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Jack’s phone rings at 12:17 a.m. on a Thursday in late August. He has the night off, and he’s not on call, so he lets it ring out as he finishes his last set of pull-ups.
30 seconds later, Robby’s name is displayed across his screen. Missed call. Well, isn’t he a fucking idiot. Robby texts a couple times a week. He sent a post card from Alberta. He hasn’t called, not once, and now that he has, after fucking midnight, Jack missed it.
He sits down heavily on the bed in his guest room/gym and tries to ignore the tightness in his chest as he calls back. What if things have gotten dark? What if Robby needs him? Jack has no fucking clue where he is or what time zone he’s in.
“Hey,” Robby says, and suddenly Jack can breathe again.
“Hey, man.” Jack carefully controls his tone. If he sounds too concerned, Robby might insist that he’s fine. “What’s up? Where are you?”
“New Orleans,” Robby says. He sighs, and then there’s a muffled thump, like his back is hitting a mattress.
Jack lies down too. “Yeah? You having a good time there?”
Robby lets out a snort. “I thought I would, but the city has changed so fucking much. A lot of places I knew went with the storm, and I knew that, but I didn’t realize the new places would make me feel so goddamn old. You ever had an existential crisis at a gay bar filled with bridesmaids? I don’t recommend it.”
That startles a laugh out of Jack. Robby sounds tired, melancholy, a few drinks in, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in crisis. “I’ll take that under advisement. You having trouble finding company? That doesn’t sound right.”
He’s prying. He shouldn’t, but. He can’t help himself.
For a long moment, the only thing Jack can hear is muffled music. “I got a hotel room in the Quarter, even though I know better,” Robby says. “I figured I’d find somebody to bring back here, but nothing felt right.”
Jack nods, even though Robby can’t see him. His stomach turns at the thought of Robby with someone else. He’s had to get used to it, over the years. Might have to get used to it permanently. Robby hadn’t touched him in months, even before he left.
“You don’t have to force it, brother. You’ve been running on empty for a long time. You can just relax. Have a night to yourself,” Jack says. He tries to tell himself his motives are supportive. “You can try again tomorrow, if you feel like it,” he forces himself to say.
Robby groans. “I wish you were here,” he says.
Jack doesn’t know what to do with that. “As your wingman? Because man, I’ll do anything for you, but that might be asking a lot.”
“Wingman?” Robby repeats, confused. “Why would I want anyone else if you were here?”
Heat curls in Jack’s stomach, but he tries to tamp it down. “I don’t know,” Jack says. It’s his turn to be confused. “I was there when you told me you ‘didn’t have the capacity,’ and then took up with Noelle Hastings right in front of my face.”
Alright, maybe he’s hurt and a little bit pissed, too.
Robby doesn’t answer immediately. Jack can picture him rubbing the back of his neck. “That was a dick move,” Robby admits.
Jack laughs again, but there’s no joy in it. “Yeah, Michael. I didn’t love it.”
He breathes in for a count of four, holds it for four, breathes out four. Repeats. “That’s why you’re calling? You need me, and nobody else will do? I thought you were done with me like that.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone.
The sound Robby makes is wounded. “No,” he insists. “Never, alright? I just, I fucking panicked. You could see me, how fucked up I am, and I didn’t want to be seen.”
That much was made extremely clear by Robby’s last shift.
“And Hastings?” Jack asks. Fuck it. If they’re talking about them, if there’s a them left to talk about, it’s not really prying.
“I’m a jackass,” Robby offers. “She was interested, and I needed a distraction, and…I didn’t really think about how it would make you feel. Or how I was wasting her time. I’m sorry, Jack.”
Jack savors the apology. They’re few and far between. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”
“Two beers and half of something purple that tasted like Dimetapp,” Robby says, hope coloring his voice. “I’m not drunk. I promise.”
There’s screaming that must be from outside Robby’s window. The French Quarter, in his 50s. He deserves the bad night’s sleep he has coming. Jack thinks about making him grovel a little, but more guilt won’t help Robby.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here about what I need from you,” Jack says. “If you don’t want to be monogamous, fine. I don’t give a shit as long as you come back to me. Understood?”
“Yeah,” Robby says slowly, “But Jack, I don’t -.”
“But,” Jack cuts him off. “If you ever let anyone else think that they have a shot at you belonging to them ever again, I will very much care. You’re mine, Mike. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Robby says immediately. “But Jack. I’m still fucked up. I don’t know if I can, if I can be what you need, what anyone needs. I don’t even know if I can be what I fucking need.”
Jack’s been there, and he knows how devastating that uncertainty can be. “That’s fine. I just need you to be you. I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever you need. You can have space, you can have other company, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t forget about me again. Alright?”
“Jack,” Robby says. His voice cracks, and it goes straight to Jack’s heart. “I didn’t. I won’t. And I don’t need any other company. I was being a fucking idiot. It’s you and me. It’s us. Right?”
Jack smiles like he hasn’t in months. “Unzip your fucking pants.”