Chapter Text
“Oh well, who was I?
Who was I to watch you wilt?”
2010
Jack stands in the bathroom doorway, prosthetic liner bunching funny, shoulder propped against the jamb, watching Robby in that harsh overhead light their landlord swears is “new.” New his ass — Jack knows a cheap bulb when he sees one. He folds his thick arms across his chest, feeling the solid swell of his own belly press lightly against them. He’s built like every uncle he grew up around — short, stocky, solid, a brick shithouse of a man with a wide waist and dense muscle hidden under a layer of comfortable softness. He’s never once thought twice about it. Not until he fell in love with someone who thinks every ounce on his own body is a fucking crime, but a miracle on Jack’s.
Robby stands in front of the mirror, tall and bare-chested, shoulders hunched just slightly like he’s apologizing for existing. His black curls are drying in frizzy spirals, bouncing every time he shifts. He keeps poking and tugging at his belly — his soft wide apron of a belly that Jack adores — but Robby touches like it’s a chore. He lifts it, squeezes it, studies it with the same clinical focus he uses on his patients in the ED, except the expression on his face is nothing he’d ever show another human being — and his fucking insulin pen sits on the counter, ignored.
Jack watches him cap and uncap it, prime it, hover it, do everything but the one thing he needs. Each time Robby roughly pinches and lifts a fold of skin to find a spot, Jack’s stomach knots up — because he can see how high Robby must be running. The shake in his hands, that too-fast breathing, that faint hollow look around the eyes. Jack’s seen DKA before. He’s smelled the acetone on the panting breaths of patients getting rushed upstairs because they waited just a little too long.
Robby is a doctor. Robby knows better. But knowing and doing are an ocean apart.
He shifts his weight, stomach brushing his belt. People have called him “thick,” “built like a fridge,” “Southie stock.” He’s fine with it. He’s proud of it. His weight ain’t ever been a problem, not to him, not to anyone who matters and it sure as hell isn’t a problem in this room. Not compared to the fact that his boyfriend is slowly metabolizing himself from the inside out. He watches Robby pick up his belly again — really handful it, tugging it outward like he’s testing the tensile strength of his own skin. Robby mutters something he can’t hear, but the tone is pure acid. Jack’s heart aches. He wishes he could shove his own hand into the mirror and drag away the image Robby’s stuck on.
Jack clears his throat. “Mikey, you’re in your head again.”
Robby ignores him. The pen comes up again. Touches skin. Doesn’t go in. Something inside Jack snaps. Oh, sweetheart, Jack thinks, if I could take the shot for you, I would. If I could put that damn needle in my own belly and fix you, I’d do it right now. He looks down at himself, round stomach under his shirt, that comfortable pooch of fat that’s never once bothered him. He’s got more than enough to inject into; he could take ten units without even blinking. He’d take fifty if it meant Robby stopped tearing himself apart in front of a goddamn mirror. His belly is tiny compared to Robby’s, but he would rather double up on shots in every ounce than let Robby take one more. “Rob,” Jack says, voice softer than he means it to be. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf and playin’ with the medicine that keeps you alive, quit fucking around.”
Robby’s hand freezes midair. The needle’s tip kisses his skin but doesn’t sink in.
That tears it, Jack steps inside, only two feet closer, but it feels like crossing a faultline. He stands beside Robby now, their reflections side by side— Jack’s sturdy frame, thick arms, next to Robby’s taller, softer, spilling body. He sees the contrast, but only feels urgency. He looks at Robby’s belly — fat and hanging, yes, but warm, living, touchable. Beautiful. Robby sees flaws; Jack sees the place he rests his head. He lowers his voice. “I wish that needle was in my belly right now. I wish I could take this off your plate. But I can’t. You gotta do it, baby. I need you here. I need you alive more than I need anything else.”
Robby blinks, tears sharp and prickling in the corners of his eyes. His grip on the pen tightens. He just wants that tiny click of the plunger going down. He just wants Robby to be safe. He just wants the man he loves to live long enough to see himself the way Jack does. Jack’s patience finally gives way in that quiet, decisive way only years of Southie upbringing can forge — no shouting, no theatrics, just a sudden shift in the air, a settling of his weight like a fighter planting both feet on the pavement. Robby’s still hovering the damn pen an inch above his skin, like he’s stuck in some private standoff, and Jack realizes something: Robby’s not gonna break out of this on his own.
So Jack steps forward and plucks the insulin pen straight out of Robby’s shaking hand. Robby gasps, startled, but he doesn’t fight it — maybe because he’s too exhausted, maybe because some part of him is relieved. “That’s enough,” Jack mutters. He sets the pen on the counter — away from Robby, away from temptation to start the whole dance again — and opens the drawer next to the sink. He knows where the spares are. He’s cleaned this bathroom, reorganized it, stocked it, fussed about it more than he’ll ever admit out loud. He pushes past cotton balls, razor cartridges, and a bottle of multivitamins he keeps nagging Robby to actually take. He digs deep, muttering, “Where the hell...” His fingers brush a brand-new needle, still in its slim cardboard sheath.
He grabs it and disinfects everything, snapping on the new cap. Then he crouches, opens the cabinet under the sink, and reaches for the small plastic case he forced them to keep there after the last time Robby hit 380 before bed. Spare glucometer, strips, lancets, everything pre-packed. Robby called him paranoid; Jack calls it prepared. He stands back up, heavy and solid, and turns to Robby with the glucometer in one hand and the new insulin pen in the other.
“Hand,” Jack orders.
Robby blinks, eyes wide, throat working as he swallows. “Yankl.”
“Hand,” Jack repeats, voice low, steady, Southie steel. “I ain’t askin’.”
Robby hesitates, guilt flashing across his face — guilt for the number that’s about to show up on that screen, guilt for what he’s been doing to himself, guilt for making Jack walk in and pull him bodily out of his own head. But none of that matters to Jack. He doesn’t have room for guilt in this moment; he only has room for the facts. Robby’s sick. Robby’s scared. Robby’s stuck. Jack loves him too damn much to let that spiral continue. Finally, Robby holds out his hand.
Jack takes it — not gently, but firmly. His own fingers are wide, beat-up, warm; Robby’s are cooler, trembling, skin thick from decades of pokes, dry with hyperglycemia. Jack feels every tremor, every little give in those long pianist fingers, and his chest tightens. “You’re shakin’ like a junkie,” Jack huffs. “I fuckin’ hate it.”
Robby lets out a thin, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
Jack doesn’t smile. He loads a lancet, pricks Robby’s fingertip with practiced, efficient precision. Robby winces. Jack doesn’t apologize. He squeezes a bead of blood up, slips the strip into the meter, and waits. When the glucometer beeps, Robby looks away. Jack doesn’t. He sees the reading and grunts, jaw tightening. “You’re practically syrup.”
He sets the meter down, not harshly, but firmly enough that it makes a soft thud on the counter. Then he holds up the new insulin pen, clicks off the cap, and checks the dial. “You’re gettin’ a dose,” He says. “Right now.”
Robby’s voice comes out small. “I feel sick.”
“Yeah, no shit. You’re cooked, baby. I’m takin’ care of you.” He steps closer, belly brushing Robby’s hip, grounding him. He holds Robby’s gaze in the mirror and speaks with a rough tenderness that only someone who’s had to love hard his whole life can manage. “You hear me? I don’t give a shit about what you weigh. Not one. Fuckin’. Shit. You could weigh three hundred pounds and I’d still wanna wake up next to you tomorrow. But I need you to be alive for that, Pudge.”
Robby’s eyes shine. Jack lifts the pen. His voice drops to a soft growl. “Now hold still.”
Jack doesn’t give Robby time to panic, argue, or twist himself into another knot of self-loathing. He grabs an alcohol swab from under the sink, rips it open with his teeth, and presses Robby’s hip back against the counter with a gentle, insistent nudge of his forearm. Not rough, but firm enough to say: I’m here. I’m in charge right now. Breathe. Robby startles, looking at him like a deer in headlights, mouth parting as if to protest. The cool swipe of alcohol hits Robby’s lower belly — just off-center, where the skin is softer and the bruising is lighter. Robby flinches instinctively, breath catching in his throat.
Jack doesn’t pause for a second. He presses the needle in. Robby gasps — more surprise than pain — and Jack’s thumb depresses the plunger before the sound even finishes leaving Robby’s mouth. The dose is delivered cleanly, the needle out in a blink. He doesn’t give Robby the space to second-guess it, to mourn it, to spiral. He flicks the used tip into the sharps container with a practiced clack and tosses the alcohol wrapper into the trash.
Robby shudders once, a ripple traveling through his tall frame. He touches the injection site like he needs proof it actually happened. Then, quietly, he sighs. “Three hundred pounds ain’t exactly as far off as you think it is, Yankele.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out thin and watery, barely held together. “I need to fix this.”
Jack’s head snaps up in disbelief. “Michael.” Jack steps closer, palms bracing on Robby’s waist — big, warm hands sinking gently into the softness Robby hates and Jack has wet dreams over. He looks up at him, voice dropping to a muttered growl soaked in affection. “No, you need to drink some water and put your feet up, jackass.” Robby’s eyebrows lift, a faint, helpless smile flickering despite everything. Jack presses on. “You’re runnin’ high enough I’m half tempted to toss you in the tub and cool you down like a goddamn overheated engine.”
“Yankl,” Robby groans.
Jack flicks his fingers against Robby’s hip with a soft slap that’s more love than scold. “You just hit numbers that’d get you admitted. You ain’t fixin’ shit.”
Robby leans against the counter, shoulders sagging with the sudden chemical relief he’s not even feeling yet, just anticipating. “I just… I can’t keep getting bigger, Yaakov.”
“Buddy,” Jack huffs, stepping between Robby’s knees and pressing a steady hand to the man’s sternum to keep him upright, “I swear on every Dunkin’ Donuts in Southie, you could hit three hundred, three-fifty, whatever number your brain’s terrified of, and the only thing I’d be worried about is whether your heart’s beatin’ and your sugars ain’t tryin’ to kill you.”
Robby swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes shine, not quite tears, but close. Jack softens — only a little, only for him. “You’re not a problem to solve,” He says. “You’re my guy. And right now? My guy needs hydration before he keels over and I gotta explain to the paramedics why his big ass is on the floor when he’s a whole damn doctor.” Robby huffs a weak laugh, head dropping forward until his curls brush Jack’s forehead. Jack reaches up, cups the back of Robby’s neck with his thick hand, thumb rubbing slow circles into the knot of tension there. “C’mon. Water. Couch. Feet up. I’ll even get you the good blanket if you stop talkin’ shit about yourself for five minutes.”
Robby nods once, tiredly, leaning into him.
He settles Robby on the couch and his sweet boy sinks into the cushions with that boneless, heavy exhaustion that always comes right after the insulin starts nudging his blood sugar down from the stratosphere. Jack props his legs up on the ottoman, tucking their gray duvet — the good blanket, one that is both obscenely fluffy and not overheating — around Robby’s hips and thighs. His face loosens, the sharp angles of stress smoothing out as the burn in his bloodstream finally starts to ease. It’s a tiny shift — barely visible to anyone who doesn’t know him — but Jack notices every damn change. He keeps one hand on Robby’s knee, thumb rubbing absent circles, not because Robby needs the contact but because Jack does. Within minutes, Robby’s eyelids start drooping. His body sinks deeper into the cushions, muscles going slack. His breathing softens. That’s the insulin, Jack thinks — working, pulling sugar into cells that’ve been starving for days, telling Robby’s body, you can rest now, you’re safe. Jack hates that Robby ever keeps himself from feeling this, hates that he’d rather run himself ragged and scrutinize every inch rather than let this moment come sooner.
Then there it is — the sound Jack knows too well. Robby’s stomach growls. He goes pink, groans, and presses a hand to his belly, fingers splaying across the spilling chub. His voice, slurred with sleepiness, comes out in a sigh. “Why does insulin always wake this monster up?”
Jack goes red. Red as his damn hair. Red from his neck straight to his ears. He turns on Robby so fast the couch springs squeak. “Michael, did you just call your belly a monster?”
Robby cracks one eye open, already half-asleep, clearly pouty. “What? It’s loud.”
“Loud don’t make it a monster,” Jack snaps, incredulous, hands flying up. “Fuck, Rob, if your belly’s a monster, what the hell does that make mine? Godzilla?”
“Jacob, it’s not a big deal.”
“No,” Jack says, jabbing a finger toward Robby’s soft spillage in righteous, red-faced fury. “It is a massive fucking deal. You’re sittin’ here gettin’ all cozy under my blanket, insulin finally startin’ to work, and the second your stomach so much as says hello, you call it a monster? That’s bullshit.”
Robby laughs again, softer this time, curling slightly to the side. “Bashert, I’m not—”
“You are,” Jack insists, leaning closer over him, voice dropping but staying hot with emotion. “You’re trash-talkin’ yourself when you should be grateful your body ain’t thrown in the towel on your ass.”
Robby blinks slowly, insulin haze wrapping him like fog. “It’s just loud.”
“Yeah, because your sugar’s comin’ down and your cells are starvin’ because they’ve been waitin’ for ages for actual fuel,” Jack says, softer now, though no less intense. “Your body ain’t a monster for doin’ its damn job.”
Robby rubs his stomach lazily, eyelids fluttering. Another low grumble rolls through the room. He sighs like a man resigned. “Still feels like it’s yelling.”
Jack scoffs. “It’s not yellin’. It’s complainin’. Big difference. Trust me, I know yelling.”
Robby’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out. The color has returned to his cheeks. Not all the way, but enough that Jack feels that knot in his chest ease. Jack sits beside him, thick arm draped over the back of the couch protectively. He rubs slow circles on Robby’s knee, grounding him. “You ain’t got monsters in your belly, babe. You got organs. Workin’ overtime ‘cause you keep makin’ ‘em wait.”
Robby murmurs something unintelligible — a sleepy hum, really — and shifts closer, head tilting so it rests just barely against Jack’s hip, just like that, Jack’s anger melts into something softer. He huffs, stroking Robby’s curls with a gentleness he’d punch anyone for teasing him about. “Get some rest, Pudge,” He mutters. “And when you wake up, I’m makin’ you a sandwich. Grilled cheese with five damn cheeses for daring to try my happy ass.”
Robby makes a tiny noise of agreement that might also be dissent. It’s hard to tell. He’s slipping under, insulin taking him toward actual sleep for the first time in days. Jack watches him, pressing little kisses to his chin and the softness underneath. “Monster,” Jack mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “Fuck. If your belly’s a monster, mine’s a whole damn kaiju.”
Robby, half-asleep, smiles.
Jack should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last long. Robby can’t sit still — well, lie still — for more than ten minutes at a time before another wave of discomfort rolls through him. He shifts on the couch, tossing an arm over his eyes, then rolling onto his side, then flopping back. The blanket slides off one shoulder. Jack pulls it up again. A minute later, Robby kicks it halfway to the floor.
Then comes the groan — a long, low, frustrated sound from a man who’s fighting his own physiology.
Jack looks over ready to grab Robby if he tries to stand up too fast. “You good?”
“No,” Robby whines, a pathetic, sleepy noise Jack’s never heard him make outside of post on-call mornings or post-BG crashes. He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I gotta pee. Again.”
Jack sighs through his nose. “Yeah, because your blood is still maple syrup, babe.”
Robby flops an arm across his eyes. “Can’t you just turn off my kidneys for a minute?”
Jack snorts. “Yeah, hold on, let me grab the wrench. What kinda question is that?”
Robby grumbles something that sounds like “fuck you” but with all the energy of a dying houseplant. His stomach growls again — loud enough that Jack raises an eyebrow — but Robby ignores it in favor of looking utterly pitiful. He pushes himself upright, swaying slightly, blanket sliding to his lap. “I’m so tired. Why can’t I just sleep? Why do I gotta pee every twelve seconds?” Jack stands automatically — solid, steady, hands already reaching to help guide him.
“Rob, your body’s doin’ damage control. It’s flushin’ out the extra sugar.”
Robby whimpers. “I hate this.”
“I know.” Jack steadies him by the elbow. “Bathroom’s right there. I ain’t lettin’ you faceplant.”
Robby trudges off like a drunk giraffe, rubbing his face and mumbling curses under his breath. Jack stands in the doorway of the bathroom, arms crossed, making sure the man he loves doesn’t fall asleep on the toilet — or worse, pass out. Robby emerges a minute later, half-asleep, tugging at his tee. “Still tired.”
“Yeah,” Jack grunts, “Your cells are finally gettin’ insulin again and they’re sippin’ it like it’s ambrosia.”
Robby blinks. “Ambrosia?”
“Greek myth thing.”
Robby slumps back onto the couch, curls mashed flat, cheeks flushed with heat. He tugs the blanket up to his chin and groans again, curling his legs up. Jack watches him for a long moment, reading every sign: the flushed face, the thirsty little lip-lick, the irritability, the peeing. Insulin’s working, sure, but Jack knows enough to know the job isn’t done. He sits on the edge of the couch, rubbing a hand along Robby’s shin. “Hey, babe,” Robby grunts into the blanket. “You know we gotta check for ketones, baby.” Robby’s head pops out of the blanket like a startled prairie dog. His eyes are half-shut. His expression is pure betrayal.
He moans. “Jack, no. Please. I’m finally comfy.”
“You’re not comfy,” Jack snaps flatly. “You’re floppin’ around like a pancake.”
“I’m trying,” Robby mumbles.
“I know and I love you for it. But we still gotta check.”
Robby burrows into his pillow. “Why?”
Jack smooths a hand over the back of his head, gentle but firm, fingers sliding through curls with absent affection. “Because you were runnin’ high enough to make a grown man weep, and your breath smells like you’ve been drinkin’ nail polish — don’t give me that look, you know it does. C’mon, I ain’t askin’. Not this time.”
“Jack,” Robby tries, weak and pleading, “I’m too tired.”
“I know.” Jack rises to go fetch the ketone strips and a cup. “That’s why I’ll do the work. You just gotta give me what I ask for.”
Robby closes his eyes, defeated. “This is humiliating.”
Jack gives a humorless little laugh. “Humiliatin’ would be me havin’ to call 911 because you passed out while I was makin’ grilled cheese. This?” He pats Robby’s foot. “This is just takin’ care of you.”
Robby sighs, exhausted, resigned, belly grumbling again. Jack hears it, softening just a hair. “Yeah, yeah,” He smiles. “We’ll get you somethin’ to eat after. But first?”
He holds up the container with a raised eyebrow.
Robby groans into his hands. “I hate diabetes.”
Jack nods. “Yeah, well, I hate what it does to you. Now c’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get this over with.”
Jack doesn’t need a medical degree to know what he’s looking at; color charts don’t lie. He holds the ketone strip up to the lamp, jaw tightening as the gradient darkens fast into a shade that makes his stomach drop. Trace? No. Moderate? Not even. High. Flat-out, unambiguous high. The kind of high that says Robby waited way too long. The kind that says his body’s been burning through fat and muscle because insulin’s been missing in action. The kind that brings back memories of dragging him into an urgent care two years ago because Robby insisted he was “fine.” His kidneys nearly shut down. Jack inhales sharply through his nose, his old Southie anger rising — not at Robby, never at Robby, but at the goddamn numbers he keeps doing battle with. At the disease that sits between them like an unwanted third wheel. He looks over at the couch.
Robby is trying to curl himself into a tight ball, blanket wrapped around him like it can shield him from his own physiology. He’s paler now, exhausted. Jack sees the signs instantly: the way Robby’s eyes keep drifting shut then snapping open; the restless shifting; the faint sheen of sweat beginning across his forehead. Insulin’s pulling his sugar down fast and the dip is hitting him like a punch to the gut.
Jack drops the ketone strip on the coffee table and crosses the room in three strides. “Hey,” He says, voice lower than before, but sharper. “Look at me.”
Robby keeps his face half-buried in the pillow. “’M tired,” He murmurs, words mushy.
“Yeah, well, I ain’t.” Jack crouches beside the couch, thick forearms bracketing his knees, eyes narrowed. “You’re not sleepin’ like this. You’re bottomin’ out already, aren’t you?”
Robby shakes his head, a tiny, unconvincing motion. “No.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. Lies. Fucking lies. Not malicious — never that — but scared-lies, guilty-lies, the kind of lies a man tells when he’s worried he’s already disappointed the only person still holding him together. He softens his voice, just barely. “Robby. Babycakes. Talk to me.”
Robby’s breath catches. He curls tighter, burying his hands under the blanket. “Yankl, I don’t feel good.”
Jack sits down hard on the floor next to him again, prosthetic making a terrible noise, one hand reaching to push sweaty curls off Robby’s forehead. “Yeah, no shit you don’t feel great. Ketones are high, sugars droppin’ like a stone, and your body’s basically had the shit kicked out of it.”
Robby winces, not at the words but at the sensation rolling through him. Jack sees it in the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his stomach muscles twitch under the blanket. “I’m nauseous,” Robby whispers. “And tired. And—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing together. He doesn’t want to say the rest. He doesn’t want to make Jack any angrier. Jack’s chest aches at the sight of it: his brilliant, exhausted man making himself small because he thinks he deserves it. He places a broad hand on Robby’s back, warm and steady.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” Robby turns his head, sluggishly, reluctantly. His eyes are glassy. A little unfocused. His skin is cooling too fast. Jack feels a stab of fear. “Aw kid,” He murmurs, thumb brushing Robby’s cheek. “You’re droppin’ harder than I thought.”
Robby swallows, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
“Bother me?” Jack repeats, voice cracking despite his best effort. “Robby, you nearly took yourself on a goddamn roller coaster from 400 to ‘about to pass out’ in under an hour, and you think I’m worried about being bothered?”
Robby winces again, stomach audibly flipping. He curls in tighter, one hand pressed to his belly like it might hold him together. “Didn’t wanna make you mad,” He mumbles.
Jack exhales, long and slow, forcing his temper down — because the anger isn’t for Robby. It’s for the disease. The silence. The shame. The way Robby has learned to hide suffering like it’s a moral failing. He slides a hand under Robby’s shoulders, pulling him gently, guiding him upright. Robby sways, head thudding lightly against Jack’s chest. He wraps an arm around his soulmate, solid and grounding. “I’m not mad at you,” He swears into Robby’s curls. “I’m mad you’re hurting.” Robby’s breathing stutters. His stomach growls again: angry, twisting, hollow. His nausea spikes; Jack feels Robby tense, swallow hard. Jack cups his cheek. “You’re sick because you didn’t have insulin on board, babe. Not because you’re… whatever awful thing you’ve been tellin’ yourself. So you’re gonna tell me exactly how you feel, no hiding.”
Robby’s voice is a whisper. “I feel awful, goin’ low.” Head lolling against Jack’s shoulder.
Time to fix what he can. Jack’s a master of triage. He knew this part was coming: this exact, infuriating, predictable stage of the crash where Robby’s blood sugar plummets faster than his brain can keep up, and he gets picky, nauseated, stubborn, and about as rational as a baby bird. He makes sure to get a spoonful of honey into his fussy lump before trudging into the kitchen. Before long, there’s a thick stack of grilled cheeses on the table and a pot of stew simmering on the stove, thick and rich and salty — perfect for getting some actual nutrients back into Robby before the insulin finishes driving his glucose into the dirt. But sweet Robby, limp on the couch with his curls sticking to his forehead, has locked his tired eyes onto one single object of desire: the box of ice pops Jack promised after real food. As a supplement. A follow-up. A sweet little safety net. Not a damn replacement. Jack turns off the burner and ladles stew into a bowl — big spoonfuls, hearty chunks, enough protein and carbs to actually stabilize the kid. He brings it over to the coffee table just as Robby half-reaches, half-flops an arm toward the kitchen.
“Pop,” His lover whines, voice gone thin and pleading. “I want an ice pop.”
“You’ll get one,” Jack says, placing the steaming bowl on a trivet. “After you eat.”
Robby’s whole face crumples like an overgrown toddler denied a toy. “Jack, c’mon, please. My stomach’s… ugh.” He winces, wrapping an arm around his middle as though the nausea is physically squeezing him. “I just… I just wanna lick an ice pop. Please.”
“Nope,” Jack says instantly. “Not happenin’. You got your emergency sugar to get you up, now it’s time to keep you up.”
Robby flops back, eyes drifting shut. “Yankl…”
Jack plants his hands on his hips. “You are not crashin’ this hard and then lickin’ frozen sugar. You need real food. Heat. Salt. Protein. Somethin’ to stick.”
Robby whines, raw and miserable and so goddamn pitiful Jack feels it in his chest. “My stomach’s turning. I can’t eat a heavy thing. I can’t.”
“You can,” Jack growls. “And you will.”
Robby huffs a shaky breath, clearly overwhelmed. “Ice pop’s easier…”
Jack crouches down, face level with Robby’s, expression suddenly sharp enough to slice through the haze. “Easier don’t matter. What matters is what keeps you outta the ED as a patient tonight. You hear me? You need carbs that stay in your system. Somethin’ your body can actually use. Somethin’ that doesn’t hit and vanish.”
Robby’s eyes flutter open, unfocused. “But I feel sick.”
Jack’s tone softens, barely. “I know you do, sweetheart. I know your belly’s churnin’ and your head’s floatin’ off and you feel like you got flu symptoms stacked on top of exhaustion.” His hand cups Robby’s jaw, thumb brushing the damp skin. “But that’s the insulin workin’. That’s your body actually getting what it’s been beggin’ for. You gotta help it along or this gets worse. End of discussion.” Robby whimpers again, the sound frayed at the edges by dizziness. His stomach growls loud and hollow, and he winces, curling in tighter. Jack hears that growl and points at him like he’s presenting Exhibit A in a courtroom. “See? That ain’t a monster. That’s your body yellin’ for actual sustenance, Pudge.”
Robby’s cheeks flush, “Yankele, please don’t make me.”
“I’m not makin’ you,” Jack corrects, scooping a spoonful of stew and blowing on it. “I’m feedin’ you. Takin’ care of my boy.”
Robby shakes his head weakly. “I’m gonna throw up.”
“No, you’re not,” Jack huffs. “I know your throw-up voice. This ain’t it.”
Robby opens his mouth, probably to argue. Jack shoves the spoon in before he can get a word out. Robby startles, eyes widening in betrayal. He chews and swallows. Jack watches him like a hawk. Robby lies back, miserable. “It’s heavy.”
“Yeah, well, so are you,” Jack grumbles affectionately. “I still carry you when I gotta, don’t I? So you can handle a damn spoonful of stew.” Robby gives him a soft, exhausted glare. Jack scoops another spoonful. “Again.” Robby lets out a defeated, tiny sigh. Jack smirks. “That’s what I thought.” He feeds him the next spoonful and another and another. Jack watches Robby take the fourth spoonful, slow but steady, cheeks flushed, throat working hard as he forces it down. The nausea crests again; Jack sees it in the little twitch at the corner of Robby’s mouth, the way his hand curls white-knuckled into the blanket. Jack waits — gives him a breath, a beat, a chance. When it passes, when Robby exhales through his nose like he just rode out a wave, Jack relaxes a fraction.
“That’s it,” He coaches. “Good. Again.”
Robby shakes his head, weak and pleading. “Jack… I really can’t.”
Jack sits back slowly on his heels, the bowl still in one hand. He sets it down and puts his head in his hands instead. Robby blinks, startled. “Yankl, baby?”
“No,” Jack says, holding up a hand. “Nope. You’re half-conscious and smellin’ like ketones. I’m done listenin’ to you.” Robby looks down, shame rising fast in his chest. Jack sees it as Robby’s whole posture folding inward, shoulders collapsing like someone turned off a switch. Ah. So that’s what this is. Not stubbornness. Fear. Self-loathing. That old familiar belief: I don't deserve care. Jack’s fury shifts on a dime from the argument to that — that — the thing he hates most in the world: Robby shrinking under the weight of his own thoughts. “Hey.” Jack nudges Robby’s knee with two fingers. “Eyes on me.”
Robby hesitates, then looks up, blinking hard.
“What the hell did you mean earlier? When I was shovin’ honey down your throat?” Jack asks, voice low and dangerous, but not cruel. “What was that crack about ‘I’d feel better if I was thinner, my sugars would be more controlled’?” He spits the repeated words like they taste sour. “You think that’s real? You think that’s the truth, Dr. Robinavitch? Does that apply to all type ones or just you?” Robby’s throat works, his mouth opens. “Save me the bullshit,” Jack cuts in, tone fierce. “We’re doctors, and you’re a type one. Weight don’t fix what your pancreas can’t do. You goddamn know better.” Robby flinches, eyes dropping again. Jack’s hand snaps out, cupping the back of Robby’s neck. “Look at me,” He says again, quieter but harder. “C’mon. Up here. You know what I’m gonna say, Pudge.”
Robby lifts his gaze slowly, reluctantly. “Baby,” Jack says, thumb brushing Robby’s damp hairline with his thumb. “Your sugars ain’t crazy because of your weight. They’re crazy because you skip insulin when you feel too fat and yo-yo through extremes. You get in your own head. You let that fucked-up voice upstairs convince you that takin’ care of yourself is somehow cheating.”
Robby’s lips tremble. “I didn’t skip—”
Jack raises an eyebrow. Robby closes his mouth. Jack nods once. “That’s what I thought.”
Robby tries again anyway, because he’s exhausted and falling apart and trying to justify pain he doesn’t deserve. “I just feel like, if I was thinner—”
“Stop.” Jack presses a finger to Robby’s lips. “There is not one universe, not one, where your body size is the reason you’re sittin’ here with ketones high enough to set off the alarms. This ain’t about fat. This ain’t about numbers on a scale. It’s about insulin. The one thing your body needs and you denied it because you felt shitty about a belly I happen to fucking adore.”
Robby’s breath catches. “You don’t—” He starts, voice cracking.
“Don’t what?” Jack challenges. “Don’t like it? Don’t want it? Don’t touch it every chance I get?” Robby turns pink. “You think being thinner fixes type one? Fuck, Rob, if losing weight cured autoimmune diseases, Rheum would be out of a fucking job.” Jack cups his face, warm palms on flushed cheeks. “Your weight ain’t the problem,” He murmurs, forehead touching Robby’s. “Your diabulimia is. Your eating disorder is. ‘Cause I’m naming the fucking thing if you won’t.”
Robby swallows hard. His voice is a tiny thing. “I know I’m failing.”
Jack pulls Robby forward — slowly, carefully — until his tall fat lover is folded against his chest, curls bunching out under Jack’s chin. “You’re not failing,” Jack whispers fiercely. “You’re sick.” Robby shakes against him and Jack wraps both arms around him, holding tight but not squeezing, rubbing circles across his upper back. Then he sits back, lifts Robby’s chin with two fingers, and says: “You wanna feel better? You wanna get stable? You gotta let me help you.” Robby’s eyes glisten. He nods weakly. Jack exhales — relieved, determined, gentle, and furious all at once. “Good. Then you’re eatin’ five more spoonfuls. You won’t puke, I promise.”
Robby hesitates and Jack meets his eyes. “After that,” He adds, softening, “You get your damn ice pop.”
Robby’s mouth twitches into the smallest smile. “Okay,” He whispers.
Jack picks up the bowl again.
“You were a work of art
That's the hardest part…”