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It’d been a while since a shift had left him with such a bone-deep exhaustion.
Robby’s procedural memory took care of the handoffs and the drive home; emotionally, he’d been checked out since three o’clock. He’d also been bugged by a splitting headache and a tightness on his throat for most of the day, and that—that second one, that’d always been difficult to get rid of. The headaches could be washed down with a pill, with some shuteye, but the lump in his throat often persisted exasperatingly. He massaged his neck and forehead and, in a flash, begrudgingly remembered he wasn’t about to walk into an empty apartment for the first time in a few weeks.
Dennis had always liked Robby’s apartment: Robby had seen the way his eyes had brightened and his face had flustered the first time he came over, the way he’d carefully, timidly smoothed the few creases from the burgundy throw blanket on the couch when Robby hardly cared to keep it away from food and wine spills, the way he’d twisted in bed and sneakily pressed his face into Robby’s pillow with a soft sound after Robby cleaned him down, the way he’d watched the tiny, flicking apartment lights from the surrounding buildings and the heavy rush-hour traffic down below through the floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunned expression, hands wringing. Interested but hesitant, shy, following Robby whenever he went.
That first day, Robby had decided that, for longer than Dennis probably wanted this to last, Robby would helplessly leave his door open—for him to come unannounced, to come every day, to roll in the sheets and to linger, to place his things among Robby’s and lose sight of them, to give Robby the joy of discovering one of his sweaters, or one of his books, or one of his handwritten notes when cleaning out his closet before Pesach: unadulterated, tangible proof of him. Proof that he was to come back, because his things had been spread throughout the house, not kept in a pile in a corner the way one would leave his belongings when planning to run; that he was to come back, if only because he liked the view from the dining room and the thread count on the bed linen—he’d be comfortable, at least, Robby wanted that for him.
That, in the midst of everything, of the soft comforter and the likes, something would make him want to come back for Robby, too. Naturally, Robby wished for this above all.
That day before leaving, Dennis had, while fumbling with his backpack and avoiding Robby’s eyes, curled into Robby’s arms for a hug before he left, and Robby had smiled into his hair, leaving a furtive kiss into the curls while thinking of a way to say that he wanted Dennis to show up again tomorrow, or next weekend, and every day after that. In the end, he said nothing at all.
Dennis did come back—perhaps in spite of Robby, not because of him. Robby had been fairly difficult, as he was used to being. Dennis was very kind, and very patient, because that was all he could be, too. Now, what felt like years from then but was, in reality, maybe a few months in the future, Robby thought he wished he’d kept his door locked, that he hadn’t turned soft so often at the sight of Dennis’ teeth nervously chewing on his bottom lip as he asked what Robby would do on Thursday, if he’d like some company again.
His footsteps were heavy as he carried himself to the elevator, and they were heavy when they stopped on his doormat. He exhaled and went in.
The house smelled of paprika and thyme, and Dennis had been spread out on the couch on his phone—feet on the headrest, head almost hanging over the edge. He straightened at the sound of the door opening, and jumped up to collect and rearrange things he must’ve thought were carelessly thrown on the coffee table as Robby took off his coat and kicked off his shoes.
“Robby, hi! I’m—so messy, sorry.” He shook his head as if reprimanding himself, then laughed, then quieted down as he put his hands behind his back, then changed his mind and hugged his torso. Robby, who’d dreaded this more than anything—more than the blood and guts that’d gotten all over his face and arms and shoes, more than the cries he’d heard from the family room—gave him a tired smile, unthinking. “Hi,” Dennis said again, shyly this time.
“Hey.”
“I cooked. Or, uh, I tried, I guess. I have a hard time with the, uh, induction thing.” He frowned. “I burned the rice, kind of. Definitely, actually.”
“You cooked,” Robby repeated. His ears were ringing now that he’d gone inside. He rubbed his eyes, then thought of telling Dennis that he’d shower and head to bed, and that Dennis could leave if he wanted to, that there was nothing else Robby could do for him today. That he’d want the view, and the sheets, and the comforter all to himself; that his thoughts, his words, his affects, his ability to be here, present, the last little bit of it that there was, he’d keep to himself tonight; that what would come out of him now that he’d come home, something ugly and unpleasant, shouldn’t be witnessed by Dennis ever again. But he sat on the couch instead, and threw his backpack off his shoulder carelessly; his bathroom had been far, his room too.
“I wanted you to have dinner. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you eat,” Dennis explained, then paused. He sat next to Robby a few seconds later.
Robby looked at him, and that had been enough, maybe.
Dennis’ eyes flickered over his face, and his expression fell. He parted his lips to say something, then closed them again; instead of saying anything at all, his hand searched for Robby’s. He intertwined their fingers delicately and squeezed. Robby watched their hands in silence; Dennis’ was always so warm.
Dennis, after a moment of hesitation, kissed his shoulder, then rested his cheek on it gently, as if ready to pull back any second. “Do you want me to go?”
A part of Robby, one that’d learned the ropes a long time ago, wanted to tell Dennis that he wasn’t too fond of this much physical contact, that touches lingered and invaded and dismantled him; that he didn’t need it: a squeeze of a hand, a kiss on his shoulder, such worry, such affection, the food on the counter; that he didn’t want to—better yet, couldn’t—part his lips, even to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He wanted to turn his face, to gently shrug Dennis’ head off his shoulder, to shut the door to his room.
Another part of him, one that thought of Dennis letting go of his hand and gathering his things, that thought of the house he’d be left in as soon as that door closed behind Dennis, made him still. From his toes to the tip of his nose, he felt ice-cold, numb. Fuck, what wouldn’t Dennis take with him when he went?—this person, this hurricane of a man. Someone who made Robby feel alight and settled: in the right place, but all over it. He was the only one to ever walk into this place and, by doing so, give it meaning. Give Robby meaning.
He wanted to cling onto Dennis, then, pathetically fall into his arms and keep holding on, keep him from leaving at all: not to grab something to eat, not to work, not to do anything that wasn’t this—this shock treatment, this bucket of boiling hot water to Robby’s system. He wanted to ask what else Dennis needed from him, what else he could do to make sure he never walked out that door again. What else could make a task like this—having to care for Robby like he was a helpless child, having to walk on eggshells more often than not—worthwhile when it’d be endless? Robby was endlessly difficult, Dennis had to know this.
Robby forwent reminding him of it.
“No.” Robby shook his head, lowered it, nudged his nose into Dennis’ curls again. He smelled like Robby nowadays. “No, I don’t.” He swallowed, then hesitated: “But—if you—”
“I’m staying,” Dennis whispered with another squeeze of their intertwined hands, cutting him off. He brought them to his mouth, brushed kisses against Robby’s knuckles. “Okay.”
Then Dennis got up, so Robby followed him quietly. He wanted to rid himself of his shirt, his pants, his socks, wanted to rid himself of the smell and the grime of the day, of the sting behind his eyelids and the hoarseness of his throat; he lay in bed, instead, because Dennis placed his hand on his lower back to gesture him to do so.
Dennis turned off the light, lay next to Robby, and grabbed the comforter to cover them both. As he adjusted it around Robby’s shoulders, Robby gritted his teeth to keep his eyes from watering. In the dark, with some help from the hallway light they’d kept on, Robby could make out the light reflecting off of Dennis’ eyes and the tip of his nose. He relaxed into the bed.
“Is this okay?” Dennis asked quietly. Robby nodded. Dennis nodded back, then curled into him sheepishly: first their legs intertwined, then their arms formed a mess of a knot, then their foreheads touched, their breaths mingled. As a response to the question Dennis now asked with a hesitant, pensive look, Robby simply rubbed their noses together affectionately. Dennis smiled and nudged back. “Your nose is always freezing,” he whispered.
“You’ll warm me up,” Robby murmured back, voice raspy.
Dennis placed a chaste kiss on Robby’s lips, then, followed by a brush of his lips against the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and his jaw. Robby closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Dennis’ body at the feeling: a zap of electricity, something that made him start again.
Dennis kissed his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the crinkles by his eyes; he cupped Robby’s cheek and kissed his lips again, strong, unmoving. His fingers brushed through Robby’s beard, then his hair, then fiddled with one of his ears. Robby’s headache eased, and he heard Dennis whisper:
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” Robby answered automatically, truthfully, because he’d missed Dennis all day, all week, even if he hadn’t been able to acknowledge that that was what he’d been feeling. It came out like it’d been stuck inside of him, like he’d forced it out somehow, and maybe he had.
Dennis hugged him closer, letting Robby press his face into his neck, letting him both hide and breathe Dennis in. Robby shuddered, pins and needles stinging his fingers and toes as the warmth of Dennis’ body soothed him, as Dennis massaged his scalp and Robby’s eyes watered again.
“I’m sorry,” Robby choked out as soon as he realized it’d be impossible to hold back the tears this time. “It was just—a long fucking day.”
“I know,” Dennis whispered, nuzzling into him. “I know. It’s okay.”
“I should’ve sent you home.”
“I’m right here,” Dennis told him. In response, all Robby did was wet the collar of his shirt even more. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fuck.”
Robby, with no choice but to cry, sobbed like he’d been hurt somehow: like he’d been one of the patients they’d cut open today, or like it’d happened years ago. Like his insides had been tampered with, churned into something else, then carelessly stapled back up; like he’d been a bag of bones and mush since then, walking around under the pretense of being someone. Never telling anyone, the way they’d left him all wrong.
He’d tell Dennis one day.
He held Robby together, now, like he’d done that first day ages ago, and he never shied away: not from his sobbing, not from the snot, not from whatever it was that Robby murmured, desperate. Robby shivered again, and as his tears fell, the knot on his throat started to ease.
He needed to tell Dennis that—
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he whispered, or tried to. “Last week, and the week before that. I’m sorry, I know I’m f—I know I’ve been fucking up, I know—”
“It’s all right,” Dennis said, very simply. “I just missed you, that’s all. If you need to be alone, then—you can just tell me.”
“I don’t think I do. I don’t think I need to be alone—I don’t think I want to.” Robby nuzzled into the curls on Dennis’ nape. “I don’t think I ever do.”
Dennis remained silent, his hands delicate as they drew patterns on Robby’s back. Then, quietly, he spoke up again:
“Then you don’t have to be anymore.”