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Three knocks.
He has knocked on Robby’s door three times, only to be met with the faint rumble of a car speeding down the street and silence from Robby himself.
Despite the clear attempt to make him think otherwise, he knows that Robby has heard him. Knows that he is inside, staring at the direction of the door like it personally offended him, trying to muffle his footsteps to be able to make excuses for why he hadn’t answered.
Jack knows these things because he knows Michael Robinavitch.
Knew when his texts became shorter, staggered, like he was losing time, that it was the beginning of something. He noticed when Robby began to flinch at his touch again, startled like a newborn calf, staring back at him with eyes too swollen and hazy to be well rested. He felt the distance between them simmer into something molten, something purposeful. A calculated smile, a conveniently forgotten chart, an unfortunate interruption. His voice drew back into the cavern of his throat when he would speak, unsure, always slightly trembling. Cracked, like it was unused, dry from heaving breaths. His hair grew grooves from where he had clutched at the strands so hard they almost snapped, bending into strange angles under the harsh coolness of the hospital. He took note of these things, and he waited. Whether for the storm to pass or the other shoe to drop, he couldn’t tell, but he knew to be prepared regardless.
Jack enjoys his days off. Relishes the ritual that he has created for himself to keep a routine without going to work. He thinks about his therapist, a woman called Maeve Whelan, who keeps track of the laundry list of his issues that could never beat the length of her rap sheet during her time in the Royal Irish Regiment. She’s tough as nails, no nonsense, and with the utmost sincerity had told him, during a session on his work, that he needed to get a life. He found himself unable to argue on that point, stumbling on his words when she asked him to prove his point that he did have a life, thank you very much.
So cautiously, and with the help of Maeve’s stern yet supportive gaze, he had been trying to timidly nurture time for himself that had nothing to do with work, and by Doctor Whelan’s instruction, Michael Robinavitch. The first time Jack had talked about Robby with her, he noticed the way her eyebrows slowly and very minutely crept their way upwards as he was explaining the nature of their relationship. She had asked him if he could name any other people he felt he could confide and connect with in the way he had with Robby, and he felt his stomach turn when he realised he was drawing a blank. She’d used a lot of words, many of them frank and arguably harsh, but ultimately, true. Codependent, messy, confusing. She had stated, in no simple terms, that the best way for Jack to invest in his healing was to invest in himself first, and he could not do that if he avoided it by trying to heal Robby instead.
He was getting used to it, the calm hum of moving through planned motions that had no expectation or time limit attached. Laundry, the gym, an overpriced coffee from the place on the corner he loves. The little things. The daily movements. He still felt tempted by the police scanner, still woke up slightly damp on the exhale of a sharp breath, and he still got nervous with his back to a window, but he was doing well. Better than he had in a long time.
It only made sense, then, that the other shoe would drop.
Dana had called him halfway through his first attempt at a garlic butter salmon recipe, his fingers still slippery from oil. He frowned when he saw the name pop up on his screen. Dana’s calls generally had two purposes: one, to invite him to the tennis court so she could publicly humiliate him by beating him by an unspeakable number of points, or two, because something was up with Robby. All he knew was that it was far too late for a friendly match of tennis.
His thumb slipped before he could swipe to accept the call. Huffing in annoyance, he quickly wiped the oil off with a stray tissue before finally answering.
“Dana, I’m a little busy right now-”
“You need to sort your boy out.”
The oil in the pan crackled in the background as he let the words land. He didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.
“Why?”
“I sent him home early, got Shen to cover for him. Christ almighty, he was on a roll.”
He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes as he sighed, taking the pan off the heat and walking to the dining room table so he could sit down.
“What happened?”
He could hear her tinny huff across the line, something disbelieving, not fond.
“He lost it, Jack. The new med student used the wrong abbreviation for subcutaneous or some crap when writing their treatment plan for a patient with diabetes. Not great, sure, but certainly not worth the 15-minute verbal bashing he gave her. She was sobbing.”
“He made her cry?”
“He made her leave.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face, smoothed out the tension that grew between his eyebrows.
“Jack," Dana cut through the small silence that grew.
”Yeah?”
“I’m worried. Sure, I’m pissed at him too, but I’m terrified watching him spiral like this. I’m scared to find out- Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Jack, I'm too afraid to think where this ends.”
And the waver in Dana's voice was all it took for Jack to finish the call with a promise to sort it out.
So on the fourth unanswered knock, he’s pissed. He briefly considers what Maeve would say about it all, but he already knows the lecture and doesn’t think now is the time to revisit it. He takes the key he knows Robby has hidden underneath a rock, and places it in the keyhole to unlock the door.
He walks through the short entryway, down into the guts of the house, where the open plan spreads. The first thing he notices is how dark the house is, only the strong glow of the muted television flaring out onto the leather couch that sits in front of it. There’s a strong smell of cigarettes, but the kind of scent that comes from too many gathered in an ashtray. An aftertaste, like the lag of flash during a photograph. In the absence of light, only slightly exposed by the funnel of colour, it takes a moment for Jack to see him. Standing by the window, Robby sips from a glass. He doesn’t need the light on to know it’s whiskey, at least two fingers too many, from the fancy tumblers he keeps but never really uses.
Robby doesn’t seem surprised when Jack flicks the overhead light on, bathing the room in a softened amber. Robby hates fluorescent lighting and refuses to have it in his home. He told Jack that it reminded him too much of the hospital, clinical and intense. Robby doesn’t move, except to turn his head to look at Jack from over his shoulder, the movement uncoordinated and strange. Robby’s eyes are unfocused, flitting around the room until they finally turn their attention to Jack.
“‘S bright,” Robby murmurs, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
Jack laughs, moving further into the room and closer to him, watching as Robby turns his body to face him with a grunt.
“It’s not bright. You were just standing in the dark. Not cool by the way, stealing my brand.”
Robby doesn’t respond, just walks straight past Jack to the kitchen, placing the glass down on the counter and flicking off the lid to the bottle, pouring more into the empty container.
“Robby,” he says, low and steady, like a secret. Like it’s serious.
Robby stays silent, only showing he’s listening by focusing his eyes in the general direction of Jack's. He’s twitchy now, his empty hand playing with the hem of the sweater he got all the way back in college, faded letters starting to seep into the fabric. Then he starts cracking his fingers, a jarring pop echoing as he methodically moves from finger to finger. He shakes it out, clenches his fist, and lets it go dramatically. Jack wipes his palm over the small stubble on his chin, fingers prickling as he smooths it back and forth, like they’re going out in sympathy to Robby’s restlessness.
“Dana told me what happened today,” Jack starts, if only for something to break the tension that’s swelling, “What’s going on in your head, man?”
Robby shrugs, picking up the glass to take a huge swig, missing some of the rim and leaving a glistening trail of whiskey on the side of his lip, dripping into his beard. He’s sloppy with it, going in for another sip before he’s even finished the first. Unphased, swallowing each one down with an audible gulp. His face is blank in a way that feels calculated, closed off.
Jack walks closer to the counter in the centre of the kitchen, standing across from him for a moment, considering, before wandering around to the same side. Approaching Robby, especially when he’s silent and brooding, is always a gamble. Something like closing in on a stray dog. You always wonder if he’ll show his teeth or whine in surrender. Jack lets his hip rest against the counter in an attempt to seem casual, letting it take his weight before crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
Robby mirrors the movement, letting the glass hang precariously from the tips of his fingers before finishing the rest of his whiskey with closed eyes. The glass makes a loud bang as it hits the marble countertop, filled with more liquor the second it reaches its destination. Robby flicks his tongue over the plump curve of his bottom lip, considering, before reaching to pick it up again and bringing it back to his mouth.
“Put the glass down, Robby,” Jack says with a hint of warning, tilting his head up to meet Robby’s eyes.
Something venomous grows in Robby’s gaze, a darkness that thickens, so intense that it seems to suck any of the honey tone that usually lingers there, replacing it with something heavier.
“Is there something you needed from me, Jack?” Robby says slowly, chewing each word, “Considering you let yourself into my house.”
“Really, Robby?” Jack asks, incredulous, “It’s gonna be like that?”
“Yeah, it is.” Robby smiles, but it’s cold, “I don’t need your condescension, Abbot. Go find someone else to martyr yourself for.”
Abbot. Robby hasn’t called him that for years, at least not in anything but jest. Something in his tone is fierce, a rising anger. Another wall. The stray dog growling. Robby finishes the glass in one swift movement, holding his gaze without hesitation. Smug. Jack lets out a noise of disbelief before he even notices it's deserved, rising from his lean on the counter to face Robby. Robby sways as he takes a supportive hand off the cold marble surface, and something in Jack breaks.
“Look at yourself, man, you’re barely able to stand up straight,” He gestures with an open palm, “I’m not martyring myself for shit, I’m telling you that you’ve had enough.”
Robby stalks close until he’s a hair’s breadth away. Jack can feel his breath against his lips, damp, reeking of alcohol and a cigarette from a couple of hours before. He bows his head down, bringing them to equal footing.
“Mm?” Robby hums, “You gonna tell me what I need, Jack?”
As soon as Robby gives his warmth, he takes it away, pulling back suddenly until the space between him and Jack feels gaping.
“Well?” Robby questions impatiently, eyes wide with something crazed, “Is the soldier gonna order me around, tell me what to do?”
Jack takes a deep breath, harsh enough that it feels like pinpricks as it enters his lungs. He holds it, blows it quickly from his mouth. He tries to centre himself, to make his uncooperative mouth prepare the right words to say.
“Brother, I don’t need to be a soldier to see you need some kind of guidance. Something, man, a therapist, a fucking journal, you can’t just keep-”
“Oh, fuck you.” Robby interrupts, and it’s sharp, not playful, no undertone of joke. Just precision. A blade, “Takes one to know one, Jack. You ever slept without that police scanner playing in your ear?”
Jack feels his ears ring, like he’s been hit with a bomb, reverberating the tone of Robby’s voice. Jack lets himself accept his fate, knows what a man looks like when he’s ready to kill. He never thought he would see the same expression on Robby’s face in the pretty lighting of his well-thought-out kitchen.
“Yeah, go ahead, man, throw all my flaws right back at me instead of acknowledging your shit,” he pushes his flat palms towards Robby, shaking them accusingly, “That makes it seem like you’re handling everything just fine.”
“Oh ho,” Robby mocks, “Doctor Abbot can dish it out, but he can’t take it in return?”
“I’m not the one having a drunken crisis in his fucking kitchen right now, Robby!”
Robby lets out a noise of frustration, shaking his head back and forth and bringing his hands to cradle the back of his skull, rapidly pushing against the shorter hair.
“There is no crisis, I’m fucking fine.” Robby spits, hands moving as they gesture to the room around him, “No one asked you to be here, did they?”
“You knew damn well that Dana would text me about the shit you pulled today, and I would check on you.” Jack says, tacking it with a stern point of his finger, “This sure as hell isn’t the first time I’ve done this. Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.“
“Yeah, that’s right, it isn’t, because you force yourself into everything!” Robby yells, “How could anyone cope without the divine force of Jack Abbot?”
Jack scoffs, “Seriously?”
Robby reaches for the abandoned cup, turns himself around, stumbling slightly to the kitchen sink, dropping it in with a quick release of his hold. The ornate glass smashes, an awful shattering scraping against the stainless steel. He grips the edge of the bench with white-knuckled hands, blood pooling in his fingertips.
“Let me tell you something,” Robby says into the sink, clinical and eerily calm, “My life was a lot easier before you showed up, talking to me like you have a fucking clue about anything.”
Jack huffs, not in humour, but something of instinct, loud enough that Robby releases his grip from the edge and turns back to glare at him.
“Is that right?” Jack asks, eyes flicking across Robby’s face. His cheeks are flushed with rage, and his nostrils are flaring uncontrollably through each aggressive breath.
“Yeah,” Robby drawls, seemingly centred, “I was a lot happier without you nagging in my ear like some bitch.”
His language catches Jack off guard, pointed and drenched in contempt. A filter made weak from drinking. Jack knows this isn’t an argument. This is Robby, turning him into a punching bag.
“That’s real cute, Robby, you speak to the girls you date and ditch that way?” Jack snaps.
“Are you one of my girls, Jack?”
“You’re fucking unbelievable sometimes, man.” Jack says lowly, walking closer to Robby, “Is the great Michael Robinavitch scared of a little accountability? I call you on your shit, and you need to knock me down? Make me out to be desperate? Mock me and the women you lean on to feel better?”
“Oh, you’re doing just fine, seeming desperate on your own, Jack.”
Jack is reaching a limit, he realises quickly, his whole body tense like it’s waiting to be shot. He figures there isn’t much difference, preparing for Robby’s replies to the hand he extends. An ache. Not of anger, or resentment, but of sadness. Jack is so fucking sad, looking into the eyes of the man he loves and seeing nothing but resignation. An automated response covering the hurt. Band-Aids over the bullet holes Robby is filled with.
“What gives, Michael?” He asks, memorising Robby in this moment, in this light, “You wanna be honest with me, man, or are we gonna keep going in circles?”
“That’s funny coming from you.”
Jack pulls his head back, confused, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You wanna talk about the ring you still wear on your finger?” Robby provokes, “How about we talk about your shit for once?”
“I do talk about my shit,” Jack replies calmly, dodging his deflection, “You know, with a therapist. Stop trying to change the topic, you’re shit at it.”
“Oh, you see right through me, do you?” Robby snarks, “Jesus, you ever get tired of hauling around all that ego?”
“You wanna talk about ego? Sure, Robby, let’s talk about ego.” Jack relents, walking back to the other side of the counter, fostering the illusion of distance, “Let’s talk about the ego you have to stand there and hurl your bullshit at me and then degrade my behaviour in the same breath.”
Robby bites his lip. Whether he’s trying not to say something or trying to think of something to say, Jack can’t decide. He briefly looks at the kitchen cabinets behind Robby, trying to catalogue all the mugs he knows are in there. Trying to hold on to the memory of coffee shared in softness, an easy morning with low voices. He lets it go, returns his gaze to Robby, who has released his lip but now plucks at his cuticles.
“That the ego you wanted to discuss?” Jack asks with raised brows.
The silence stretches, the kitchen humming with the white noise of a fridge and the tick of a clock rattling the wall. The light makes everything seem fuzzy, slightly unreal.
“The ego that makes you think you’re, what? Indestructible? Better than? Able to shove your shit down and deal with it like it won’t kill you?” He lists, emphasing each point by counting them with his fingers, “The one that makes you haul yourself around the emergency department with a stick up your ass that’s wedged in even deeper than your head in the sand? The ego that made you lose your shit today?”
Robby looks down towards his feet, not making a sound, curled in on himself like he’s trying to hide. He looks young, bashful even, more like a child being reprimanded than a man with authority and wrath by the plenty.
“Nothing to say now, Robinavitch?”
“Oh, no,” Robby slaps his hands against his thighs as he straightens his back out, “Please, tell me all the ways I seem to be disappointing you.”
Jack squints at him until Robby’s shape blends in with the background, closing his eyes for a moment, before letting both hands fall onto the table, rolling some tension from his shoulders, “Yeah, Robby, you know what?” He says, leaning in, “You wanna act like what I’m saying is to tear you down? That I’m having this argument because I decided I wanted it? You go right ahead. You wanna delve deeper into whatever pity you’ve granted yourself? I’m not going to stop you.”
“Then why are you here, Jack?” Robby asks quickly, trying to sound vicious, but coming out weak, “Couldn’t help but lend a hand to a lost cause?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth!”
“Getting real heated there Jack, maybe therapy isn’t working for you as well as you thought” Robby pushes, something almost giddy to his tone as he comes to walk around the table to close the distance, circling like a vulture, “You know, I’ve been wondering, what does your therapist say about you being a widower who can’t even take off a piece of fucking metal because his wife-”
“That’s enough,” Jack declares with something absolute, cutting Robby off with wide eyes and slightest shake of his voice.
Even Robby seems surprised at the intensity of his words, the sudden rise of their ire. Acknowledging Jack’s boundary with the smallest nod of the head, he leans back to sit in one of the ridiculous hipster stools he bought back in the early 2000s. Jack takes a moment, lets the hurt wash over him like rain, feeling it briefly in its entirety before surrendering it to pass. He tries to ground himself, remembering the smallness of the two people in the room. Just two people. Fragile and breakable, with hearts protected by a cage of flimsy rib bones. He spares a thought for Maggie, sends a silent prayer to thank her for her softness, and for what it taught him.
He sits down in the seat next to Robby, takes it as an encouragement that he doesn’t immediately get up or storm off, but instead flicks his eyes over to watch him. He lets the silence linger, just for a small time, enough to re-centre. Long enough for Robby to reflect, to go to wherever he retreats after he pushes too hard. Not for too long, Jack isn’t finished, and he doesn’t want Robby to get lost in that place.
“You know it breaks my fucking heart when you’re like this,” Jack says.
“Like what?” Robby bristles, immediately defensive, “Like what, Jack, answer the fucking question.”
“Cruel.” He answers simply, “You’re being fucking mean, Robinavitch. You need to get your shit together.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings?” Robby asks, without a lick of genuine apology.
“That so hard to believe?” Jack counters, rubbing his forehead, “You seem content on just throwing your shit around instead of just admitting you might feel something. Just like you did today.”
“Yeah, whatever you say, Jack.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
Robby points to the entryway, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“That’s it? Just gonna kick me out when shit gets too real?” Jack laughs, surprised at how genuine it is, realising that Robby thinks it’s that easy to get rid of him, “You’ve been spiraling for months, and now you’ve hit rock bottom.”
Robby looks away, but not before Jack can notice the shift of his brow, the exhale of his breath in shock. Jack recognises it for what it is, the test of it all. How far can I push you? When will you leave?
“I’m not interested in having this conversation anymore,” Robby sighs, “I don’t need this right now.”
“No, Michael,” Jack says, basking in the way Robby turns to the sound of his name like a sunflower to the sun, “This is exactly what you need. You think you’re a lone ship sinking and no one fucking notices, but when you go under, you suck people down with you.”
“If I’m so horrible to be around, why are you still here?” Robby says, staring at the ceiling now, swallowing heavily against the strain on his throat.
“Oh, cut the shit, man!” Jack says with a sharp stir towards him, “You really think that bullshit is going to work on me?”
“Hey, you said it yourself, Jack,” Robby grumbles, making Jack almost ashamed of how horribly endeared he is at its sound, “Call it a natural conclusion.”
Jack stands up abruptly, making the stool send a loud screech through the room. Robby makes a move, like he also wants to get up, but Jack stops it with a simple shake of his head. Like a fool walking into a lion’s den, he walks himself between Robby’s long, spread legs, standing in their hold. Robby makes a confused sound, but by some miracle, lets Jack stay there, tucked in close. Jack lets his right hand fall on the side of Robby’s head, a thumb soothing back and forth gently on the heated skin he finds there. He hears Robby exhale, sharp, but newly steady.
“Have you ever considered that all the shit I’ve been saying is to get it into your thick skull that I love you?”
Robby scoffs, tries to get up, but Jack just stays there, solid as a pillar, moving his hand through the roots of Robby’s hair to slowly soothe him. Robby stills.
“You ever think maybe I made myself look like a fool showing up here because I care about you?” Jack asks softly, continuing the journey of his fingers, mapping the curves and memorising the feel, “That I put myself out and let you shut me down because I know what you did today isn’t anything but you hurting?”
Robby doesn’t speak, but this close, he can feel the slight hiccup of his chest, can feel his forehead slightly touching the intimate space between his chest and torso. In his hands, he lets himself feel the delicacy of Robby. The softness under the thorns that shed.
“Look at me.”
“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, but it’s weak.
Jack brings both his hands to the warm roundness of Robby’s cheeks, cradling them softly in his palms. Slowly, so slowly, he forgets to breathe, he uses his hands to bring Robby’s gaze from the floor, unfurling him from his hunch so he can look in his eyes. Robby allows it, pliant, letting Jack tilt his head to look up at him. Robby's temper has drained from him, leaving him hollowed out, exhausted. His eyes have softened, glassy and framed by purple pigment. The strips of light that beam from above make him look saintly and beautifully broken. The shadows emphasise the sharpness of his nose, the crux of his brow. Jack wants to hold him forever.
“I’m still here because I fucking love you, man.” Jack says through a breath, a bone-deep confession spilling out over the air, “I love you so much that I would let you hurt me over and over again if it meant you would just fucking listen to me.”
Quietly, so quiet that Jack barely catches it, he hears Robby say, “I’m listening.”
Jack starts to draw spirals in the apples of Robby’s cheeks, circling over and over as if it will let his words sink in, “I’ll always be here to talk to, to fight with if you have to, but I’ll also give this shit to you straight because you are too important for me not to tell you when you’re going the wrong way.”
“Jack-” Robby begins to interrupt.
Jack shushes him, not out of cruelty, but tenderly, wanting to continue.
“I’m not finished yet, Michael,” he says, stilling his thumbs, “You wanna yell at me? You wanna tell me to fuck off so I can let you drown by yourself? You go right ahead, but I’m not leaving you.”
“Maybe you should,” Robby says, looking up at Jack with such sincerity he almost wants to look away.
“I’m not abandoning you,” he states, clear and unwavering, giving a small shake to Robby’s head for emphasis, “You can’t make me. So you can yell, Mike, you can keep ripping at all my wounds and laughing at all my mistakes, but I’m going to stand here and take it, because that’s what love does.”
“I don’t need-,” Robby falters, breathing deeply, “I don’t need all that.”
“You don’t know what you need right now,” Jack replies, forcing himself even closer, until Robby’s chin is pressing sharply into his skin and he’s sure Robby’s neck hurts a bit from the angle, melding them into one, hiding him in Jack’s body, “You think you do. You want to pretend you don’t feel everything, but I fucking see you, man. I see beyond your bullshit, and you’re hurting. You’re hurting so fucking bad, and you need help.”
As soon as the words finish tumbling from Jack’s mouth, he can see Robby shatter. His eyes grow wet, tears pooling heavily in the junction of a socket before welling over in large, fast heaps. They sprinkle down his face, some roll over the valley of Jack’s thumb on their journey to Robby’s chin. They look like comets firing across the expanse under the shine of the ceiling light, momentary flashes of gloss. His cheekbones start growing irritated, dusting themselves pink. Embarrassed, Robby tucks back into Jack, resting his forehead against the cool material of his shirt, hesitantly bringing his arms to overlap on the small of Jack’s back, his hands clutching at the flesh he finds there. Jack can feel the heave of Robby’s chest when he’s this close, the scattered breath out his mouth that has strings of saliva clinging like spiderwebs when his lips sputter open on a soundless weep.
“I’m so fucking tired, Jack," He confesses on the end of a crack in his voice.
“Yeah? Well, I’m wide awake, so it’s fine,” Jack jokes, delighting in the small chuckle he gets in return, “You don’t think I’m someone you can lean on? That you can count on to keep your head afloat? You think I don’t know how that exhaustion feels?”
Robby pulls him closer, until Jack is folded over the huge man beneath him.
“I don’t think anyone knows how I feel,” Robby says, breath dancing against the fabric of his T-shirt.
“Then you talk to me anyway,” He demands, pulling Robby out of his safe spot to make sure he understands, “You speak to me in whatever fucked up, or small, or confusing words you need to, but you talk, and I’ll be here to listen, but you can't keep pulling this shit, Robby.”
“I don’t know how to do any of this,” Robby says, painfully desperate, “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“That’s too fucking bad, isn’t it, cause I’m right here, knee deep in your shit with you,” he says, hoisting Robby up on two unsteady feet and reclaiming those cherub cheeks with his hands. He lets himself stare for a moment before dragging his face down, foreheads gently pressed together, “I’ll be the person to make sure you don’t choke on your vomit, and I’ll be the person you can scream at until you’re blue in the face, and I’ll keep hanging around like a bad penny until you learn that there’s nothing you can say and nothing you can go through that I will not be right beside you for.”
With nothing more to say, at least for the night, Jack tries to pull away, maybe get Robby some water for the truly nasty cry-headache hangover combination he’s headed for tomorrow, have him take a shower to wash off the liquor and the cigarettes. As he tries, Robby makes a sound of concern, moving his face further down until he's tucked into the side of Jack’s neck, pressing his damp nose against the sensitive skin there. Jack folds his hand around the exposed nape of Robby’s neck, feeling the flush radiate through his body.
“You need water, brother, a shower after that too,” Jack murmurs, trying not to disturb the small comfort that has been found.
“In a minute,” Jack feels Robby say, more than hears, “Can we just stay like this?”
“Yeah, Mike,” Jack agrees without hesitation, “We can stay like this.”
He feels slightly out of depth, using his body to accommodate the long bend of Robby’s limbs, imagining the strain on his back as he leans down into Jack’s arms. He ignores that feeling, the need to analyse, and instead threads his fingers through feather-soft hair, slowly rocking them both to an imaginary rhythm. He sits in the moment, makes no commentary on it, just holds onto Robby until he wants to let go. He allows himself to get lost in it, imagining their bodies as a wave lapping against the shore of their surroundings. Swaying so carefully that all that is heard is the small whispering of the early morning and the puffs of Robby’s breath.
Yes, Jack thinks, I’ll stay forever if you need.