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Dennis isn’t an expert at psychiatric holds, but he knows the basics. He’s had a handful of cases that push the button in his head that Robby installed there, time to call Kiara, Dylan, whoever’s on shift. From there, it’s sort of a relief. More paperwork, but also an empty bed. A patient put in the care of another person, another department, an entirely different floor. The risk assessment is simple enough: plan, means, intent. If two of those are checked, he places his finger on the button. All three, and it’s time to press.
“And if I don’t come back,” Robby says, eyes gleaming, “you’ll have a sweet bachelor pad.”
The button screams at him. Dennis scans the checklist in his head. He can’t check any of them. Robby gives him a thumbs up and leaves, Dr. Al-Hashimi asks about the manikin. Dennis hadn’t even noticed it, posed with tinsel around its neck.
He spends the next six hours with his attention split in two. Half of it’s on his patients, on the influx of injuries from the water park, the analog everything, the new, ancient system. The other half is on Robby. More than half, probably. He tries to think of questions to ask.
So what are your plans for when you get out there?
What’s your, um, goal for going? I mean, not goal, that sounds weird—
How long have you been riding your bike?
“Excited for your trip?” he asks, because he’s a coward.
Robby just smiles at him, already looking a million miles away.
But he’ll say something before Robby leaves. When Robby gives him the keys to his apartment, Dennis will say that he cares about him, or something. He’ll say how much Robby’s leadership has meant to him. Means to him. To all of them. Dennis isn’t special.
Robby finds him in the locker room, slips the key in his sweatshirt pocket, and reminds him, no babies allowed.
“You,” his mind is racing, Robby’s smile is terrifying, Dennis doesn’t know what to do, “you said goodbye to Dr. Abbot yet?”
“He’s my next stop,” Robby assures him, and Dennis believes him. Okay, he thinks bracingly. Dr. Abbot will know what to do. Robby heads back out the floor, and Dennis doesn’t wait for the door to close to text Abbot. Hey, this is Dennis Whitaker. There’s something wrong with Robby. Can you talk to him?
Abbot texts back immediately. Way ahead of you
His chest floods with relief. It’s all going to be okay. He’ll go back to Trin’s place, and stay in his closet of a bedroom, and Abbot will talk Robby into staying home. Dennis even thinks about celebrating. Maybe he’ll pick up some IPAs.
Abbot texts again.
He’s gone.
The Uber driver asks him if he rides motorcycles. Dennis holds Robby’s helmet tighter against his chest. It’s cool from being left in the shadow of the ambulance bay.
“Yeah,” he lies, his teeth starting to chatter. “I ride a Harley.”
When he was fifteen, Dennis’ aunt Marcy took him to a perfume store at the mall in Lincoln. The guy behind the counter (dark hair, two day stubble, bright brown eyes) taught them all about the difference between eau de parfum and eau de toilette. Then he had written his name, Jax, and his number, on one of the store’s business cards and slipped it in the checkout bag. Marcy had teased him about it, Dennis had thrown the business card directly in the trash.
As Dennis opens Robby’s door, he thinks of eau de parfum. Dense, thick, concentrated. Robby in his nose, throat, and chest. He doesn’t turn on the lights. He texts Robby with his eyes closed. Please don’t do this, please come back. No typos, like his fingers knew how important it was to be exact.
Then he sits in front of the bookshelf and reads the titles with the light of his phone. He starts crying, mostly from surprise. They’re all self-help books.
He’s still on the floor, on chapter four of What Happened to You, when the doorknob jiggles. Dennis freezes. He’s getting robbed, or Robby’s getting robbed. The burglar walks in. It’s Robby. He nods at Dennis on the floor and walks around him, like Dennis has always lived on his floor.
“Forgot I had a spare,” Robby explains, and proceeds to tear the kitchen apart.
He throws aside a butcher block and looks behind it, he drags pots out of a low cabinet and throws them across the kitchen floor. Dennis' voice is lost to the racket: “Uh, that’s—you came back?” Robby doesn’t answer. He flings open the doors above the stove and brings down what looks like a lifetime's worth of spices, roots around the back of the cabinet, then slams the doors shut. Dennis tries to talk louder. “What are you looking for?” Robby empties an entire cabinet of dishes; Dennis shouts as they break on the counter. Robby doesn’t pause. He rampages the pantry, half eaten bags of chips and single serving packets of oatmeal and sleeves of crackers scattering around the floor. A can of tuna hits Dennis’ foot, and Dennis imagines Robby eating it with crackers alone on his couch, and for some reason that’s the last straw.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.
“Gotcha,” Robby hisses happily, hauling a dusty cardboard box from the pantry. “Hey, relax,” he adds, glancing at Dennis. “No one died.”
Dennis watches helplessly as Robby swipes broken glass off the counter and pulls what looks like a funeral urn out of the cardboard box.
“You’ve got to be incredibly careful when using one of these,” he teaches Dennis, filling the thing with water, setting it on the range. “A samovar. Beautiful, but can burn the shit out of you if you’re not careful. Meant for tea but makes a mean cup of coffee if you don’t mind a few grounds. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll make enough for two.”
“Robby—”
“There’s some milk in the fridge. Might even have some sugar.” He points at Dennis. “You a sugar guy? You like sugar?”
“Sugar—Robby—”
“This is the good stuff,” Robby opens the fridge, grabs a bag of coffee, doesn’t close the fridge. “Abbot put me onto it, fucking bougie single origin place down on twenty third. I reluctantly see why people like it, but it’s like $25 for a bag,” he tries to scoop a tablespoon into the samovar, but his hand is shaking too hard. He burns his fingers. The grounds ignite in the pilot light, shriveling to a fragrant crisp. He throws the spoon and grips the edge of the counter, breathing hard through his nose. Smiling at the carnage.
“Robby,” Dennis snaps, thinking, realizing. “I’m turning on the light.”
A thin stream of blood trails from Robby’s hairline, down between his eyebrows, congealing at the corner of his nose. Dennis runs to the window; Robby’s bike is on its side in a parking spot. Cars swerve around it, not even beeping. Just another piece of chaos on the Fourth of July.
He turns back, and Robby’s gone. Dennis’ heart stops, but then there’s laughter from behind the island countertop. Robby’s slumped on the floor, giggling. Dennis kneels beside him, hands flying into action. Checking Robby’s neck, his skull, his face. Robby just lets him, which is the surest sign that something’s wrong.
“I crashed,” Robby says, sounding proud about it.
“You hit your head?” Dennis shines his phone in Robby’s face. Robby winces, but the pupils contract. “Did you pass out? Did you vomit?” It doesn’t matter what the answers are. He needs to get Robby back to the ED, needs to take him for a CT. An ambulance would be here in minutes. They would hear Robby's name and fly.
“Did I vomit,” Robby echoes, leaning forward, tracing his nose along Dennis’ cheek. The blood is still tacky. Dennis should not be feeling anything other than fear. He should not. “Well,” Robby murmurs, and kisses him.
And Dennis knows Robby is brain injured, suicidal and brain injured and there’s broken glass all over the kitchen counter and the samovar smells like it’s burning and it stands to reason that the kiss shouldn’t be this sweet. Teasing, testing, feather light. Robby opens his mouth first, just enough for Dennis to taste him. No, Robby did not vomit. He tastes cleanly of spearmint and cigarettes, but Dennis needs to make sure, doesn't he? Needs to push his tongue in as far as Robby will let him—
Somewhere, a firework explodes. Dennis jumps back. Robby’s slow to open his eyes. It’s brain damage, or—
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Robby tells him, dreamy.
“Don’t,” Dennis begs, heart pounding. “Please don’t say that right now.”
The samovar is steaming. Dennis takes the opportunity to move it to a cold burner and gather what he needs. Robby lets him clean the wound. It’s possibly the most peaceful Dennis has ever seen him, head tipped back against the island, eyes closed. When Dennis is satisfied the wound has stopped bleeding, he checks his body over his clothes. There’s a fresh bruise along his shoulder, just inside of his collar. Nothing seems broken. He pats his abdomen, chest, ribs, legs. Robby doesn’t flinch. It’s not enough of an examination. He needs to call the paramedics.
“I’m tired,” Robby says. “Come to bed?”
Dennis hesitates. He should call. He should—
“I’m going to monitor you,” Dennis warns, and wonders if he’s the one who hit his head.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days,” Robby snickers, but lets himself be steered to his room, toward the bed, helped beneath his covers. Dennis should undress him, but doesn’t. Can’t. Robby starts snoring as soon as his head hits the pillow. Dennis gets to work.
He picks up the bigger pieces of glass, checking every closet until he finds a vacuum, vacuuming the rest, reorganizing the pantry, restocking the pots in neat little towers, and the spices. Cleaning out the samovar. It really is beautiful, and still hot to the touch. Then Dennis goes back to Robby’s bedroom, lays on top of the covers beside his attending, and does not call 911.
When Dennis wakes up, he’s got a hand on Robby’s naked back. Like that’s anything close to proper treatment, like he thought he would check his vitals in his sleep. Robby’s back is less hairy than Dennis would have thought. He’s pale, freckled, almost glowing a little in the blue middle of the night. His shoulders are so broad that—Dennis drops his hand. He stops looking at his back.
Dennis is a doctor. Doctor, he mouths to himself. A real doctor would do the right thing. He pulls his phone from his sweatshirt pocket, slow and quiet to not wake up Robby; the screen flashes bright pink. A Pittsburgh sunrise, last fall. Robby takes a sharp inhale, rolls on his back.
“Shit,” Robby groans, voice like sandpaper. Dennis braces for another behavioral abnormality, or extreme disorientation, or loss of time. Instead Robby scrubs a hand down his face and struggles to sit up against the headboard. Dennis scrambles to help him. “I crashed,” Robby says, not sounding glad about it this time. Dennis can see him sifting through his memory. He can’t decide which would be worse, for Robby to remember or forget. “I,” Robby touches his mouth. “We—”
“I mean, just to prove a point. You don’t, you weren’t in your right mind. It’s fine,” he’s rambling, he knows he’s rambling but he can’t shut up, “we can just pretend like it never happened. You just wanted to show me that you didn’t vomit. Look. Don’t worry about it, really.”
The look Robby gives him is the one for when Dennis gets something wrong. “I’m not worried,” he says.
“Good. That’s good. Look, I’m gonna call for transport. I cleaned up a cut on your head, front left—”
“I remember,” Robby says, too calm.
“Right, well, you were obviously disoriented, you were trying to make coffee with your, uh, your samovar and burning your fingers and I’m sure I don’t have to explain this to you, but you definitely need a scan.”
“Get under the covers,” Robby says. “You’re shaking.”
“The covers? No, Robby, we need to call 911, or Abbot, or Dana. You weren’t wearing your helmet, you crashed—”
“I did,” Robby confirms. “You gonna get on me about my helmet, too?”
“Get on you?” Dennis thinks about the way he’d acted when Robby asked him to watch his house, an over eager puppy. Too well trained, too happy to be noticed. A phantom strand of something tightens around his neck. “You picked me to watch your house because you knew I wouldn’t question it.” His heart freezes over, all his organs going cold. He holds his phone up to his face—face not recognized, it tells him. That makes two of them, he thinks.
“Don’t call them,” Robby says, too quiet. It would be better if he yelled, Dennis decides, punching in his passcode. The gentleness is probably another manipulation and—his passcode is wrong.
“Fuck. Hang on…”
“Dennis. Please don’t call them.”
Third try, wrong. You are now locked out for 3 minutes. Please try again later.
Dennis throws down his phone and says, “Don’t call them? The people who just want to help you? Don’t call the place that you were going to just, just abandon all by itself and not even think twice about how the department would survive, the only place that really knows you, that understands you and you were just, just going to leave me?”
Robby’s eyes go liquid. He covers his mouth with his hand.
“It,” Dennis says, too late.
“I crashed on purpose,” Robby says slowly, “because I realized I was making a mistake.”
“Make that one make sense,” Dennis mutters, trying to stay angry. Except that Robby is peeling his shirt over his head. Unlike his back, his chest is plenty hairy, and his belly…Dennis’ throat clicks.
Robby rubs his naked chest. Dennis knows his eyes are too wide. “I knew the only way I could convince myself to get off the road was not to give myself any other option. I sideswiped a tree.”
“Yeah, and then you kept riding.”
“I rode here,” Robby says, wriggling out of his track pants. His boxers have hearts on them. Dennis forbids his stomach from fluttering. Nothing is sexy, nothing is okay.
“To make coffee,” Dennis points out. “In a samovar.”
“I was disoriented, now I’m not.” Robby gestures to his body. “There. Examine me.”
Dennis scoffs, looks toward the window. The black out curtains probably aren’t thick enough to cover his blush. “I already did.”
“Not thoroughly enough, or you wouldn’t still be nervous. Come on. Knock yourself out.”
Robby has a king sized bed. It’s not a small distance between them to what, crawl? He could ask Robby to scoot closer to the edge of the bed…or he could call dispatch like a normal person.
“If you were gonna call,” Robby says softly, “you would have done it already.”
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, hating that Robby is right.
“Alright,” Dennis explodes, “alright.” He awkwardly shuffles on his knees to Robby’s side. “I’m going to check your vision.”
“Good man,” Robby praises. Dennis tries to ignore him. He’s a body who’s been injured, who has two eyes that need checking. The pupils still look good, contracting, evenly matched. He raises his hand to test tracking.
“I’m gonna use my finger—”
“That’s what she said,” Robby inserts, and Dennis drops his hand.
“Yeah, see, you’re brain injured. I’m calling Abbot.”
“Or I could just be happy.”
“You just crashed your bike. Why would you be happy?”
“I’ve got you in my bed.”
Not good, not right, a giant sign says in Dennis’ head. Red lights flashing, the whirl of an ambulance siren. “It’s not like that,” Dennis lies.
“No?” Robby touches his knee, strokes the fold between his thigh and his calf. “What is it like, then?” And moonlight is pouring through the gap in the black out curtains, and Dennis just checked Robby’s vision, so Robby can definitely see Dennis tenting his sweatpants. The interested murmur is just confirmation. “Examine me.” He grabs Dennis’ ankle, tugs it toward him. His meaning is clear.
“You want me to—”
“I think you know what I want.”
“Robby,” Dennis breathes, and in the course of five seconds, everything catches up to him. The months of denial, the months of furious jerking off, the shame spirals, the pining. He’s helpless to stop it, the awkward clamber into Robby’s lap. The spread of his legs. It's a stretch.
Robby’s hands urge him closer, lower. Dennis goes, and gasps. "Uh huh," Robby hums. "You still want to call?” His grip is loose around Dennis’ waist, like Dennis could leave anytime he wanted to. Like he could go get help.
“Bullshit,” Dennis murmurs. He lowers his forehead to Robby’s, and it feels like the boldest thing he’s ever done. “Why should I give you what you want?”
“Because I came back?”
“Let me drive you to the hospital.”
“No.” Robby’s grip gets tighter, more demanding. Rocking Dennis back and forth. Dennis can’t help the pathetic little sounds pouring out of him, the ohs, the pleases. Robby takes Dennis' hand and presses it to his belly, sliding it lower, showing him what he's done. Starting a dirty rhythm for him over the cotton of his boxers. “Let’s do this instead.”
I’m pretty sure this almost killed you, Dennis wants to say. Distracting yourself, never taking the time to actually feel what you're feeling—Robby strokes him over his sweatpants; Dennis forgets everything he's every learned.
“Feel that,” Robby mouths against Dennis’ cheek.
Protocol drifts back to him, barely recognizable. The questions he’s supposed to ask. Robby’s arm hair is coarse where it rubs against Dennis’ forearm. Giving each other lazy compressions. They’d be dead by now. “What’s your name,” Dennis sighs.
“Michael Joseph Robinavitch.”
“Birthday.”
“September 3, 1974.”
“What day is it.”
“The first day of the rest of my life.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“Who’s joking? Fuck, you feel good.”
“Robby—”
“Yeah, baby.”
A pull, a tug, and then they’re together. Hard and damp and fevered, bound by Robby’s hand. Dennis’ head spins. He might be whining; Robby kisses the sound from him.
“You want this?” Robby taunts. “You want me to fuck you for the first time tonight?”
Time of death, whatever now is. Cause, choking on his own need, his own breath. Robby is already moving, because he knows that Dennis is going to say yes. Dennis always says yes. Robby says jump, Dennis says thank you. His jaw drops open when Robby taps on his chin. He’s like a manikin with tinsel around his neck.
“You know you own me,” Robby confesses, slipping a finger inside Dennis’ mouth. He lets him suck until Dennis thinks he might actually be going insane. Later, he’ll realize it’s not insanity, but clarity. He thinks better with something in his mouth. He'll learn how to use the knowledge to great effect.
Now he gives Robby’s finger one final suck and says sadly, “yeah, I think I do. Hey Robby, what’s my name?”
Robby’s eyes widen, then glaze over. His eyebrows furrow, his lips go pale with panic. Dennis’ heart sinks and swells at the same time. Robby makes the world’s most pitiful attempt at laughing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
It’s probably weird that they’re both still hard, Dennis thinks. Hazard of the job, maybe, bodies still working through heartbreak.
“You can fuck me," Dennis enunciates, "when you can remember my name.” He’s proud that his voice is only shaking a little. He picks up his phone and remembers the passcode. He holds the screen out to Robby. He can see something older and bigger than both of them behind Robby’s eyes, twisting and writhing through the haze. It wants to kick Dennis out of his apartment. It wants to get back on the bike.
It wants to close its eyes.
It’s important to have boundaries. Do you want to do me a favor?
Robby’s breath hitches, a fractured sigh. He touches Dennis’ hair, his forehead, his jawline. His smile is broken, but at least it's real this time. Dennis’ heart takes on a different sort of ache. He feels Robby exhale long and slow through his nose.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay.” Robby dials. Dispatch picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey, it’s Michael Robinovitch. Yep, one in the same.” Dispatch asks their questions, Robby answers. “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” he tells Dennis, and with a shade of irony, “they want me to stay on the line.”
“Great,” Dennis says. He takes the phone, puts it on speaker, rests it on the night stand. His body is moving of its own volition, not Robby’s, not anybody else’s. He wants to bury his face in Robby’s belly, so he does. He wants to mouth at Robby’s pubic hair. He wants to lick up his precome. A hand hovers uncertainly over the back of his neck. Dennis grabs it and presses his own head down.
Robby bucks, groaning. Dispatch's voice asks if everything’s alright. “Yep, fine,” Robby calls, strangled, then gasps, “what are you, fuck yes, okay, hi, what are you doing?”
“Making you say my name,” Dennis answers, and opens wide.