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it's definitely not the first time rocco's showed up on your doorstep, unannounced and more than a little worse for his wears. his coat is scuffed, jeans are torn at the knee and muddied in the front. that's not to mention the busted lip or the scrape on his cheek. there's a part of you that still cares. a part that's taking inventory of if you have enough shit to patch him up. and if he wasn't pussyfooting getting to why he's here, instead of trying to avoid it, you'd might've let him in. maybe even patch him up like you used to.
"i'm not always in trouble, and it's only my fault like forty percent of the time when i am" is his only defense.
it's a shit one, too.
you can feel the headache that always comes with arguing him coming on. the irritation must be visible, because that lazy smile slips from his face. he doesn't seem surprised when you start pushing the door closed, "goodnight, rocco."
"wait, wait, wait," the words rush out. he steps up, grabbing the door. because no matter how pissed you've been with him, you've never had it in you to hurt him. he knows you, you won't slam the door closed on his hand.
you'll just give a quiet "move it."
won't do much when he doesn't. because of all the things rocco is, persistent is one of the more frustrating ones.
you know him too. whatever he has to say, he won't leave til he does. and he'll be a pain until he can say it how he wants to, so you place your foot on the inside of the door. keep yourself wedged between the wall and the door, opening yourself up to talk, but blocking him from coming in. "what?"
from the doorway, you're a step up from him, so rocco has to lean up to get closer. head tilted, clearly staring at your lips. he stands closer than would be appropriate without your history. closer than is appropriate now, in your opinion. prettier than he should be, too. "so there's nothing i can do to change your mind?"
maybe you should've just slammed it on his hand. you scoff. "you're a whore."
that smile's back. just for a second. in feigned surprise, he says: "what happened to being nice?" which you had said you'd play nice, if he could assure you he wasn't in trouble this time.
as far you're concerned, he still hasn't.
"what happened to not needing anything?"
"i don't."
"but you have to come in." you've always been quick. always called his shit well before he had a chance to make up a cover.
it's what made being with you so electric in the beginning.
it's why you never would've worked out any longer than you had. you're surprised you lasted as long as you did.
rocco says it so earnestly,"maybe i just want to spend time with you."
makes it hard to remember what that means from him. just for a moment.
"you're a tits guy."
"i'm a man of many tastes"
"my dick is only one of them when you need something."
"it could be one of them right now if i can stay" you hate it when he does that. always have. it's always rubbed you the wrong way how quickly he jumps to sexual favors in exchange for what he wants.
rocco denies that he does it.
for as chaotic as your relationship was, you didn't fight much. truly. it was mostly snubbed cover stories and confessions, told in rambled explanations - rocco's never been good at knowing which details aren't relevant.
that was one of your fights though. one of the only reoccurring ones. how favors and apologies became a que for sex.
the quiet is uncomfortable. for him more than you. "rocco, why are you here."
"it's your birthday," he spits out the answer quick. he's never liked when you get firm with him.
it's hard to tread that line this late in the night.
"it's not"
"uh," he stops. it's the first time since he got on your doorstep, knocking like he's dying until you got to the door, that he stopped. really stopped. he clicks his phone screen on and checks it, before glancing back up, "it is"
"it's tomorrow"
"is it?"
"every year" you want to be madder than you can muster.
rocco's never remembered your birthday. not the specific day, despite how confident he is that he has it right, every year. he's never far off, usually within a few days - there's even been a a few times he did get it right. always does something for it, even after you left him.
because it was you who left.
"then we should start celebrating now."
"you're arduous." you're tone is lighter. he notices and gets a little lighter too.
"i can be."
it's not firm. it's still relaxed. less guarded. but it is pleading. asking for something real, an honest answer. "rocco."
and there's a part of him; an awful part, a part that he fucking hates; that when he hears his name in that tone is happy you left those few years ago. it's a part that hates you. just a bit. for not knowing, or maybe just not accepting, that he still cares.
that he has and always will.
it's an ugly part that flares, wants to rip you apart for mentioning that he's a tits guy. that he's not really a guys' guy, like you are. a part that's pissed because he doesn't know why you're it for him, despite him not being a guys' guy. why everyone he's loved before you was a woman. why he loves you when you're not. why it doesn't even bother him that much that you're not a woman (most of the time).
he really doesn't want to think about any of it. doesn't mean he doesn't.
hasn't really made much progress on the why.
has a lot less hang ups, though.
he's staring off, his eyes get unfocused in the way they do when he's catching something.
"you feelin' alright?" your hand is cold, pressed against his forehead, like you're checking if he's sick.
it takes him a second. it's when your hand starts to fall away that he comes back, taking your hand and bringing it to his cheek. "i miss you."
that's all you get at first.
you don't bother pushing him.
he gets to it in his own time. it's something much softer than you expected. more open than anything he gave you when you were together. "i really thought i had your birthday right this time, i was tryin to catch you before i missed it"
but it's not the full truth.
rocco has changed in some ways, you know that. but protecting himself, hiding behind half truths - warranted or not - isn't one of those ways.
you step out from the door, and he squeezes you hand, holding it a little tighter to keep it resting on his face. he's not ready for you to pull away again. "is that all this is about? we usually don't celebrate on the day. i never minded that."
"i do. it's shitty. and i wanted to take you to dinner or some shit, i don't know. probably too late to go out now," he gestures towards you, "thought i'd try to do something nice, like make you something, or some domestic shit like that"
you take his face in your hands, spreading the one he's holding out over his cheek. you're careful to avoid the scrapes on his face. it's the first thing you've said that has humor in it, even if it is half-assed, "you're a shit cook, thought you wanted to do something nice."
"said i wanted to try" he shrugs. his answer is just as remiss.
he looks down, before saying your name. "i fucked up with you. i know that. i, i do love you, though. always have. i just need you to know that because-" rocco takes a breath, blinks hard. the way he does when he's trying not to cry.
maybe it's dumb.
maybe you're falling for it. but you've never been a cruel man. "you're right, it's late," you step forward, "too late to do anything now," you don't pull away exactly, a hand stays on his face. an arm goes around him and he practically falls into the hug. shoving his face into your chest. "why don't i make something in the morning and you can do the dishes for me."
he mumbles something like a yes. you assume.
he doesn't try to move or come in. content in being held. and, for the moment, you're content holding him.
because you've always loved him too.