moments where it counted, getting older smoothing out the rough edges of his fly-handle reactions. Sometimes, Robert wished he’d seen it happen in real time - other times, Robert was glad he didn’t, the grief that had changed Aaron something that would have been unbearable to witness.
“Was it admitting defeat when I started taking them?”
“No, but -”
“Why is it different for you?” Aaron interrupted - not harshly, no, but firmly, all the same.
“Because,” Robert mumbled petulantly. It’s not as though he had a good answer.
“You hold yourself to a different standard than everyone else,” Aaron continued, not phased by Robert’s toddler-like behaviour. “You need help, Robert - and this is help. If you had a migraine, you’d take a paracetamol. You’re depressed, so take an anti-depressant.”
“Is it that simple?”
Aaron hummed. “It can be,” he said. “Look - I’m not going to force you to, Robert, but you need to try something, and if you really don’t want to take those, you need to speak to Claire about another option. Yeah? You can’t keep living like this. I don’t want you to keep living like this.”
He paused, slow, careful as he closed the distance between them, wrapping an arm around Robert’s waist. “I love you - every version of you,” Aaron reassured. “But sometimes, this version of you doesn’t feel much like you at all. You deserve better than feeling sad all of the time, Robert.”
Robert leaned back into Aaron’s embrace, letting Aaron hold both of their weight. “I just - I can’t help but think that I’m making a meal out of it. You know? That my life isn’t that bad, so do I have any right to feel this way?”
“There’s not always a reason for why you feel depressed, Robert,” Aaron argued, pressing a kiss to Robert’s clothed shoulder. “But six years in prison is probably a good reason to start with. Don’t you think?”
Robert let his eyes flutter shut. He didn’t like to think about prison - let alone talk about it - and that was something he was working on with Claire. She claimed he couldn’t ignore it for the rest of his life, but Robert felt he was doing a bang up job of trying. It just - it wasn’t easy, to think about how lonely he had been, how heavy every second of those six years had been.
Aaron stayed quiet, letting Robert think.
He was good, like that.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Robert finally settled on, looking at their reflection in the mirror. He’d always thought they painted a pretty picture, the two of them together, and he still thought that, even if now he had new lines around his eyes, and Aaron’s dark hair was tinged with grey.
Getting older with Aaron was a privilege he had been so sure he’d lost, and so getting to have this, the two of them together, looking in their bathroom mirror at three o’clock in the morning, was more than he’d allowed himself dream of, when he was in prison.
Aaron’s fingers found their way under Robert’s pyjama top, cold hands pressed to the warm skin of Robert’s belly. “Then we try something else,” he replied easily - as though it was as simple as that.
Robert wanted it to be as simple as that.
He was tired, so fucking tired, and he didn’t know how much fight he had left in him.
Simple sounded like a dream.
Nodding, Robert double-checked the dose on the bottle, before popping the pill in his mouth, swallowing it down with the remains of a glass of water that had been left standing on the sink when they’d gone to bed. The pill tasted metallic, as it went down, and Robert couldn’t help but feel a bit silly, as he realised what a fuss he’d been making for weeks about actually taking the pills.
It’s not as if they had instantly made him different.
“I’m proud of you,” Aaron hummed, and the sentiment stunned Robert into a pliable silence that allowed Aaron to easily pull him back to bed.
The bed was still warm, and Robert didn’t fight against Aaron bullying Robert onto his side, Aaron wrapping his arms around Robert.
Robert was always happy to be the little spoon.
It didn’t take long for Aaron’s breathing to even out, his fiance sound asleep, even as Robert laid wide awake. It was too soon to blame the insomnia on the anti-depressants, Robert knew; he was no doctor, but he knew they needed longer than that to kick in.
No, the insomnia was an old friend, one that had lingered in his cramped cell in HMP Hotten, and had followed him home to Emmerdale, to Vic’s cottage, to Aaron’s flat, to the farm. He was used to the warm way that insomnia welcomed him, every night, the lack of sleep a reliable friend.
Still -
It was better to be awake when he was folded into Aaron’s tight embrace, than it was to be awake alone, so he’d take it as an improvement all the same.
ii. dry mouth
People in Emmerdale village liked to talk. Robert had always know this - it was the reality of rural life. Nothing much happened, so when something did, it was the talk of the village for weeks.
Unfortunately for him, he had done enough ridiculous nonsense over the years to have often been the subject of the village gossip, and today seemed to be another of those days.
He had a rare hour off from the farm, and Aaron was out on a scrap run, so Robert had decided he could justify taking himself to the cafe for an early lunch. He liked the bacon butties, and in fairness to him, Lewis made a stellar flat white, so the indulgence had felt worth it.
Except -
“Have you heard from our Kevin?”
Robert felt his heart slow to a stop in his chest as he looked up from his breakfast at Claudette, mouth suddenly, horribly dry. It must be the anti-depressants, he decided - the label had said that dry mouth could be a side effect of taking them, and now he’d been taking them for two weeks, the side effects had to be kicking in.
“Uh, no,” Robert shook his head, hoping Claudette would leave the conversation there.
No such luck.
Claudette settled herself in the chair across from him, handbag balanced carefully on her lap. “I know things didn’t end all too well, with the two of you - but I’m worried,” she said. “He’ll have been on his own for months now. I’d like to write to him, check in. Do you have an address for him?”
Fuck, no.
Robert didn’t want to know where he was. He knew he’d have to find out, one day, to start divorce proceedings, but for now, he was happy to let himself believe that Kev had started a new life down south, somewhere, hours from Emmerdale, nowhere near Robert.
“I don’t, no,” Robert managed to squeeze the words out.
“Are you planning to get in contact with him?” Claudette pushed.
Before Robert could try and string a sentence together, Nicola interrupted. “Robert, can I get your help with this delivery?” she asked sweetly, gesturing at the meagre selection of boxes on the floor. “I’ve done my back in, so I can’t lift them.”
Robert nodded numbly, standing on shaking legs, easily lifting the boxes off the floor. Nicola directed him into the tiny kitchen of the cafe, suddenly realising he had never actually been back there.
“Where should I leave them?” he asked.
“Oh, anywhere,” Nicola shrugged. “I just thought you could do with saving from Claudette.”
Robert set the boxes down carefully. “I - it’s fine,” he managed, but he wasn’t sure if it sounded believable.
“I have my own reasons for not wanting Kev to set foot in the village again,” Nicola said, fierce in her words. “But you’re one of those reasons too, Robert. He’s a fucking nightmare, and God help me, I consider you a friend - so I’d rather he didn’t come near you again. Is all.”
Robert couldn’t help but smile, a bit, at Nicola’s admission. He didn’t have many friends - he was happy to consider Nicola one. “You’re nicer than you let on,” he grinned, knowing it would rile her up.
“I’m not,” Nicola scoffed. “Now - get out of my kitchen. You’ve got work boots on.”
“Could I - could I get a glass of water?” Robert asked, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Have a dry throat, all of a sudden.”
Nicola nodded, but shooed him out of the kitchen all the same.
Claudette was gone, when Robert slid back into his seat, his bacon butty still warm.
The dry mouth lingered, even after he’d chugged the glass of water Nicola set in front of him, and Robert couldn’t do much else except blame the anti-depressants.
It would pass, surely.
iii. nausea
Robert liked to think he had a strong stomach. You had to have, to survive the slop they served you in prison, and even before that - he’d been married to Aaron, he knew what a shit dinner tasted like. Aaron had many skills, but cooking hadn’t been one of them, and he’d gotten a little better, over the years, but he was hardly Michelin star.
The point was -
Robert had a strong stomach.
Except -
Aaron had been out for a pint, with Mackenzie. He’d offered for Robert to join, but Robert had declined. Aaron needed to have friends he saw without Robert, and Robert wasn’t upset at the prospect of a quiet evening at home, reading.
Vic had bought him a Kindle for Christmas, and after six years in prison, Robert had plenty of reading to catch up on. He was trying to find some joy in his old hobbies again - at Claire’s request - and reading had always been his most consistent hobby.
So, Aaron had gone for a pint, and Robert had made himself a cup of mint tea, and settled into bed with a new book, because he was a hundred years old (Aaron’s words, not his - a glint of Liv’s sarcasm living on in her older brother) and he’d tried to focus on his book, waiting for Aaron to come home.
He’d heard the crash of the front door around midnight, grinning to himself as he realised he was about to get an armful of drunk Aaron. Four pint Aaron, he hoped - that was a version of Aaron that was a bit giggly, and soft around the edges, always willing to press smacking kisses to Robert’s face as he recounted his night out.
“Hiya,” Robert greeted softly as their bedroom door opened, Aaron’s coat halfway off as he stumbled in. “Good night?”
Aaron nodded, shrugging his jacket the rest of the way off. “Yeah,” he nodded, kicking off his trainers. “Mack’s - hic - proper cut up about Charity, so we had a bit too much to drink.”
“I can tell,” Robert hummed fondly, setting his Kindle down on his bedside locker. “I missed you.”
Aaron beamed, and Robert knew he’d said the right thing. “I wasn’t gone that long, soft lad,” he shook his head, plopping himself down on the edge of the bed. He’d want a shower, before he got into bed, Robert knew, so he was content with the prospect of a chat and a snog before Aaron schlepped off to the bathroom.
“I always miss you,” Robert replied, angling his chin, Aaron happily responding with a kiss.
He tasted like beer, and -
Robert couldn’t help the way he froze, the taste on Aaron’s lips horribly familiar.
Prison, and a tiny cramped cell, and the way Kev would taste like moonshine, the harsh taste always making Robert feel as though he was going to be sick as Kev kissed him - the way he’d always wanted to turn away from the kiss, but he knew that would only succeed in pissing Kev off, so he’d had to put up with it.
His stomach churned, and Robert knew he had to move - and fast.
“I’m going to be sick,” Robert shoved at a confused Aaron, kicking off the duvet as he ran for their en-suite, throwing the entire contents of his stomach up into the toilet, over and over, until there was nothing left.
He wasn’t entirely sure when Aaron had joined him, but he felt a reassuring hand on his back as he threw his guts up.
“You’re alright, it’s okay,” Aaron soothed, careful as he helped Robert sit back against the bath. Robert felt awful, shaky, and cold, as he sat there, pyjama top clinging to his chest with sweat.
“Hey, it’s okay, you’re alright,” he continued, wringing out a damp washcloth to wipe at Robert’s face. “What happened?”
Moonshine. Mack made it, sometimes, Robert knew - fucked about with it in one of the spare barns on the farm. It didn’t take a genius to guess that their heartbroken friend had decided to break it out, that evening.
“I don’t know,” Robert shook his head, giving Aaron a grateful smile as he made sure Robert’s face was clean. “I just felt nauseous, all of a sudden. It must be the anti-depressants - they said that could be a side affect.”
Something Robert couldn’t quite read flashed across Aaron’s face, but it was gone before Robert could question it. “Yeah,” Aaron hummed, drunkenness gone as he helped Robert to his feet. “Let’s uh - get you in the shower, yeah? I could do with one anyway.”
“Yeah,” he agreed easily. “That sounds good.”
Aaron nodded, reaching behind Robert to twist at the shower controls, the water loud as it hit against the tiles. He was gentle, as he undressed Robert, stained pyjamas thrown in the corner of the bathroom, ready to be added to their laundry basket afterwards.
“You get in first,” Aaron encouraged. “I’m just going to brush my teeth.”
(Robert was too tired to notice.)
iv. decreased sex drive
Robert had always liked sex. From the moment he’d started having it, Robert had liked sex - had enjoyed the way it made him feel, had enjoyed getting to make other people feel good. There was a sort of beautiful science, to sex - the learning of someone else’s body, figuring out what made them tick, what made them feel good.
Aaron had been the best experiment of his life. Learning what Aaron liked, and didn’t like, learning the best ways to make Aaron moan, and whimper, how to have him melting at the slightest touch, it had been an intoxicating adventure, and Robert had let himself drown in the indulgence of it for years.
It had been hot, and sexy, and addictive - and the longer they were together, the more Robert fell in love with him, the better the sex got. He’d always thought that comfort would breed boredom, but the comfort of the intimacy he shared with Aaron was life-affirming.
Robert was good at sex. He knew he was. He was a generous fucking lover, okay - he’d never had any bad reviews.
Which made this, here and now, all the more embarrassing.
“Robert,” Aaron’s hands were gentle, on his hips, thumbs pressing into the soft, sensitive skin there. “It’s fine. Don’t get weird about it.”
Robert stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom, trying his best not to think about how many people he knew had shagged right in this room. Being faced with his own inability to get hard was depressing enough without also thinking about whatever poor excuse for shag Cain Dingle’s had in that exact room.
“I can see you getting weird about it as I’m talking,” Aaron commented, pressing a kiss to the inside of Robert’s thigh. “Robert - it’s a pretty common side effect.”
Robert tore his gaze away from the ceiling to glare at Aaron. “And that makes it better, does it?”
“It explains it,” Aaron countered, annoyingly, unbearably calm. “Decreased sex drive - it says it on the packaging, which you read about a thousand times before you started actually taking the pills.”
Robert swallowed thickly, giving his traitorous, stubbornly soft dick an evil glare. “You could still fuck me.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “And have you get nothing out of it? No thanks,” he said, as if it were entirely obvious. He paused, then, something worried creeping into the edges of his expression. “Is that - is that something that’s happened to you before?”
Happened to him.
Aaron’s choice of phrasing made it sound so sordid.
Robert wriggled up onto his elbows, giving Aaron a confused look. “Yeah, I mean - I wasn’t always in the mood, when Kev would want to shag, so sometimes I just sort of - let him at it,” he said, because it was the truth - Kev had been insatiable in a way that Robert didn’t necessarily match. “You know how it is.”
Aaron looked as though he wanted to throw up, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t know how it is,” he said slowly, as though Robert was some sort of animal who could be easily spooked. “Because any time I wasn’t in the mood, or you weren’t - we didn’t have sex, Robert.”
And -
Oh.
Time made it easy to delude yourself, Robert was learning, and time had made him forget the details - of how Aaron would grimace, and say he wasn’t in the mood, and Robert would snog him senseless and cuddle him instead, or if Robert would made a quip about a sore head, and tired eyes, and Aaron would smile, and pivot, and hand Robert a cup of tea while he ran him a bath.
“Did you feel as though you weren’t allowed to say no, Robert?” Aaron’s tone was sickeningly gentle, and it made Robert want to throw up on the ugly fucking carpet of their room. He hated that carpet.
“It’s not what you think it is,” Robert shook his head, wishing he weren’t naked, there and then. “It’s not. I just - sex kept him calm, and happy, and if he were calm, and happy, there was less of a risk that he’d freak out. We were trapped in that cell all day long - twenty three hours a day, sometimes. If he freaked out, I had to deal with it, and so it was easier to just keep him happy. You know? Even if I wasn’t always in the mood. He tended to be, and he didn’t mind that I didn’t get hard.”
Bile was rising in Robert’s throat as he thought back, Kev’s clunky, awkward attempts at dirty talk swimming around his head - comments about how Robert was a perfect hole to fuck, how good he was to let Kev have what he needed.
“It was easier,” Robert repeated, sounding pitiful to his own ears as he made the admission, Aaron’s bright blue eyes swimming with tears - not for himself, no, but for Robert, as though Robert having sex with his husband (at the time) was something to cry about.
“Robert,” Aaron sounded genuinely devastated, as he spoke. “If it’s not a yes - it’s a no.”
Robert looked down at his bare torso, suddenly feeling sick. “I need - I need to get dressed,” he mumbled, wriggling away from Aaron, the discarded boxers on the floor feeling easy to grab. They were Aaron’s, he realised, the material a size too tight as he tugged them up and over his arse, his hands shaking.
Aaron didn’t argue, agreeable as he pulled Robert’s boxers on. “Robert,” he said, and there was no escaping this conversation now it had started. “It’s definitely not a yes if you didn’t feel as though you had a choice.”
v. tremor
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Robert shook his head, ignoring the way his hands shook as he tugged on tracksuit bottoms, and a fleece. He didn’t want to - he couldn’t. If he started talking about it, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop, and it wasn’t a can of worms he was willing to open.
“Robert,” Aaron’s voice was gentle, as he spoke. “You’re shaking.”
Robert looked down at his hands, shaking his head. “No, no - it’s just a tremor,” he said, and the words tasted like sand as they fell from his lips, as though his body didn’t believe the clever lie that his brain had come up with. “They said - the anti-depressants. Tremors are a side effect, and I’ve had lots of the other ones, so it’s just that.”
“Robert.”
Robert looked up from his shaking hands, Aaron standing in front of him. Aaron was dressed, which was strange; Robert hadn’t noticed him getting dressed. Shouldn’t he have noticed that?
“Robert,” Aaron repeated, the concern on his face barely masked. “I think you’re having a panic attack.”
Robert swallowed thickly. “Yeah,” he managed to squeeze the word out. “Maybe.”
“Let’s just - let’s sit down, eh?” Aaron encouraged, and Robert felt helpless to do anything except follow the instruction, sitting down at the edge of their messy bed, Aaron crouched in front of him. “You’re okay, Robert. It’s just you, and me. We’re at home.”
Robert nodded, unable to tear his focus away from the way his hands were shaking. “I’m at home,” he echoed, as though saying the words out loud might make it easier to believe it. Robert didn’t often have those moments, not anymore, but sometimes he did wonder if it had all been a dream; if he’d wake up, one day, and be back inside of prison, and his newfound freedom will have all been a sick dream his brain had conjured up as a means to survive HMP Hotten.
“You’re okay,” Aaron repeated, looking as though he was itching to reach out, and touch Robert.
Robert appreciated the hesitation.
“Aaron?”
“Yeah, Rob?”
“I’m scared,” Robert admitted, and it was the first time he’d voiced the feeling out loud. “I’m scared that if I let myself think about what really happened in there, what I had to do to survive, I’ll never stop thinking about it. I don’t want to be broken forever.”
“Oh, Robert,” Aaron’s eyes were shining with tears. “You’re not broken. Nothing about you is broken. Okay? Nothing. Whatever happened - you endured it so that you could survive,” he shook his head, a fierce expression in his eyes. “You survived, and you came home to me, and we’re going to figure this out - together. I promise you.”
Robert’s hands were still shaking, as he reached out for Aaron, his partner getting the message and scrambling to pull Robert into a hug, Aaron crouched awkwardly.
“I might need more than anti-depressants,” he tried to joke, but the admission was an honest one; the pills were a start, but they weren’t going to be the whole solution. Not if Robert opened up that box in his mind he had been so desperately trying to ignore for a year, now.
“Then we’ll get you whatever you need,” Aaron held him tightly, as though he could keep Robert from shaking apart through sheer force of will. Maybe he could. Robert was willing to let him try.
Winding his arms around Aaron’s shoulders, Robert pressed his face into the crook of Aaron’s next. “Aaron?”
“Yeah, love?”
Robert hiccuped out a sob, tears soaking into Aaron’s hastily thrown on t-shirt. “I don’t think I wanted any of it,” he admitted, and it was the first time he’d said that out loud.
Aaron’s hands were gentle, as they rubbed long, slow circles across Robert’s back. “I’m sorry, Robert,” he said quietly, holding him as though he were something precious, something Aaron wanted to protect.
Robert couldn’t stop the tears, now they’d begun. “Aaron,” he continued, sounding desperate even to his own ears. “I need help.”
vi. relief
“All those years ago - did you think we’d end up here?” Robert asked, watching on as Aaron brushed his teeth. Aaron was growing his hair out again, the curls soft against his forehead as they got ready for the day.
Well - as Aaron got ready for the day. Robert had already been up early, tending to the cows, the crisp morning air making him shiver as he did his rounds. He’d gotten back in time to crawl into their bed, and shove his cold hands up Aaron’s pyjama top, earning himself an annoyed yelp, and an enthusiastic handjob before Aaron had complained that Robert was suffocating him and demanded they get up.
It was picture perfect domesticity, in some ways, and Robert couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have it. A year ago, John had pulled himself, and Aaron off a gorge, and Robert had been in prison, blamed for it. A year ago, Kev had come back - and talking about that was still hard, and the words tended to get stuck in Robert’s throat, but he was getting there, and there was a fresh set of divorce papers in their battered old filing box that declared him a free man now, in more ways than one.
Aaron raised an eyebrow, spitting his mouthwash into the sink. “What, together? I mean - yeah, that was what I was hoping for, all those years ago.”
“No, I mean - here, living on the farm, taking our matching anti-depressants together every morning,” Robert grinned, nodding toward the matching pill boxes on the bathroom shelf. It had been a particularly distasteful gag gift from Vic, the matching dinosaur themed weekly organisers arriving in the post, but they were admittedly convenient.
Robert was forty, now, he was trying to remember to take a daily multivitamin.
Aaron rolled his eyes, passing Robert his box. “Is that why you forget to take them every morning when you’re up before me? You think it’s romantic that we stand here in our bathroom and take our anti-depressants together?”
Robert couldn’t help but grin. Things were by no means perfect, but they were better. He still had his fair share of bad days, and his sessions with Claire tended to leave him feeling as though he’d just been put through an emotional washing machine on the highest spin setting, but the way sadness had stuck to him like glue had finally changed.
He didn’t feel like he was drowning in it, anymore - it was as though Robert had stood up, and realised that for all those years, he had been drowning in half a foot of water.
“Maybe,” Robert hummed, grimacing as Aaron dry swallowed his pill, because he was a fucking psychopath like that. “I love you.”
Aaron pressed a brief kiss to Robert’s lips, tasting like mouthwash and the rest of Robert’s life. “Love you too,” he breathed, and even now, twelve years in, it never got old to hear those words from him. “Are you making me breakfast, or do I have to do everything around here?”