Chapter Text
Bad days don’t always look the same.
Sometimes it’s about going up to the roof and talking to Jack about the inevitability of death and whether or not their own hands have anything to do with it. Sharing words that encourage no one but they pretend they do and work just enough to pull either of them back from the edge of the building.
Sometimes it’s about sharing a beer with his team, recalling his youth and that there are reasons to laugh even when everything seems bad, letting go of the day’s overwhelming weight and finding enough motivation to come back the next day, to try and remember the reason he’s been coming back for so many years.
Then, there are the days when it’s almost impossible to escape his own head, carrying this white noise in his ears that only he can hear, like the sound of a heart monitor in fibrillation drifting into asystole, the eyes of a cartoon fox that haunt him even when he’s awake, like judging his every move, dreams he desperately tries to wake up from but, at the best of times, can barely ignore to keep from collapsing to his knees in panic. Those thoughts he hides in a deep, dark corner of his mind, which he deliberately refuses to examine, burying them only deeper, even if the deepness seems to bring them much more forceful to the surface.
And there are days, like today, when it’s just exhaustion, the kind of mental rather than physical weariness that makes him feel trapped in an endless loop, stuck in a reality where he doesn’t even know where he stands, what he’s doing with his life, and feels that perhaps every step he've taken it’s all been for nothing and that nothing he does matters, because nothing ever changes, nothing improves, nothing progresses.
A desperate apathy emptying him even further.
Today isn’t a good day in general, and if he were to delve into that for a bit, he’d realize that he hasn’t had many good days in a long time and he’d drown. That’s why he prefers to drown the thoughts first - he helps himself with loud music, intense heat, thick smoke rising from the floor, the smell of sweat and strong colognes, all mixed with outlandish lights and shots of cheap alcohol.
Jack has talked endlessly about his therapist, about how Robby might find some comfort only if he just tried, if he talked to someone. And on an intellectual level, Robby knows it could help if he just let it but when he thinks about it, what could a therapist possibly say that he doesn’t already know, that could truly help him? He’s not sure he wants to open up to a stranger and have his mistakes, which he’s perfectly aware of, heard from the perspective of someone who has no idea what it’s like.
Instead, he chooses a bar in the city, looking for long legs or a nice ass to try and fill the void in his chest that grows deeper every day and empty his mind. To try to feel that he doesn’t corrupt everything he touches, that he’s truly capable of caring for someone, even if only superficially, just for one night.
In his defense, these nights are becoming less frequent, that’s an improvement he tells himself, to convince himself that at some point he will stop feeling this way, he will stop needing the comfort of a stranger’s body, that these nights will just stop.
The stress of the ER usually allows him to distract himself, to escape his own mind by focusing all his attention on something else, a true priority. But it’s when that doesn’t work or goes awfully wrong that he seeks out and ends up in some bar in the city. He usually prefers quiet, secluded places where he can sit and just observe in peace. Sometimes he doesn’t even take anyone home; he relaxes alone with other people’s conversations around him and a Stout.
Tonight is just one of those nights he feels about to drown, he needs the distraction almost desperately, so much so that his body is itching to get out, and he finds himself in a seedy club with awful lighting and generic draft beer that tastes like piss. Most of the customers are young, probably students or recent graduates looking to burn off energy after their busy days, and the music is so loud it muffles any other thoughts Robby might have.
That’s what he likes most about these places: his brain is so focused on sharpening his senses to stay alert and is so overwhelmed that leaves no room for anything else.
From the bar, his gaze sweeps over the sweaty bodies pressed together on the dance floor. It’s difficult to make out faces clearly in the faint shades of reds and purples that blur everything out.
But he manages to capture the image of a boy dancing at the edge of the dance floor, almost as if he doesn’t want to be noticed, but through his movements - the way he sways his hips and moves his shoulders to the rhythm of the music with almost perfect synchronization - he betrays how much he’s enjoying it. He’s completely absorbed in the music, turning his body gracefully, raising his arms in the air and jumping, feeling the song with his entire being. It’s mesmerizing. Once Robby sees him, he simply can’t bring himself to look away.
He’s halfway through his beer, his eyes fixed on the swaying figure, when the music suddenly stops and the lights go out, leaving the club completely still for a few seconds. There are low murmurs and a few surprised cries; it looks like an electrical problem until a single white light appears, illuminating the DJ booth and a soft melody fills the air again.
The DJ guy announces, “It’s time for the shot contest!” with a yell and a screeching, awful spin on the turn table that could deafen anyone. The atmosphere explodes. People on the dance floor scream, raise their hands to be chosen from the darkness, and the white light starts to move around to light up faces, stoping to arbitrarily select contenders, just choosing the pretty faces or the attractive, almost semi-naked bodies.
It’s somewhat obvious they were already pre-selected among all the others but it all seems random, as if they wanted to make sure everyone in the place would enjoy watching the show.
The chosen ones are cheered and Robby claps lightly so as not to be out of place with the vibes but he’s not particularly interested, that until the follow spot stops on the boy from before and all the disinterest evaporates from his body, he straightens up to give the boy his full attention and with the lights full on him, Robby can finally see him clearly - he has, unsurprisingly, a very pretty face, delicate nose and sweet features, with those huge blue puppy eyes.
He looks a bit younger than what Robby usually goes for to take home, maybe much younger, or maybe not so much. His cute little face is adorned with a pair of purplish, pronounced circles under his eyes that give him away a little; they remind Robby of himself during his residency and even now, tired 95% of the time. Maybe the not-so-young guy is just one of those persons with baby faces.
But most people here are young, and now that he sees him without any kind of fogginess, he can't turn away. A strange magnetism fixes his eyes on the boy, the way he moves his head, refusing to participate in a first shy reflex, but he laughs when someone shouts something. Robby can't hear him from where he’s sitting, too far away and the music too loud, but he feels like he can imagine the sound of his laugh, with how his face literally lights up when he smiles and his chubby cheeks puff out - shit.
Robby feels a small smile spread across his own face almost involuntarily; he's captivated, completely enthralled.
People around him clap and cheer, and after some pushing and friendly encouragement, Sweetface walks, still somewhat shy but with a hidden determination in his eyes, toward the front of the club with the other chosen ones. He climbs up on the bar right in the center, where his smile widens and he finally accepts his fate and moves to energize the crowd.
Robby would like to keep that undoubtedly stupid smile off his own lips, but it’s as if this boy, effortlessly, without even looking at him, forces him to have a foolish expression on his face.
Robby is at the curved corner of the bar, which gives him a panoramic view of his perfect ass, and although he’s sure he’d enjoy the show from here, he prefers to see his face as he dances and maybe get within sight. So he stealthily approaches, weaving through the others who are starting to gather to cheer on the contestants, and chooses an empty stool right at Sweetface’s feet.
He’s much cuter up close, and God, Robby is going to be very, very sad if he finds him uninterested. He usually lets his one night stands approach him first; after a smirk or a hot glance, he lets the other person talk to him, and if they show interest, he shows his own interest back - he's too old to chase or insist on someone, especially if it’s just going to be a one time affair. But this boy, Robby is definitely going to try, pull out all his tricks and hope he still has game.
The DJ explains the rules: one shot of baby mango tequila, a sexy dance on top of the bar, and a shot of tamarind Smirnoff afterward. The sexiest dance and the loudest cheer wins a round of drinks for them and their friends. It sounds disgusting and like a terrifying hangover in the morning, but everyone looks excited, and Robby definitely wants to see Sweetface dance up close, so he settles into his seat and waits for him.
It’s the most embarrassing thing he’d seen in a long time, the half-drunk girls and boys trying to dance to slow music in a sensual way, only managing to move their hips like a butterfly kick or bend over to wiggle their boobs or ass for the funs, which got most of the excited screams.
God, it’s so ridiculous it’s obvious Robby’s way out of this age range. Everyone seems to be having the time of their lives, and he can barely manage a clap with his head down and a slight, embarrassed shake of his head, until it’s finally Sweetface’s turn.
He watches him intently, the boy takes the shot of tequila not even flinching, and starts dancing, owning the bar as much as the dance floor.
He sways carefully and kneels down, wiggling his hips right in Robby’s face. It’s only a few seconds, but he feels his face flush all the way to his neck and has to clench his fists in his jeans to keep from reaching out and touching him inappropriately and joins the crowd's enthusiasm as the guy boldly leans over to grab the vodka shot from the bar top with his teeth and deftly downs it hands-free as he stands back up with a fucking sensual curve on his back.
In the final round of applause, a busty girl with a bikini top who leaves little to the imagination wins. Everyone seems pleased. The girl repeats her act, and the surroundings return to normal. The dance floor slowly fills up, and the loud music rumbles off the walls. Sweetface jumps down from the bar and trips awkwardly and deliberately right into Robby’s arms.
“Shit, sorry!”
“Oops,” Robby smiles gently, the hands he placed on his waist to help steady him still there, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You were very charming up there.”
Sweetface smiles slightly and leans close to his ear, speaking in a muffled yell to be heard over the music, “Thanks, you didn't seem very lively tho.”
Ah, so he noticed him. Robby feels a warm current run through his spine, and looks him up and down making obvious the high appreciation he has for his body, his legs sheathed in those tight jeans and the black and white raglan crop top that reveals a tempting thin line of skin, “I was a little distracted.”
The boy laughs, feigning obtuseness on purpose - he can see the fake innocence in his smile and the playfulness in his eyes as his hands rest on Robby's chest and he looks at him with that deep blue peeping through his lashes, flirty, and Robby decides for sure he’s going to take him home.
“Sorry you didn’t get your free drinks,” he trails his hands down to his hips, one of his thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin, “Can I buy you one?”
“Yeah, sure.” The boy smiles up at him, wide and bright, even more blinding than the white light from a moment ago.
Robby’s heart skips a couple of beats inside his ribcage, and it’s so weird; it’s been so long since he’s felt this way about anyone, or anything that for a second he thinks he's having a cardiac event. He feels the panic rise like bile up his esophagus and can’t decide if the feeling is actually welcome or if he should take it as a warning and back away.
He finally loosens the grip on the boy's hip and sits down on the stool, trying to hide the fright with the leftover of his beer but Sweetface immediately presses up against him, his finger grabbing onto the belt loop of his pants as if that can stop him from walking away. Robby can feel the warmth of his body along his side as he leans in to ask him in a whisper for an old fashioned in his ear, sending a delicious shiver down his spine that he definitely won’t let himself ignore.
Robby orders Sweetface’s drink and another beer for him and whispers back, his lips barely grazing his antitragus “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Dennis.”
“I’m Robby.” Robby smiles again, suppressing the feeling he can’t quite define and tucking it away somewhere recondite inside with the other shit he tends to ignore. He expertly convinces himself it was so fleeting it doesn’t even matter; this man is no different from any other. He takes Dennis by the waist firmly and pulls him onto his lap, right to business “What are you doing later?”
Dennis shrugs, slumps onto Robby’s chest as if it’s there where he belongs, and takes a swig of the remains of the beer he was still warming in his other hand. “Where are you going to take me?” he asks with a naughty grin, and Robby is happy that it’s him who will make him forget.