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The problem with having a pain tolerance high enough to withstand a ruptured appendix was that eventually, every mildly aching twinge that so much as skitters across his nerves, gets filed away as a 'minor inconvenience'. When your baseline for what was genuinely excruciating is so horrifically high, everything that fell below that baseline just becomes background noise. So naturally something as banal as waking up with a sore throat and a slight flush was laughably negligible.
Robert's reflection stares listlessly back at him, daring him to comment on his own n haggard appearance before his morning routine. He doesn't look any different, the usual overnight stubble that needed to be shaved and the unkempt mop of hair that stuck up in every direction was a staple look most mornings.
Aside from the slight redness in his face and the glassy unfocused look in his eyes that could be chalked up to the usual morning, Robert looked perfectly hale and hearty.
Mornings were hard after all.
With a slap of his cheeks he clicks back into routine, clearing his throat with a bit too much enthusiasm before brushing his teeth, shaving and washing his face.
If his joints creaked and ached just a little more than usual when he bends down to pick his little Beefy Man up, he easily chalks it up to chronic pain. It's been a constant companion in the recent months after all.
---
"Damn, kid. You look like hot shit. More so than you usually do." Chase squints at him from over the divider, "And not the good kind."
Robert levels him with an unimpressed stare, as the older man hops down to make his way out of his cubicle. Arms already outstretched to receive the wiggling bundle of pup from Robert.
"Thanks. Thought I'd start leaning into the aesthetic. I call it, "Depressed Office Chic."
Chase snorts at him, "Smartass..." And Robert sets his bag down and boots up his console, easily settling back into routine.
The day proves to be an absolute nightmare, a good majority of the calls and missions that come in being somewhat related or tied to the current villain of the week. Some meta with powers that affected one's immediate luck by shooting targeted rays from her hands. She wasn't so much a danger but more of an active nuisance to catch and apprehend as any attempt to chase her down ended in someone slipping on a banana peel or misjudging a lunge that has them smacked into a wall or charging off a roof. A handful of minor villains and petty criminals having picked up on the trail of chaos left in her wake, immediately jump on the opportunity to take advantage of the Z-team's preoccupation to loot stores.
"How is one woman dodging fucking everything we're throwing at her...?" Robert pinches the bridge of his nose as Golem and Visi's icons switch to 'Downed' with a somber crack. A familiar dull ache was starting to form just behind his eyes accompanying the unfortunate symphony of pain that seemed to be constantly baked into his joints.
"I fucking had her!" Visi hisses through her teeth.
"Don't know what she did, but it got me good, dawg..." Golem rumbles morosely.
The cameras had caught Visi and Golem being throttled back a good two blocks by a fire hydrant that seemingly out of nowhere, shot a crushing jet of water at them as they attempted to lunge for her. 'Jynx' as the team had so aptly christened her, practically skips her way to freedom, pilfered jewels in hand.
Robert honestly can't even bring himself to be too upset at the team, most of them were frustrated and pissed enough at Jynx for having humiliated them while dodging their efforts to detain her. Their collective pride having been sufficiently wounded that there's an active concerted effort to do their damndest to not only capture Jynx but also ace as many missions as they can through the day.
By the end of the second shift, it all finally. Fucking finally, comes to a head when Flambae ambushes her while she's distracted by Prism. Blinding her just long enough for him to box her into a corner with controlled fire and burning off just enough oxygen to incapacitate her safely. It's honestly a pretty impressive display of self restraint and control on Flambae's part and Robert reminds himself to congratulate him later on a job well done.
"You see that, Bob-Bob?! You see that?! That's how it's done! What'd I tell you?! I'm fucking perfect!" Flambae's usual nasally voice crows through the comms and for once, the team lets his peacocking slide as the comms erupt into raucous hoots and hollers of catharsis and victory. Robert smiles privately to himself despite the roaring headache, a fond warmth rising to the surface at the pride in the firestarter's voice. Flambae had been working exceptionally hard lately, and though his boasting could get insufferable, he thoroughly deserved the praise and wins he worked so hard for.
As the team celebrates the capture loudly through the line, Robert feels the stress and tension of the day rush up to meet him so quickly he's lightheaded. He leans back in his chair and squeezes his eyes shut as the cacophony is drowned out by the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears.
Everything fucking hurts.
More so than usual, and he feels like there's a furnace in his chest, stoking the uncomfortable heat that seemed to settle in his head and lace his every breath.
"Yo, Bob-man!"
He's pulled out of his thoughts, blinking blearily back into the present as Sonar's icon twitches with activity.
"You coming or what?"
"What?" he responds eloquently.
Visi's usual crass humour cuts through the static, "Did the win make all the blood rush from your brain to your dick? We're going for drinks man. It's Friday and Mal knows the bartender at the new place."
Robert shakes himself out of the haze clouding his thoughts, "Right, yeah. Drinks. Sure." He glances at Chase who's already shooing him off, Beef clutched protectively under his arms like a priceless luxury purse.
Despite the whispering promise of pain gumming up his muscles and the headache that's rapidly climbing into a migraine, going home to his lonely concrete shoebox didn't sound as inviting as a night out with the team. He'd rather put off the misery of isolation over whatever the alternative was. His chronic pain be damned.
After all, he has to congratulate Flambae on the high profile arrest somehow.
---
The Solaris was a relatively new hero bar that popped up sometime after Shroud's mysterious and untimely death. Run by an entity only known as 'K', a man that was well known to be an eldritch horror stuffed in the flesh of a man. K was as cryptic as it was surly and foul mouthed but hey, Mal seemed to know K to some extent so Robert knew better than to question it's dubious origins. Though the bar was a hero bar in name, it existed more on neutral ground. Attracting all kinds to it's patronage on account that it's owner could literally see and hear all of it's goings on at all times and easily remove anyone from it's premises. Being an eldritch monstrosity had it's perks he supposes. The Solaris also had a karaoke open mic night that overlapped with happy hour so naturally the Z-team gravitated towards it like flies to honey.
As always, they're the loudest and rowdiest bunch to grace the bar's unfortunate presence. Attracting side eyes and glares from heroes and the occasional minor villain alike with their loud hooting and hollaring. All just barely tolerated by the long suffering bartender who's already leaning it's forehead into the pinch of its thumb and middle finger as Flambae and Sonar take turns absolutely wrecking house at karaoke. At some point Robert hears K mutter under it's breath, about being 'owed fifty souls from Mal' for the mayhem caused by their group.
Despite the pandemonium raised in their wake, the sight of them happy and proud of their own achievements settles something in Robert's chest as he watches them with fond contentment over the rim of his third beer from the bar. They've been doing well. Incredibly so. Rapidly climbing the ranks on the leader board, now sitting at a healthy mid way point in it's tally. Flambae, of course, in the lead.
Robert's eyes drift to the aforementioned fire star as he proudly struts his way off the stage, having finished belting out a fantastically off key rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On' while making eyes at Robert the entire length of the song. Their eyes meet once more and Flambae surrepticiously winks at him so quickly that he almost thinks it's imagined. Robert simply smiles languidly back, the buzz of the alcohol coupled with the foggy heat in his head and ache in his bones making him less guarded with his reactions. When he doesn't break eye contact, Flambae begins to saunter over to the bar, a mischievous crooked smile playing on his lips.
"See something you like, Bobert?" he purrs, leaning sideways with one hand on the counter next to him. Robert feels the heat radiating off him as he leans into his space, close enough to suggest something more but far enough for plausible deniability. He snorts, hiding the light flush of his cheeks behind the glass, averting his eyes. Usually it took more alcohol for him to drop his inhibitions, but for some reason he felt hot under the collar by the bottom of his third glass.
"What, can't a man admire the merchandise?" he replies smoothly.
Flambae chuckles, his voice low and playful, "So you think I'm a hot piece of ass, do you?" He leans further in, no longer far enough to suggest anything other than intimacy.
"You know," he says, hot breath ghosting against Robert's bitten ear. "I think I deserve a reward for how fucking good a job I did today. Don't you, Bobert?"
Robert shivers despite the existing heat clouding his senses. It's a Bad Idea. He knows it's a Bad idea. He and Flambae have been dancing around each other for weeks in an awkward game of cat and mouse. Chase once having equated them to two mating birds of different species misreading each other's advances.
He knows they should probably have a proper discussion or at the very least, dinner before shacking up at a bar. It's is a horrible way to kick-start a relat--
He doesn't let himself finish the thought, the word holding too much weight and commitment to his still flighty psyche. Instead he does the sensible thing of caving to desire and instincts, turning his eyes to finally look back up at Flambae from under his lashes.
"I think I can have something arranged." his voice, low and gravelly. His hands leave the bar to ghost it's way up Flambae's waist in what he hopes is a subtle invitation. The larger man's eyes flash, almost like the flicker of cinders and Robert finds himself entranced by the way the gold flecks in his iris seem to shimmer.
"What do you have in mind, Mr Dispatcher?" Flambae chuckles, the tension between them is electric as they hold each other's gaze.
"Let's take this somewhere private, hmm?" He drawls lazily, ignoring the protest of his joints as he stands and casually leads the way to the bathroom, followed closely by the telltale tap of familiar gaudy boots.
---
They both tumble messily into the nearest stall with a loud bang as the door slams shut, lips already locked on each other through barely restrained gasps and moans. Flambae's hands are warm as they roam his torso, holding him close to his scorching body. The heat only rises as they dip under his shirt to press him closer, earning soft whines from the dispatcher as he sucks scalding bruises into his neck and shoulder.
Kissing Flambae is like breathing in the sun, his breath is like spitfire, licking flames into his open mouth, trailing magma down his throat into his lungs. Feels it settle in his core and spread from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers.
He's so fucking warm.
Robert feels delirious with pleasure as he needily chases Flambae's lips when they pull back for air, weak hands scrabble against his broad chest when he deepens the kiss and feels the press of a knee between his legs. His eyes roll as he feels the heat rise, his head feels like a furnace, eyes blurring as his limbs loosen around the tongue licking cinders into an open mouthed moan.
The jolt of pleasure that floods his senses is decadent and syrupy.
Robert hasn't had any action since awakening from his coma three months ago and his body is quick to remind him of that fact.
Each point of contact on his skin feels like being electrocuted.
His heart pounds against the cage of ribs in his chest as he quite literally breathes flecks of cinders between each kiss and oh, Robert had always been a romantic at heart. He files the information away indulgently, eyes lazily following a fleck of gold that slips from between their slotted lips before coming to rest back on the brilliant gaze of the man who made him breathe fire.
"Din't know y'could make me d'that..." he mumbles through dazed eyes. Flambae simply chuckles, "Oh, I can make you do a lot of things, Robbo." He dips in closer and purrs, low and sensual, "You want to find out?" And oh sweet jesus god does he want to find out. Flambae takes his breath away once more, filling it with fire and passion.
Robert finds himself swept up in the heat of the moment once more, drowning under Flambae's attention as he nips at his lower lip, his warm hand cradling the back of his head, controlling the pace at which they rode each wave of passion. Hips grinding against each other like horny teenagers sequestered away in a bathroom stall.
The heat that thrums and buzzes low in his pelvis takes up all the space in his head, stoked by Flambae's possessive kissing that trails from his mouth to his neck and back again. Robert's stuttering mind is barely able to keep up as he roams the contours of his bruised and battered body.
It's intoxicating.
So he allows himself to slip into indulgence, relaxing into the experience of being taken apart by the man pinning him against the bathroom stall, warm, strong arms, holding his brittle and frail form together as he slowly drifts apart under his hold. Eyes fluttering with pleasure and delirium.
He barely hears Flambae's voice when he speaks once more over the rushing of blood to his head. He suddenly sounded worried, his voice urgent. But Robert feels too far gone, the soft sun having set in his ribs as it stokes the existing heat higher, it's equally distressing as it is euphoric.
Robert hasn't had an orgasm in almost a year, too obsessed with his title as Mechaman and after crashing to the earth, his libido had been non-existent. So he would be so forgiven if heated kisses and clothed grinding sent him hurtling off the deep end embarrassingly quickly.
He's moaning, he thinks he's moaning, it's hard to tell through the roaring heat in his gut and in his head. There's a steady hand cupping his cheek and steadying his face as his body loses strength despite the coiling orgasm that's pulsing through his body. He feels so warm, he feels so good. He can barely see through his fading blurry vision, he can barely think as his legs give out from under him as the second hand comes to hold him up by the small of his back.
Robert shudders as he's held against that warmth. Thoughts thick and slow like molasses as the ecstasy slowly fades, leaving him loose limbed and entirely pliant.
When the last of his climax finally drains out of him, his body goes lax as the heat rises. His eyes flutter and roll into his head as the simmering heat that had been brewing since the start of the day finally rises to claim him.
Robert is out like a light.
---
Robert rarely ever got sick. Not really. At least, not sick enough for it to truly handicap his ability to do his job as Mechaman. Easily fighting off mild fevers and infections within the day or night, sometimes even powering through missions with entirely blocked sinuses.
The one time he had fallen ill enough to be bedridden was when he was eight. His father had only left a handful of antibiotics and instructions on the kitchen counter on what to take and how to take care of himself through his fever. Chase hadn't even been around to help tide him through it on account of there being a villain with a high enough threat level to warrant all hands on deck.
So Robert had spent the weekend alone in an empty house, making microwave soup, watching cartoons and setting alarms for when he needed to take his medication. By the time his father got back, his fever was mostly gone and his father had forgotten he even had a fever in the first place. But that was fine. Robert had always been resilient. It was one of the few things that defined him positively after all.
Robert rarely ever got sick.
That is, until the coma finally topples his gradually failing immune system. Like a dam stretched to it's limit finally breaking, the coma made all of his worst habits around his physical maintenance known.
In the way his mind clouded and his joints ached when it rained, the sharp crack and pop of his bones when he stretched. The sudden fading and spotting of his vision when he stood up too quickly. His inability to gain weight, let alone muscle as easily as he used to. The lingering pain that haunted his body for longer stretches after the more unforgiving and intense fights. His reduced stamina, his heightened fatigue, lower threshold for overwhelming stimulus.
Scars aching, skin bruising, fingers hurting, eyes clouding, mind fogging, limbs stiffening.
And a simple fever taking him offline entirely for committing the grave sin of kissing a man in the form of a star.
If the body is a temple, then Robert's was a haunted crypt, stripped of it's foundations due to years of neglect, leaving only it's rickety frame in its wake.
And it was time to pay his dues for that very same neglect.
---
His return to his body isn't linear. Touch and sound, phases in and out along with his consciousness as he drifts through the haze of heat thrumming just under his patchwork skin. He tries his voice, but for some reason the coordination between the words he wants to form and his control over his lips and tongue was entirely non-existent. All he manages are slurred words as he trips over his teeth, blearily blinking his eyes open in an attempt to reorient himself.
What the fffuuuuucccckkk is happening?
There's a low voice, soft and coaxing, the recesses of his mind aware enough to register that it's surprising in it's gentleness.
A touch, hot against his already warm skin has him flinching sharply, but that same steady voice settles that skittish animal in him enough to relax back into the soft surface he was laid on. He feels something cool and damp settle over his forehead, it's chill stark against his heated flesh and he sighs, almost in relief.
Robert drifts, his consciousness sinking back under the pull of the abyss.
He floats in and out of the world of the waking for a while, before he's finally swept back to the shores of lucidity. Slowly blinking his eyes open to focus his wavering stare at the ceiling.
Robert groans quietly, squeezing his eyes shut once more before testing his limbs. Still achy, joints still protesting his every move, but functional at least. That's when he realises the bed he's in is far too soft to be his own. He sits up with a jolt, eyes flying open as he takes in his surroundings.
The bed is ridiculously sprawling, likely a california king with how much real estate was on it. He's not sure what material the sheets were, but they glided shockingly smooth across his skin as he moved, it's heavenly. His eyes fall upon the black dresser against the nearby wall, cluttered with a wide range of products from skin care to hair sprays and gels.
No fucking way.
Fucking way apparently, as a loud and decidedly irritated voice immediately draws Robert's attention. "Look which normie decided to finally wake the fuck up"
Robert's eyes snap to the doorway where Chad was casually leaning against the doorframe, dressed down in a V-neck shirt and loose sweat pants, looking infuriatingly like sculpted Adonis despite his casual wear.
Questions rise to the surface in disorientation as he fumbles at each of them clumsily, yet all that reaches his lips when he finally opens his mouth is a verbose, "Whuh..."
"Oh, I'll whuh-- you, Mechadick. Were you going to tell me you had a raging fever before the 'fuck me' eyes or were you planning on just cumming like a teenager before dying from heatstroke?" Though his words were sharp and acerbic, it did little to hide the evident worry simmering behind the fire star's eyes. His jaw twitching minutely as his crossed arms tenses and relaxes with the effort of controlling his temper.
He should probably say something.
"What are you doing here?"
Alright, maybe not that. "Wait, fuck. That came out wrong. What are we doing here?" Chad visibly gains a few degrees in temperature as whatever visible skin takes on a subtle incandescent glow.
"Let me try that again," Sensing his apparent blunder, Robert flounders, "What am I doing here?" Surely that was a more acceptable question.
It was not.
Chad stalks forward, looming over Robert and jabs a finger in his face. "You're in my fucking bed, you stupid fuck! You passed the fuck out while we were sucking face in the shitter and I had to drag your white girl ass all the way to my apartment to make sure your brain doesn't cook in that tiny head of yours, Bob-Bob!"
He doesn't give him the chance to respond, throwing both hands up into the air in exasperation. "I'm a fucking flamethrower, you stupid fuck! I know I'm fucking irresistible and sexy and all that, but who the fuck kisses a flamethrower with a fucking fever?!"
While his logical brain registers the truth of the matter alongside anger and frustration radiating off the larger man, his brain to mouth filter is almost nonexistent through the lingering fog in his head. So instead of dredging up his usual excuses, he mumbles,"Tha's a lotta fucks, man." Chad's look of utter bafflement is almost worth the mortifying realisation of his own situation. Almost.
Robert brings a hand up to pause whatever diatribe Chad was about to descend into as he quickly shakes his head, "Sorry, not what I meant." He chews on the words forming around his tongue, measuring them so as to not spit out something stupid again.
He settles on, "I didn't know I was sick." It's short, concise, and as much the truth as he can consciously manage right now. Yet from the way steam was starting to rise off Chad's shoulders, that may have still been an insufficient answer.
"What the fuck do you mean you didn't know you were sick?! How do you not know when you've got a fever so high it nearly gives you heatstroke, what the fuck is wrong with you?!"
A familiar dim pulsing starts up just behind his eyes and he sighs wearily, squinting at the firestarter who was quite literally steaming over him. "I don't get sick often, okay? Besides, the last time I was out of commission, the Red Ring ran circles around Torrence so no, I can't exactly afford to get sick."
Chad's expression softens, something unreadable flits through his features as a realisation clicks into place. He's quiet for a beat, amber eyes fixed on Robert in an intense stare.
Before he finally relents, sighing deep in exaggerated irritation as he shifts out of his space. "Stupid fucking normie." He grouses at him, his voice and posture lacking the heat behind his words.
Robert watches as Chad all but stomps his way out the room, leaving him sitting awkwardly in his bed. He's not quite sure what to do with himself as he listens to the sound of distant grumbling and puttering about the apartment.
Robert just about seriously considers getting up to look for him when Chad makes a return at the door with a standing tray in hand. On it there's a bowl of congee, a glass of water and a few pills sitting in a pill cup. He doesn't get the chance to be surprised as Chad briskly strides up to him and sets the tray over his knees, effectively trapping him on the bed.
"Eat. Then medicine. You're stuck with me until your brain isn't boiling in your skull so you better fucking behave."
At this point, Robert begins to recognise how sick he is by how slow his thoughts are on the uptake. His eyes linger hazily on the bowl before him as he's not able to stop the crooked grin that tugs at his lips, "You cooked for me?" He says lazily, though he aims for teasing, his voice lands a touch vulnerable. He picks up the spoon.
Chad huffs grumpily, arms crossed once more as he scowls down at his charge. "Don't get your hopes up, Mechadick. It's only because you're sick and we can't have our only good dispatcher dying from something as stupid as a fever."
Robert hums fondly through a mouthful of congee. It's deliciously savoury and hearty while being gentle on the dim nausea churning in his stomach. There's a quiet chastising voice at the back of his head that insists he's taken more than he's owed already, urging him to get up and leave. To handle this himself without inconveniencing those around him. He's a hero after all. And heroes don't get sick, nor do they need caring for.
"When you're done with that, I have ice cream in the freezer. I heard from Mal it's good for fevers or whatever."
Yet, Chad's insistent presence as he awkwardly pulls up the stool from the dresser to sit by his bedside is heart rending. It's the realisation that Chad had to deliberately smother his own heat and flames to care for him in any real capacity that makes his heart clench. That despite the obvious inconvenience, the need to consciously dim a vital, foundational part of himself and the extended effort needed for Robert to even be here in Flambae's apartment, sitting in his bed, eating his food :
Chad cares.
Chad had been worried about him. Likely driven out of his mind with panic when Robert had suddenly passed out mid make out session with a raging temperature, likely made worse by his own fire.
Robert's spoon stills at the thought. Chad immediately notices his hesitance and growls, "What? You going to fucking puke or something? You better tell me ahead, Mechadick because I don't want you ruining my sheets."
The brunette shakes his head and sets his spoon down, reaches for the words as sincerely as his addled mind allows him to, "Sorry about scaring you. I haven't been sick in a... In a very long time, so I really didn't know either."
The crease in Chad's brows soften just a touch, he regards him for a moment before grumbling in response, his eyes averted. "Whatever. Your shitty health isn't any of my concern. Just didn't want to be accused of cooking you."
Robert smiles privately to himself at the unspoken admission. Too tired to tease or press the issue, so instead he focuses on finishing his meal. Thoughts spinning in lazy circles over how contrary to his words, it must have taken substantial effort for Chad to care for him.
And oh, he wants this. Robert desperately wants that care that he was never afforded.
With his walls whittled down, the realisation of selfish want is a crushing realisation. So he settles on a quiet nod as he carefully keeps his eyes down, keeping his focus on bringing the spoon up to his lips as he feels the warm and wet tracks on his face, salt his congee.
If Chad notices, he doesn't mention it.
---
The following days pass in a blurry haze, spent mostly in bone deep exhaustion and aching joints. Chad is a constant presence, having set an alarm for Robert's morning, afternoon and evening meals, followed by medication. The basin of ice water and rag, used to cool his heated body is frequently replaced when it gets too warm.
When Robert briefly brushes up against Chad's skin, he notes how much cooler he ran. The guilt that bubbles up under his throat is familiar.
"You don't have to keep doing that for me, you know." he says quietly as Chad helps him reach his back with the ice soaked rag. "I can do this myself so you don't have to force down your powers."
He's met with a click of a tongue and ice water flicked in his face, "Shut up, bitch." There's no heat behind the irritation in Chad's voice. "I take care of my sister and niece all the fucking time. You think I do think because you're special? Idiot." And he resumes gliding the chilled rag across his heated skin.
Robert's too tired to argue his point, but he's touched regardless. So instead he hums quietly and shuts his eyes, lets himself enjoy the mundane comfort of being cared for for once in his sparse life.
He sleeps. A lot.
Likely enough to make up for all the missed hours existing as Mechaman in any capacity. Yet, he's not sure how restful his sleep is, a lifetime of needing to be up and ready at a moment's notice conditioning him to be a feather light sleeper. So he's not sure how he feels sleeping this deeply for the first time in almost a decade. It leaves him disconcertingly disoriented each time Chad gently shakes him awake for water or food, too soft headed to register his surroundings or respond.
One mortifying instance, as Chad once again shakes him awake, Robert had flown into a panic. Flinching violently, gasping between his teeth as he jerks back, scrabbling against the headboard in alarm at the perceived invisible threat. It's only as he bares his teeth and snarls that he remembers where he is.
Chad's expression is carefully neutral as he watches him, hand still outstretched. "Just me, Bobert. You good?" His tone is casual, but his eyes were cautious. He's seen how Robert fights without the suit.
Robert blinks back into himself, nodding hesitantly. Swallowing thickly around the rising embarrassment. "Y-yeah." he clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm good. Sorry. Startled me."
Chad only hums in response, his eyes remaining watchful as he seems to come to a quiet conclusion about something that Robert wasn't privy to.
Mercifully, Chad has the sense not to talk about his reaction or push the issue. Though the next time Robert wakes it's from the sound of unnecessarily loud cabinets being opened and closed in the kitchen before Chad appears at the door. He's relatively confident it's intentional, and if it was he's privately grateful.
There is a singular moment, however, that Robert isn't entirely sure happened or if it was the result of his fever-addled mind's conjuration.
He doesn't quite wake. Not fully. His mind surfacing just enough for his eyes to open just a slit, unfocused and not entirely conscious just yet. His body is leaden, still held under the paralysis of sleep, his heart still slow, breathing still relaxed. His hazy eyes barely pick up his surroundings aside from the orange and pinks of the setting sun, and the familiar figure seated nearby on the dresser stool.
"You awake, Robbo?" The dream asks quietly.
No. He thinks, his lips unresponsive. I don't think I am.
The silence hangs in the air for a while, and Robert feels himself slowly drifting back under despite his half opened eyes. The moment feels liminal as he's gently locked into his own body through whatever dream state he was in.
Suddenly, he feels a gentle touch on his face, cupping his cheek. A thumb tracing the freckles across his skin. It's feather light in its ministrations, an action full of reverence as fingers curl to brush the back of each digit up along his jawline tenderly.
He feels painfully cherished in that simple, tiny contact. His eyelids waver, feeling the call of the abyss once more but he tries to hold on. Wanting to remain present in this moment for as long as his tired heart allows.
He feels warm tracks slowly stream down his cheeks at the quiet revelation. Barely lucid enough to even be aware of their cause let alone to stop them. The hand against his cheeks stills, before they return, softly brushing his tears away.
"Shh... It's okay, azizam. I'm right here."
The voice settles something inside of him, stilling that trembling presence in his heart. There's a quiet barely perceptible whine that threads the end of each exhale. He's not sure where it comes from, where any of these reactions were coming from, but he supposes dreams rarely made any sense.
The hand traces a path to his temples before it cards through his hair. The motion is soothing, grounding, carefully untangling the coarse strands as it does, nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Robert has never had anyone touch his head or hair with such tenderness before.
He's lulled into a soft haze of comfort, eyes finally fluttering shut once more as he lets out a deep relaxed breath. Allowing himself to sink deeper into the moment, feels himself slowly slip incrementally back under the surface.
Just before he blinks out of consciousness, he has just enough presence of mind to register lips, carefully controlled in their warmth, brush up against his temple. And the last thing he remembers just before he's finally pulled under, is desperately holding onto the sensation of those lips ghosting against his forehead.
And a quiet part of Robert resolves to ask Chad out properly for dinner when he wakes up.