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Robby was always supposed to die first.
That’s the way it was supposed to go.
He’s almost thirty years older than Dennis, why would he ever think that it’d go another way. And he was alright with that. Accepted it. Accepted that he’d make Dennis a widow someday. That one day Dennis would have to make the choice to take him off life support, or something equally as horrible. Knew that one day, Dennis would be the one sobbing by his bedside the same way they saw so many others do. That he’d have to go on after, alone. Had given him permission, to remarry, to find someone else, after. Had been met with a why the fuck would I want to do that, you’re it for me.
Robby was always supposed to die first.
There’d never been a reason to think otherwise. Not in the last twenty years they’ve spent together. Twenty years since they met, fifteen of them married. Years and years of waking up sharing the same air and falling asleep tangled around each other. Of stealing food off each other’s plates and making out while they washed the dishes. Years of Dennis wearing his clothes instead of his own, of both their sneakers by the door. Of watching him dance around the living room to old records, of the giggle he lets out when Robby pulls him into his arms to sway to the music. Of coffee drinks that are more sugar than coffee, of trading sweet kisses while they walk hand in hand through the park. Twenty years of Dennis being the best thing that ever happened to him.
Robby was always supposed to die first.
He won’t, but he was supposed to.
Dennis gets sick in September. Writes it off as the flu. Robby’s seventy-five and retired, but Dennis isn’t. Figures he picked up this year’s strain while at work. Hand waves the shortness of breath and the cough and the chest pain away as just normal seasonal illness. Except it doesn’t go away. Two weeks. It took two weeks for Robby to convince him to go to the doctor for it. Two weeks of listening to him struggle to breathe, of counting his breaths at night, terrified that the next one wouldn’t come. It’d been a fight, though a mild one, to get him to finally go. Doctors are often the worst patients, and Dennis is even worse than the average.
Lung cancer. Stage four.
Remembers holding Dennis while he cried, remembers crying with him. Remembers the doctor talking about options, ways to slow progression, extend survival. To keep him comfortable. Remembers the look he sent Robby. The same one he used to give patients, the one that means there’s nothing we can do to fix this, I’m sorry. Remembers going home with scripts for drugs to extend life, to help with the pain, to make breathing easier, to try to kill the cancer. Remembers Dennis sobbing as he lined them all up on the bathroom counter like a row of soldiers. Remembers sitting on the bathroom floor with him, cradling him as he wailed. Remember thinking how unfair it was.
Because Robby was always supposed to die first.
He was ready for it. Accepted it. Had everything set up. The house is paid off, inherited from his Bubbe when she passed. There’s an account with enough money in it to support Dennis for fifty years. The one Robby set up the same day he proposed, the one he’s been funneling most of his salary into for the last decade and a half. Didn’t want Dennis to ever struggle, after he was gone. Wanted him to be able to do what he wanted to do, whatever that was. Wanted to be able to leave this life knowing he was taken care of.
Realizes now most of that money will never be used. Makes a note to earmark it for donation. PTMC can always use the money. Maybe they’ll name a wing after them or something. It’s a nice thought. Doesn’t think he’ll last long, after Dennis is gone. No, he knows he won’t. Accepts that too. Whether it’s a broken heart or his own hand that does him in, he’s okay with it. Has lived a long life, done a lot of good. A lot of not good too, but more good than not, he thinks. Will stay with Dennis until he’s gone and then he’ll join him, in whatever form that takes.
Is pulled from his thoughts by Dennis rolling towards him. There’s a pause, a sigh, and then an arm is thrown over his middle. A hand finds his, idly plays with his fingers. Robby smiles, when the hand wrapped around his tugs it towards Dennis. Knows he’s going to kiss his knuckles before he does it. Knows because it’s the first thing he’s done every morning for the last fifteen years. And it makes him smile the same way now as it did the first time he did it. Turns his head to the side enough that he can press a kiss to his forehead. The same way he has for the last fifteen years. Their standard morning greeting.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Dennis asks, voice low.
“Not worth that much.”
Dennis huffs a laugh, lifts his head to look into his eyes. Rolls them when Robby shoots him his most faux innocent expression he can. Collapses back onto his chest. They don’t have to talk about it. They both already know what he’s thinking about. The elephant currently living with them. Looming over their shoulders, sharing their bed, lurking around every corner. No need to bring it up now. Not when Dennis is still sleep warm and pressed against his side. Not when bringing it up won’t change anything. Won’t do anything other than make them both sad.
“Don’t forget Santos is staying over next week,” Dennis segues, letting the other topic drop, starts to draw patterns onto Robby's chest with a single finger.
“Why again?”
“My birthday party, remember? I told her she could crash here that night.”
“Because you both plan on getting tipsy and you don’t want her driving.”
“Exactly. You know me so well.”
“I should marry you or something.”
“Can’t, I’m already taken.”
In six days, Dennis will turn forty-eight. And all his friends will be there to celebrate with him. Abbot and Mohan, who have been lifesavers since Dennis got sick, are bringing the burgers and hot dogs. Abbot’s manning the grill, will probably insist on wearing some stupid apron with kiss the chef on it and will demand that Samira do just that every time she walks past him. Because he’s a dork. Mel and Langdon are bringing the cake, because Mel has been into baking lately, and she asked to make it, and no one can ever say no to her. Santos is bringing the booze, because she always complains about what Robby gets. Old man liquor, whatever that means. Dana and her husband are stopping by, and knowing them will bring casseroles to stock up the freezer. Javadi and McKay will be there too, with Harrison even, if he can swing it.
Everyone else will filter in and out as schedules at the hospital allow. And he already knows Dennis will push himself too hard. Will overexert himself because he’s having too much fun. Will ignore his body when it tells him to slow down, to take it easy, to rest. Will spend the next week recovering from it. But it’ll be worth it, to see him happy. To see him get another year older. Isn’t sure how many more birthdays they’ll have. So it’ll be well worth the week of him being exhausted if it means getting to see him smile and laugh and play drinking games with his friends like he’s twenty-seven again and not pushing fifty.
Feels a vice close around his chest when he realizes he might not ever turn fifty. Realizes, with a feeling akin to horror, that he’s still so young. Twenty years together and he’s still six years younger than Robby was when they met. And he may not ever get to be the same age Robby was back then. Knows the chances of him living longer than five years are slim. Knows there’s a good chance he won’t make it to fifty-four. Not with the way the cancer has spread. Knows he might not even make it to fifty, and the thought makes him want to sob. Because it isn’t fucking fair.
Robby was always supposed to die first.
He won’t, but he was supposed to.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Dennis tries again, no doubt having felt him tense up.
“Don’t have any worth sharing.”
“I think we both know that’s a lie,” and just like that, the elephant who shares their bed clears its throat, demands their attention.
“Just thinking about birthdays, about how young you are.”
“I’m almost fifty, I don’t think that’s young,” there’s a laugh there, in his voice.
“I remember you telling me when I was older than you, ‘you’re not even old,’ were you lying to me?”
“I never lied to you. Fifty-four isn’t old, it’s just not young either.”
He’s teasing, tone light. And Robby almost doesn’t want to ruin it. Almost doesn’t want to say what’s on his mind. But he also thinks that if he doesn’t say it, it might kill him. Might steal the air from his lungs the same way the cancer is taking the air from Dennis’. Knows, too, that Dennis wants to know. Knows the teasing is an out, an option he can take, so he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to. But he does, this time. Twenty years together have taught him that sometimes it’s better to let things out than bottle them up. Took him too fucking long to learn it, but he got there, eventually.
“You might not ever be fifty-four.”
The words are soft, but they might as well be a shotgun blast in a small space for how loud they seem. Dennis freezes, tenses. The finger that had been tracing lazy, random patterns into his chest hair stops moving. Dennis takes a deep breath, as deep as he can with the tumors anyway. Sits up, keeps his hand on his chest, even as he moves. Like he’s aware they both need the connection right now. Tilts his head to the side like a puppy, looks into Robby’s eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
Says it so low Robby almost doesn’t hear it. Looks away because if he doesn’t, he’s going to cry and he doesn't want that. Because that's not what Dennis needs. Because he needs Robby to be strong, needs him to hold it together. Robby’s not the one dying, not the one in pain. Dennis is. This isn’t about him, shouldn’t be about him. Dennis is the one that matters here, not him, never him. Dennis, who’ll never get to be as old as Robby is, as old as he was. Dennis leans forward, presses their foreheads together.
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For leaving you.”
And that’s all it takes. His breath stutters, once, twice and then he’s sobbing. Gathers Dennis into his arms, crushes him into his chest. Tries to be mindful not to squeeze too hard, because he doesn’t want to make it harder to breathe than it already is. Just wants to hold him. Wants to feel him, here and alive while he still is. Wants to hold him close enough he can feel his heartbeat, because he knows there will be a time when he won’t be able to anymore. Dennis goes with it. Wraps his arms around him, squeezes just as hard. Lets himself be crushed, and it isn’t until he uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at Robby’s face that he realizes that this is the first time he’s cried since the day they got the diagnosis.
Hasn’t allowed himself to cry since that day, curled around Dennis on the bathroom floor. Knows Dennis has, several times. Has held him while he raged and screamed and wailed. But not him, not Robby. Hasn’t allowed himself to mourn, to grieve for the future that they won’t get to have. The future that Dennis won’t get now. The years he’ll miss out on, the events he won’t be there for. Thinks how fucked it is, that the world is gonna lose Dennis Whitaker-Robinavitch and doesn’t even know it. Just keeps spinning on anyway.
Robby was always supposed to die first.
But he won’t and it isn’t fucking fair.
Holds onto Dennis and bawls, cries harder than he thinks he ever has before. Clings to him and for the first time in years feels like a little kid. Feels like that eight-year-old boy, begging his mom not to go. Feels like the thirty-one-year-old, clutching his Grandmother’s hand and pleading with her not to leave him alone. Thought he was safe this time, that he’d be the one to leave. Forty-some years older, with bad joints and diabetes and shit eyes. Thought that this time he was safe. That this time he wouldn’t have to survive being left behind. Should have known he was wrong. Should have known he wouldn’t get to keep Dennis either.
By the time his sobs wind down to hiccups and fade to the occasional harsh exhale, they’ve somehow shifted. Robby’s sitting up against the headboard, Dennis in his lap. Vaguely remembers sit up baby, I don’t want you to choke, shh, I’m not going anywhere, it’s okay, just sit up. Smiles, a little, at the thought that even half out of it he still listened to what Dennis wanted him to do. The man himself is in his lap, knees on either side of Robby’s hips. He’ll complain later, about not being as young and flexible as he used to be. But for now, he seems content to stay where he is. Chest to chest, whole weight on Robby like an emotional panini press.
Dennis reaches out, links their pinkies together and he can’t stop the grin that spreads. It’s a silly thing, a leftover from their ED days. From before the whole department knew about them. When they were still trying to keep it under wraps and couldn’t hold hands at work. Couldn’t hold hands, but they could stand in front of the board, close enough to link their pinkies together for two seconds before letting go. It’s been shorthand for a lot over the years. I love you. I’m here. I’ve got you. Are you okay. You look cute right now. This patient’s pissing me off and I need physical contact with you or I’m gonna punch him. Mostly I love you. Knows that’s what it means now.
“I’m still here,” Dennis whispers.
“You’re still here,” he agrees, ignores the little voice in his head that says for now.
“And I’m gonna stay as long as I can.”
“And I’ll be here the whole time.”
“You better be. We have a party to be at next week.”
And Robby knows it isn’t fair or mature, but he thinks the pillow he whacks Dennis with is totally justified.
Dennis agrees.