Chapter Text
There is a lot Robby could say for himself, but he generally prefers to keep it to himself if he can. Not getting into situations in which it is necessary to explain his actions is usually the best way of keeping out of trouble.
This schemata is all upended by the retrospectively short-sighted decision to attend a Pirates game with Jack, a veritable domino effect of disasters following in its wake. Why he thought he could get away with simply going to a ball game with his good buddy is beyond him. He should have known there was some sort of cosmic power set against him; a constant portent of misfortune hanging on his brow, following his steps like a particularly prickly house cat, tripping his gait at every available turn. Murphy’s Law ought to be renamed, frankly. Robinavitch’s Law might have less of a ring to it but at the very least, it certainly rings true.
All this to say, when the Kiss Cam becomes unerringly trained upon the figures of Robby and Jack way out in the edge of the stands, he should be less surprised than he is. And when Jack turns to face him with a sort of look in his eyes which says Well, we can’t let them down, can we, Robby has a difficult time telling whether it’s the pressure of the crowd’s eyes or something else entirely which sets his heart pounding out of his chest. Stage fright does seem like the most likely answer; it must explain the catch of breath in his chest, the way his fingers clutch at the popcorn bucket sitting in his lap.
Jack leans closer, breath fanning across his mouth. “You don’t mind putting on a show, do you?” he asks, and when he asks it in that particular way, low and self-assured, Robby finds he doesn’t mind it at all. He’s a grown, heterosexual man. He can kiss his grown, heterosexual best friend on the Kiss Cam and manage to laugh it off into his $13 Coors Light. Not an issue.
When he leans in to press his lips to Jack’s, however, he discovers a minor issue: it feels so fucking good. Jack’s lips brush against his once, twice, three times, soft and casual. Robby thinks he hears the roar of the crowd or maybe it’s his own blood rushing in his ears. Either way, something celebrates this brief kiss. Jack’s thumb brushes up against the underside of his chin. He tries not to spill the popcorn all over the row in front of him.
Jack pulls back with a smile on his face, eyes flicking down briefly before they come to meet Robby’s own. “You taste like hot dog,” he says, voice nearly drowned out by the applause of the crowd before the Kiss Cam moves on to its next unsuspecting victims.
Robby wants to pitch himself over the side of the stadium, but he settles for clearing his throat and turning to look forwards again, watching two women laugh and give each other a short peck on the jumbotron. “Yeah, well, you taste like an asshole.”
Jack waggles his brow. “You know what asshole tastes like?”
Robby tosses popcorn into his mouth and in the back of his mind hopes it erases the taste of hot dog. He then rapidly decides to refuse all sense of embarrassment. “I’m fifty-five, man. I think it’d be weirder if I never rimmed anybody.” Jack laughs.
“Well, now you can add kissing a guy to the list of life experiences, brother. You only live once,” Jack replies with a bashful grin and a shrug, taking a sip of his beer. Robby suppresses a blush.
“Cheers to that,” he says gruffly, and knocks the side of his beer against Jack’s. “Gotta try everything once.”
“Aw, just once? No more kisses for your best and most devoted friend?” Jack teases. Robby rolls his eyes.
“You wish,” Robby laughs into his cup; then promptly buries the memory, surely never to be unearthed again. ✷