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The best thing that had happened to Dennis was that the physical hangover wasn't going to kill him. Two full bottles of electrolytes and a Tylenol had taken care of that. The worst thing that had happened to him, honestly, was not having a physical hangover bad enough to distract him from the fact that he'd sent a voice message over a minute long, one where he'd said buddy more times than he was proud of, and begged for approval about his stupid little moles on his chest.
Oh, and he'd almost forgotten. He'd also admitted that he'd told his neighbor he was incredibly hot. On top of that, completely unprompted, he'd added that he liked his crow's feet and his freckles.
All of that packed into one drunken minute. But could he really blame himself? He'd just ended his situationship with Brendon in the middle of a shift with way more pediatric patients than he would've liked.
Apparently it had been very cruel of him to tell the orthopedic surgeon that what he needed now was to settle down with someone who maybe had kids and understood what priorities were.
Dennis had spent ten minutes staring at the ceiling when he decided that, technically, telling Brendon he wanted to be with someone who had kids didn't mean he'd been thinking about Robby. It could mean anything. Any man with kids. There were millions of men with kids, probably thousands of doctors with kids.
It didn't have to mean, specifically, the fifty year old ER doctor who lived across the hall and who, on top of everything, had heard absolutely all of it. Not to mention the fact that Robby was a very straight man.
And above all, he didn't like Michael Robinavitch. Not even a little. He'd just been honest with himself and admitted the man was attractive. That was it.
Still, he'd use his foolproof technique of ignoring his neighbor for as long as he could get away with it, until Robby went back to doing what he always did. Because if there was one thing that really bothered Dennis, it wasn't just that he kept making these stupid mistakes, like the naked photo or the humiliating voice message. It was that Robby brushed everything off like it was nothing.
Was it really nothing, though? That had been one of his best photos! One that he and Trinity had studied for so long they decided it was worth keeping in his private gallery. Kneeling in front of the mirror, one hand holding the phone up by his face to cover it, the other braced on the floor, his arm angled just enough to cover what needed covering. A photo that took a ridiculous amount of planning.
And it was nothing! Except Robby had mentioned the moles, which meant he must have zoomed in. Dennis had tested it himself, he'd looked at the photo again, and without zooming there was no way anyone could have noticed that detail.
Maybe his very straight friends sent each other photos like that too, just as friends. The way he sent photos to Trinity for approval before sending them to someone else. But then again, he and his best friend were both queer, and they'd lived together long enough to build that kind of closeness. He wondered if Robby had a friendship that intense with anyone else. And for some reason, he didn't love that idea.
Anyway, the decision was made. He wasn't going to make the first move. He'd pretend he didn't remember the voice message and that would be the end of it. It wasn't like he was obligated to talk to the man anyway.
His phone buzzed. A notification came in, and bile crawled up his throat and got stuck there.
Michael (Ollie's Dad)
mellie's up, can she stay for breakfast?
Oh, shit. He'd completely forgotten his daughter was in the apartment across the hall. Suddenly he felt like a terrible father, because in the middle of his own meltdown, he hadn't once thought about the fact that his daughter was basically a permanent link tying him to Robby for life, since Oliver was one of the best things that had ever happened to Amelia.
If he acted like a tyrant, he could just stop her from ever seeing little Robinavitch again. But that wouldn't just break the heart of the person he loved most in the world, it would also crush a sweet kid who had nothing to do with any of this. That made him feel like an even worse father.
His phone buzzed again. Right, he owed a reply. He knew Robby wouldn't do anything about his daughter without getting the green light from him first.
Michael (Ollie's Dad)
change of plans, the kids are gonna have something good
come have breakfast with us
He would rather starve, or let Amelia move into 4AB permanently and turn into a little Robinavitch with terrible eating habits, bad sleep schedules, and zero sense of danger. But no. He couldn't do that.
Dennis
Thanks, Robby! I'll be there in five minutes :)
It wasn't until after he hit send that he noticed he'd used an exclamation point and a smiley face, both in the same sentence. That practically screamed pathetic and desperate in all caps.
Five minutes turned into a lot more than five minutes. He stood in front of the mirror way too long, checking whether he looked too wrecked, but honestly, the shower, the electrolytes, and the medicine had done him a lot of good, which was inconvenient, to say the least. He wasn't going to prove anything he didn't have to, so he didn't even change out of his sweats or dry his hair. This was who he was, take it or leave it.
Two seconds later, Hazel opened the door with Pickles in her arms. The girl had flour all over her face, and her short hair was full of clips in all kinds of shapes and colors. Dennis knew that had to do with her constant need to look different from Leon after her hair accident.
"You're here, take Pickles," she said, holding the ferret out to him. Pickles wasted no time climbing up to perch on his shoulder, and the girl went right back to what she'd been doing. "We're making pancakes."
After more than six months, Dennis had a lot more patience now for Pickles and his soft fur. Honestly, the ferret acted more like a dog than anything else. "Hey there, little guy," he murmured to the animal, right before it licked his cheek and scurried out of his arms toward its little burrow in the cage.
He walked in shyly, following the sound of his daughter's voice. He wasn't going to lie, he took the chance to look around the apartment. Ever since Robby had hired Sylvia, the place stayed a lot cleaner than he remembered from the first time he'd walked in. There weren't toys scattered everywhere, no giant piles of laundry on the table, no candy wrappers lying around. It looked pretty good, and that was the worst part, because it meant the Robinavitches were racking up enough points that Dennis wouldn't be able to say no if Amelia asked to spend the whole day there.
"Let's play a game. Whoever tries to put their hand in the fire first loses, deal?" Robby's rough, unmistakable voice carried over the kids' laughter.
There he was. Wearing a Rolling Stones shirt that looked about twenty years old from how worn out it was, and sweatpants covered in oil stains, raw batter, and flour. To top it off, he had his round glasses on, trying to read a piece of paper that looked like a recipe. And he looked ridiculously good.
Fuck, what? No, come on, that wasn't the word he meant. Of course not. He meant fatherly. Very fatherly. Having the kids gathered around him with a huge bowl, pouring in milk and flour and even chocolate chips, wasn't exactly helping that image.
"Dad! You came!" Amelia set the bowl of chocolate chips down carefully and ran over to Dennis. He took the chance to smooth down her messy hair and fix the twisted collar of the pajamas she was still wearing. "Robby's making Sylvia's special hot chocolate. Can I have a cup? Please?"
Dennis frowned, not because he thought it was a bad idea, but because he couldn't stop watching Robby out of the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of joke about the voice message.
"Special?" was all the idiot managed to say.
"According to this it's special because it's got cinnamon, vanilla, and orange peel in it," Robby muttered, not looking up from the paper. "God, it's amazing, you should try it too."
Robby didn't even look at him. Nothing. He seemed way more focused on keeping the pan under control for the pancakes and making sure the milk didn't boil over. He was apparently good at keeping both things in check at once. ER doctor skills, Dennis figured.
"So where are Leo and Flo?" he asked, mostly so he'd have something to say and could pretend everything was normal.
"Here!" The voice came from the laundry room. From the kitchen, Dennis could see the boy standing in front of the washing machine, his face pressed against the glass, watching the clothes spin around and around.
"His Spiderman costume was dirty. Good thing the cycle's got fifty minutes left, so that'll keep him busy for a while," Robby explained, fully aware of how ridiculous the scene was. "And Flo's still asleep. I'm guessing she'll wake up sometime before lunch."
Dennis nodded without saying anything else. His daughter was still watching him with those huge dark eyes, waiting for an answer to something that shouldn't have taken this long or gone off track. "Hot chocolate, sure. Yeah, why not."
The girl smiled, satisfied, and went back to sprinkling chips into the batter Robby was already pouring onto the pan. The pancakes that were ready went straight onto the plates, and Hazel, standing on her little step stool, made it her job to drown them in syrup and fruit her dad had made her add.
Within a few minutes, all the kids had piled into the living room to watch Zootopia while they wolfed down a breakfast so good that Amelia, who normally never ate like that, was thrilled down to her core.
Dennis had stayed behind in the kitchen, stacking dirty dishes into the dishwasher to feel useful. Robby, meanwhile, pulled out two big mugs to pour the coffee that was still brewing. The mugs of hot chocolate were smaller than the kids' cups, but he'd insisted Dennis drink some too, and honestly, how was he supposed to say no to the host.
At that point, Dennis figured he couldn't keep dodging the obvious forever, and that he should be the one to start that awkward conversation, if only to have some kind of control over how it went. The plan, basically, was to talk and not let Robby get a word in. Simple enough.
"About last night," he started, not even looking at Robby. The little cinnamon stick floating in his hot chocolate suddenly seemed a lot more interesting than Robby's face.
"You don't ha-"
"Shh, I'm talking," he cut in right away. "It was really inappropriate, and I'm sorry. Not that what I said wasn't true, you're attractive and, at this point, I think we're friends." The little laugh that came out of him sounded a lot more nervous than anything else.
Robby, for his part, looked at him with his eyebrows raised, a satisfied little smile on his face at the idea that Dennis had finally admitted what they had was a real friendship. Because of course, the attractive part didn't carry nearly as much weight as the real friendship between two guys part.
"Go ahead, make fun of me if you want," Dennis went on, more confident now, looking straight into those eyes that seemed to hypnotize him. There had to be something in that hot chocolate. "But let me remind you that you, months ago, when we went to the kids' school for Career Day, told me a friend of yours from New Orleans said you were hot. So this is the same thing. I'm a great friend who thinks his friend is very attractive. That's it! It's not that hard to understand, right?"
"Dennis, I really don't think you need to wear yourself out explaining this," Robby said, waving his free hand in the air. "Thanks for the compliment. At fifty, a guy needs a little ego boost like that." Dennis's laugh at that must have sounded horribly fake, but Robby seemed to let it go and kept talking. "And I'm pretty surprised you remember that conversation, because I remember you basically telling me I was hideous."
"No," he corrected immediately. "I said your friend had terrible taste, which is different. Because it's ridiculous for a gay guy to be flirting with a straight one. It doesn't make any sense!" There it was again, that nervous little laugh that was slowly killing him, along with a weird knot in his stomach at that last sentence.
Robby shrugged and pressed his lips together, holding back a laugh loud enough to reach the living room. "Okay, well, here's the thing, buddy. If your memory's so good, you'll remember the hallway conversation."
Dennis tilted his head like a confused little dog. "For Mellie's birthday?" Robby nodded. "Oh, God, if you're going to bring up the fact that I sent that photo after, I'd rather not keep going. Is this about the moles? Fuck, I really thought we'd get to that part. You don't have to say anything about it, seriously, you don't have to say a word."
"No! I was actually trying to avoid that part so you wouldn't be embarrassed," Robby admitted, resting a hand on Dennis's shoulder to try and calm him down, though to Dennis it felt more like being branded with a hot iron. "It's because that night you gave me some very kind advice about finding someone so I'd stop bothering you." Of course, he said that last part with a smug little grin.
Dennis couldn't stop staring at the small crooked tooth in Robby's smile. It was so cute, it made him look so natural, so sure of himself, and together with everything else about him, it all added up to the perfect combination for making him... shit! He was getting distracted again.
"Yeah, I remember that. I'm not apologizing for it, if that's what you're expecting," he answered, sharper than he meant to, but he wasn't about to lose the little composure he had left.
"No, of course I don't want your apology. It's enough if you just let me call you buddy, buddy." Maybe, at that point, the new nickname bothered Dennis more than anything else, even more than his own desperate need for approval.
"Say friend one more time and I swear I'll-"
"Okay, fine! I'll try not to say it." He said it quickly. "What I was actually trying to say is that I took your advice." What did he mean, he took his advice? The confusion on Dennis's face must have given him away completely, because Robby kept going. "I'm seeing someone. A woman."
The cup froze halfway between the counter and his mouth. He just stood there, like an idiot, holding a cup of lukewarm hot chocolate, trying to process information that was supposed to sound like great news.
"Oh," was, literally, the only thing that came out of him. A single sound that landed a lot closer to a pitiful cat meow. "That's great. That's, yeah. Great."
"That's it? That's all you've got to say? You're not exactly a man of few words."
"What else do you want me to say? I'm happy for you. Really. That's amazing. It's literally what I told you to do, so, technically, that's a win for me too. You should be thanking me. We should probably celebrate." It sounded fake. It sounded so fake that even Pickles, from somewhere in the kitchen, looked at him like he felt sorry for him.
Because this was supposed to be a good thing. It was the end of an endless string of confusion he'd caused himself, and that Robby had gone ahead and fixed on his own.
And then he started thinking about Robby meeting people. Robby going out with women who would probably never in their lives send him a drunk 3 a.m. voice message confessing things about moles. Robby stopping being the hot guy from 4AB and turning into a fully available, functional single man, which was exactly, precisely, what Dennis had suggested months ago with his own mouth, completely unprompted, like the generous, selfless idiot he apparently was.
He should feel proud of himself. Instead, something in his chest felt tight, and it stubbornly refused to be named.
He was about to say something else, because Robby had also gone quiet, and all of a sudden his dark, round eyes seemed to look a little glassier than they had a few seconds ago. Like those words had gotten under his skin too, deeper than expected.
God, his pathetic brain really was playing tricks on him.
Robby opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to thank him and put the whole conversation behind them, but someone else's voice cut him off. A woman's voice, loud and impossible to mistake.
"I hope I did not just hear what I think I heard, Michael Robinavitch. Traitor."
Right. It couldn't be anyone but Florence.
It wasn't until much later that Dennis found out Florence's anger that morning had nothing to do with Robby trying to rebuild his life. It was about him trying to rebuild it with someone who wasn't Dennis.