Chapter Text
Robert has never gone on anything like this many actual dates. His romantic history has a lot more hookups, hangouts, and nebulous things than real dates, and he really doesn't know what to do with himself in these situations. Not necessarily in a bad way, even, he just feels new. And feeling new when he's almost thirty-three years old and feels closer to fifty most of the time is a fascinating novelty.
Of course, he has to assume it isn't like this for most people, getting ready to go out with one guy while another lounges across your bed and teases you for being nervous when, "you have all of us in the bag, Bob-Bob, even a ferocious bitch like me." Chad snorts, rolling his eyes. "And you have Herm like, double-bagged, or something. If you're into anything really gross that you think nobody will do for you, ask him."
Robert shrugs, staring into the mirror as he tries to figure out how much of this short-sleeved button-down to leave undone, and if this flat-link chain Chad has put on him is too Jersey Shore or not. "I mean, I love having my ass eaten, but I always make sure to be very clean." He hears a faint sound behind him, as if Chad has choked on some particularly chunky air, and smirks.
"Leave it unbuttoned," Chad says. "I mean, unless you want to look like somebody's dad."
"You are the guy who shows up to work with most of his tits out," Robert says, but unbuttons the shirt. Yeah, fluttering open over a crisp white undershirt, it does look a hell of a lot more... summery, or something. Robert has never been the kind of queer who's good at clothes. "Thanks," he says more softly, turning to face Chad.
"I know you need all the help you can get," Chad says. There's a sincere magnanimity to it that makes Robert pounce on him with insistent, worming fingers, new knowledge of Chad's body used for evil as he tickles Chad until he's cursing and threatening to kill him.
They're interrupted by Herman buzzing up from the door. "Uh, h-hello?"
Robert and Chad stop instantly, no need to call a truce. "Come on up, Waterbitch," Chad says. Apparently 'Waterbitch' counts as a term of endearment and gets to stay, Robert hasn't heard Prism say anything about it.
Robert leaps to his feet, going to the mirror again, grimacing at his reflection. "You sure about this chain?" he asks.
Chad groans, rolling his eyes. "Is it like, against some secret white-people religion to accessorize? You have nice collarbones, bitch, let me help you." He snorts, sitting up from the bed and smoothing his rumpled ponytail. "That thing is barely even jewelry, I think my auntie gave it to me when I was like, twelve. That's my 'brunch with elderly straight people' chain."
Robert laughs, and can feel how warm his smile is, despite his best efforts. "Of course you have jewelry for brunch with elderly straight people."
"Hey, man," Chad says, "no reason to be disrespectful, but you've always gotta be yourself."
"Damn, sounds like the therapy is working."
Before Chad can say anything else, there's a light knock at the door. And really, the way Chad's face lights up is beautiful. He answers the door with a deeply affectionate, "Heyyy, bitch!" and pulls Herman into his arms. "I know you're here for Robert," he says, "but I am happy to see you."
Blushing and leaking a little, despite all the progress he has made lately, Herman presses a quick kiss to Chad's lips. "Thanks, I--me too." Tonight, Herman is in tattered jeans over black fishnets, with his nails painted to match, and wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt. It's oversized, with the collar cut off so it slips over one shoulder and shows off his sharp clavicles, and he is a sight to behold. Smeared, streaky black eyeliner makes his eyes look luminous, and Robert feels less silly about his own shirt having little skulls on it.
"Here, let me finish you bitches up," Chad says. "Robert has jewelry and no makeup, and you've got makeup and no jewelry."
And of course Chad owns a spiked collar, fit for the archetypal junkyard dog, and of course seeing Herman in it is making Robert feel things. As far as the much-neater eyeliner Chad gives him, Robert isn't sure how to feel about it. The intimacy of the way Chad cups his face in one warm, gentle hand, makes him realize that this must be as good a cover for gay shit among girls as roughhousing is for boys.
"I don't look silly, do I?" he asks Herman, and the emphatic, wide-eyed way Herman shakes his head is very flattering.
Robert has not been holding his breath for any of the Z-Team to have particularly great ideas or access as far as date venues go, but actually, Herman's choices aren't bad. Kind of makes Robert nostalgic for a youth he didn't actually get, being driven to a concert on the beach, in a station wagon borrowed from somebody's grandma.
To Herman's credit, he has figured out that an all-night local metal show isn't really Robert's thing. The tickets are cheap, and there's a lot of leeway to wander up and down the beach. The only act they absolutely have to stick around for, apparently, is Flowering Grave. Herman is good friends with the bassist, and is here to support him and the rest of the band.
"Or, or to support th-them? They--or he? He/they aren't sure what fits, right now, and I want to be supportive! Of that and, and the gig--performance."
Robert smiles up at him, lacing their fingers together. "Of course you do, Herm," he says. "You're a sweet guy." Herman blushes adorably, completely at odds with his entire getup, and only making him cuter.