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Before Robby’s eyes are open, his hand is coming up clumsily, feeling the empty space next to him as his phone sounds loudly and buzzes repeatedly. He knows what the alarm is, which is why he's moving before he's awake, his heart dropping in the well of his stomach. It's Dennis' CGM, connected to Robby's phone as soon as he got it, alerting him that his blood sugar is dropping dangerously low, dangerously quickly. He throws the blankets off of him, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Robby can still see the numbers on his phone trending down as he rushes to the kitchen, praying Dennis will be conscious when he gets there.
Dennis is on the floor, slumped against the cabinets, too pale and sweaty under the yellow light, legs sprawled beneath him. He's not moving much, but his eyes are partially open still, fixated on the juice box in his hand, the straw knocked haphazardly to the side in his clumsy efforts to take it off. It looks like he's willing his hands to move, brows furrowed in concentration, but he can't do more than twitch his fingers. He doesn't notice Robby until he's crouching directly in front of him, and even then, his eyes are glassy and distant, like they don’t fully recognize him.
"Hey, sweetheart, I've got you," Robby murmurs, taking the juice box from his slack hands and puncturing the top, holding the straw to his boyfriend's lips. But Dennis' eyelashes seem to lower over his cheeks against his will, and his head lolls on his shoulders, threatening to fall forward. "Dennis, I need you to drink." Robby squeezes the juice box, hoping the taste will trigger Dennis to swallow, but the juice just drips down his chin.
Robby’s panic expands in his chest, leaving no room for anything else. He’s not coherent enough to swallow. “Fuck. Okay. Look at me, Den,” Robby tries not to glance at his phone and fails, Dennis’ sugars in the 30s now. He holds either side of his boyfriend’s face firmly, trying to get him to be somewhat responsive, “I gotta get you a gel from the emergency bag. But I need you to stay awake while I do, alright?”
Dennis' breaths come big and heavy, curls damp with sweat, as is his shirt. His eyes flicker under his eyelashes as Robby jostles him a little, brows furrowing in confusion or discomfort. Finally, his eyelids raise halfway, blue eyes meeting Robby’s panicked gaze tiredly.
“There you are, hi honey.” Robby sighs in relief, thumb rubbing across his boyfriend's cheekbone, “Keep your eyes open, I’ll be back in a sec.” reluctantly pulling away from him, catching the twitch in Dennis’ fingers as he tries to hold on, a confused whimper leaving his lips. “Shh. I’m coming right back.” Robby soothes, brushing back sweat damp curls from Dennis’ face, before standing quickly, glancing back repeatedly, worriedly, before rushing out the door.
Robby digs the emergency bag out from under the bathroom sink and curses the distance, knowing every minute counts. He vows to himself to have emergency bags in every room of the house just in case, and curses that he hadn’t done it sooner. He sprints back to the kitchen, heart in his throat at the potential for what he’s walking into. Dennis could go into a coma, or start seizing if he gets low enough, and he’s certainly dropping quick. But he’s still holding on to consciousness when Robby drops down in front of him again, ripping open a gel.
Dennis garbles something that vaguely resembles Robby's name, so that's what he takes it as, murmuring, "I'm right here, baby, just stay with me, you’re doing so good." Robby pulls down his bottom lip, squeezing some of the gel into his cheek and rubbing it gently so it absorbs quicker. “Come on, baby, come on.” He whispers as his eyes flick back and forth between Dennis’ colorless face and his phone lit up and displaying his blood sugar.
The numbers on the phone start to tick up painfully slow as the minutes pass tensely. The hand not feeding Dennis the gel falls to his wrist to check his pulse, fast and thready, but getting steadier by the minute. Eventually, the gel is emptied, and Dennis lifts his head, blue eyes the clearest they’ve been since Robby found him.
“Mike?” He mumbles, a clumsy hand coming up to rub at his eye. Robby catches it, intertwining their fingers before kissing them briefly, brown eyes soft with concern.
“Right here, honey, how are you feeling? You’re coming up.” Robby glances at the phone, blood sugar in the 80s now.
“Tired. M’brain’s fuzzy.”
Robby hums, brushing damp curls off Dennis’ forehead. “How do you feel about getting off the floor?”
“I was thinking about staying here forever. Becoming one with the floor.”
“Good idea, but I have a better one. You and me become one with the couch.”
"That's why you're my idea man," Dennis says, lip curling in a smirk as he raises shaky hands in finger guns.
Robby huffs a laugh, "Alright, let's get you up, smooth talker." He slides his arms underneath Dennis', pulling him up, and bracing a hand on his boyfriend's waist when he sways slightly. "Okay? Not gonna collapse on me?"
Dennis shakes his head, though with the way the room rocks in his vision, he isn't so sure. "I'm good now."
Robby squints at his pale face, "You still look like death."
"Gee, thanks, is that your professional opinion, doc?"
"Yes."
They spend the rest of the night on the couch, the few hours left before the sun rises blearily watching a 90s sitcom neither of them are particularly attached to but find comforting. Dennis falls asleep securely wrapped in his boyfriend's arms, back to his chest, his wrist held in Robby's hand, so he can keep track of his pulse. Robby doesn't mean to fall asleep, he intends to stay awake and keep an eye on Dennis, but the warmth of him is too comforting, and the adrenaline is long gone, so he falls asleep to the steady beat of his boyfriend's pulse, until his eyes close on the view of his pretty face, cheeks finally regained color.