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Michael Robinavitch is not a guy for social media. But Michael Robinavitch is also drunk, after one too many whiskeys in the shitty thing they call a bar in this shitty roadside motel. And he is alone - in this too big bed that is really just two twins pushed together. Which is somehow worse, because he can't lie in the middle where the two mattresses meet so he's off to one side and acutely aware that the rest of the bed is empty.
And maybe drunk, and not only alone but miles and miles away from anyone that knows him, Michael Robinavitch suddenly is a guy that scrolls through other people's instagram accounts. He has what Jack calls an official account but he has never been very active. He isn't sure but he must have barely made three posts in the last year and he doesn't check because he'll get sick when he sees the slightly older pictures that have Jake in them.
He also has a burner account, which he uses even less. Jack made sure to set him up with that. One that isn’t obviously him, not if you don’t know. Jack knows but what does Jack Abbot not know about Robby?
Well, right now Jack doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where Robby is or what he's doing and that knowledge isn’t as comforting as he thought when he left. He thought he'd enjoy the anonymity of it all. But it's not that simple. He is stuck in a weird place of never wanting anyone to find him and yet some selfish part of him hopes they never stop searching for him.
In the beginning he gets messages daily. Jack calls daily but Michael never picks up. Whitaker messages him daily in the beginning, too. Dana regularly tries. But now it's been over a month - five weeks and four days not that he is counting - and he can’t start. He can’t talk to them. They reach out more sporadically and somehow it gets harder to ignore. When it was a flood it was easier to not think about, but the notification became more personal somehow. They don’t blend together anymore.
If someone would ask him, he isn't sure that he can explain what makes him go look up the account of Trinity Santos first. He wants to say he just thinks she's one of the most talented students he has had and just wants to check up on her. But that excuse crumbles away with the stupid grin on his face when he sees her latest post. It has to be taken in her home, it's a selfie, only about two thirds of her face in it but over her shoulder on the couch there's Whitaker in a hoodie and sweatpants, a huge bowl of popcorn on his lap. He has a little bit of his deer-in-headlights stare that he gets when someone startles him. But he looks soft and relaxed in a way that Robby never got to see him.
And maybe if someone asked drunk Robby to explain, he'd have to admit he had hoped for exactly this. Seeing him in the pictures but picking Santos felt safer, a more appropriate distance than immediately searching straight for Whitaker. Santos is clever and quick and a fighter. But right now, in Robby's head, she first and foremost is one thing: Dennis Whitaker's best friend.
He doesn’t know how long he stays still, staring at the picture but definitely too long to be appropriate. He finally starts scrolling, Santos posts quite frequently, and he quickly realizes Whitaker appears in a lot more of her pictures again since Robby has left. Sometimes he looks more drained and tired than other times but overall he has to admit that he looks good, happy even.
Robby isn’t stupid, he knows this is curated, knows this isn’t all there is to see but in the irrational part of his brain, it does sting that it never looks like Whitaker is missing anything.
It never looks like he is missing Robby.
Oh, what a pathetic thought to have, he decides like it wasn’t his own brain that came up with it. Who does he think he is? They worked together for a few months and whatever sticky mess of feelings for the man had caused to grow in Michael's chest was his problem, not Whitaker's.
He decides he has enough and folds, when another of her pictures has his account tagged in it and Michael follows through. Dennis Whitaker in all his farm boy glory, sitting on a hay bale, smiles at him from the most recent picture. He taps on it, it pops up to his full screen and Robby chokes a little bit on the breath he sucks in too quickly. Whitaker looks good in blue, that much isn’t news to anyone who has ever seen him. But Robby is used to him in scrubs and those are always at least somewhat ill fitting and unflattering.
This is nice on him. His gray shirt clings to him, hugs his pectorals, Robby is sure he can see the faint line of his abs just above his belt. He's in washed out jeans that are just a little bit dirty from working. Dirty in a way that is somehow sexy. His flannel is a shade of blue that makes his eyes sparkle. His legs are spread comfortably. He's leaning on one hand behind his back, the other holds onto the neck of a beer bottle, resting on top of the bale - right between his legs.
Something about it is suggestive to Michael. Something about the bottle or something about how the flannel sleeves are rolled up or about the way it slightly slips off the shoulder that he's leaning back on. Maybe it's a little bit of everything. Before his head is done taking in how hot he finds it, his dick is already responding.
Dennis looks just a little bit smug about it. Like he knows he looks good. Like he knows he's being looked at and like he knows the person looking is enjoying the view. And fuck is he right in feeling like that. More of Michael's blood starts rushing down.
It's all a little pathetic. It really feels like the beaming smile is directed at Robby. Like it is just for him and he grins back, just as fondly. He tries to ignore the part that knows that Dennis is actually smiling so brightly at the person behind the camera.
Amy.
The widow with the baby and the farm. Who else could it be?
Robby checks, the picture is just about a week old, so if it's not an old picture he suddenly decided to post, it means they are still seeing each other. Robby's speech about boundaries did not seem to have worked at all. It's not that surprising to him, even if it hurts a little. And he himself had trampled over any kind of healthy boundaries about ten seconds later when he had told him to house-sit. Like that is a normal thing a boss asks. If it was, he could've asked anyone. But he had asked Dennis and wouldn’t have asked anyone else.
"Don't know what to call it," Santos had said about the thing with Amy but that fucking smile isn't really the platonic helper kind, Robby thinks. His eyes crinkle so fucking fondly looking up at that person. He wouldn’t look like that at just anyone.
The jealousy sits hot and heavy in Michael's abdomen.
He ends up scrolling through Whitaker's pictures much longer than he should. Well, he shouldn’t be doing this at all actually. He's his boss. Was. Was his boss. What didn't change is the fact that the kid is half his age. This is cowardly. He keeps silently cursing a woman that he thinks took someone from him. Someone he wanted to have but never convinced himself to actually pursue. And now it's her fault, not Robby's own. It's easier that way.
Robby turns his screen off and sets the phone down on his chest. He sighs, deep from his chest, putting his whole soul into it. He rubs over his face with both hands. He's still just a little bit hard. Enough that he notices but he thinks he can just will it away. The phone stays off for a pitiful four minutes, before Robby is back on it.
Robby only has his burner account because Jack has an alternate account and made it very clear to Robby that he needed something that wasn’t easy to trace back to them. It's not that Jack's account was anything too outrageous but it's openly suggestive and nobody needs to immediately trace that back to their doctor. Some pictures there are of Jack alone but most are little snippets of his hookups.
Right now, Robby is glad Jack has that account. Especially now that he thinks it might distract him enough. There are a couple of pictures that Robby hasn't seen. It's not that he checks it that regularly. He is not that obsessed with his best friend's sex life, thank you very much. Jack does have an eye for photography and Robby can acknowledge that without a problem.
There's one that's mostly some guy's right hip, low sitting jeans, a shirt that is ridden up just enough to reveal the curve of his hip bone. Jack has a finger hooked into a belt loop of the jeans. Robby can't see much more of Jack than his hand and wrist but the grip is possessive. It makes warmth pool in Robby's stomach.
The other is mostly legs. Someone has theirs swung over Jack's lap. One of Jack's elbows rests on top of their knees, holding a lit cigarette. It's almost uncharacteristically cozy and intimate. Michael knows Jack is one of those people that smokes after sex. He tries to image in, the messed up hair, Jack's satisfied grin.
The questionable behavior continues, when he starts to wonder if Whitaker has an account he keeps secret. He is also definitely not sober enough to think of any reason to keep himself from looking, so he goes to dig. Tries everyone's follow list he can think of that might have it on it. He comes up with nothing. Maybe Dennis just isn't like that. Maybe there are no horny posts to hide. Nothing for Michael to uncover.
When he finally gives up and goes back to Jack's page, there is a new picture. In the fifteen minutes Robby had spent trying to sniff out if Whitaker had an alternate account, Jack had posted something new. In small, the picture looks rather unassuming. Mostly the black fabric of a shirt, a dog tag right in the center. But when he opens it to really look at it, he has to blink at it a few times in case his eyes are playing tricks on him. The picture really is mostly torso, a tight black shirt and he can tell without a doubt that it is Jack's dog tag. He has seen it enough times. He knows. But the person wearing it is also without a doubt not Jack Abbot.
He can see one short sleeve hug a bicep that would usually make his mouth water a little but now it has his head spinning. The skin he sees is pale, missing any sign of Jack's freckles.
Around the pale neck, that he can only see a slim sliver of, hangs a silver cross that looks impossibly dainty compared to the worn dog tag a couple inches lower.
Robby's stomach twists and turns. He might throw up.
Even if it felt a little dirty, it had been fun until now. Until now, he had looked at his best friend having a fun hookup and Michael can be happy for him. Jack is good at casual. Michael knows first hand that Jack makes eyes at anyone and that isn’t anything Michael gets jealous over. Not anymore.
But this? This isn’t casual. No one gives something that meaningful to a fling.
Five weeks and four days. That's how long it took for Jack Abbot to get himself into the first serious relationship since… Michael doesn’t even know how many years.
It's a sign that Jack isn’t doing well, Michael tries to justify the nasty feeling in his chest. He is looking out for him. Jack is just trying to fill the gap that is there without his best friend. That guy is a rebound at best. It could never last. Poor boy is going to get his heart broken when Jack inevitably breaks up with him. It's a lapse of Jack's judgement and he'll eventually realize that this relationship can’t give him what he needs. The thought tastes like bile in his mouth but it's oddly comforting.
It takes him way too long to realize that there is a second slide and then in his drunken frenzy, he almost drops the phone with how fast he tries to swipe. A split second he thinks the second picture might make it better. He wishes for a “haha just kidding” in picture form. Maybe a video of Jack going “damn, Mikey you didn’t actually think I fell in love with someone the second you stop talking to me”.
But the second picture makes it all so much worse. Robby might genuinely need to vomit to get this out of his system.
It's the same guy. He's kneeling on the ground framed by Jack's feet. There still is no face but Robby doesn’t need to see one to know. The guy is leaning back, both hands on the floor behind himself. He's clearly showing his body off for the camera. There are the dog tags, the cross. The shirt is hugging his pectorals. Almost slipped all the way down to just below his elbows and pooling around his hips on each side is a bright blue flannel.
The same blue flannel that Robby had stared at earlier.
There is no doubt about it.
Five weeks and four days and Dennis Whitaker belongs to Jack Abbot.
Robby's head is spinning again. Jack and Dennis are fucking.
He still thinks it's reckless. It's moving too fast. Escalating too quickly. But he can’t really blame either of them, can he? Jack has known Dennis for the same amount of time as Robby has. Maybe Robby just hadn’t realized how close they had actually gotten.
Better than anybody, Robby understands their attraction. He had definitely thought about it. Hell, he still does all the time. Which is definitely part of why he needed to get away. He needed to get it out of his system. Distance might ease the itch under his skin, that he had felt every time he had to work with either of them.
Robby doesn’t have the exact same feelings for Whitaker and Abbot, but neither are exactly welcome or appropriate. Jack has been his best friend for decades. With him, it's just part of who Robby is. It sits calmly, deep in his bones. He can’t remember when it started and he doesn't think it will ever stop. Not that he really wants it to. He doesn’t think he knows who he is without his feelings for Jack.
With Dennis it's new, but not any less of an all-consuming feeling. It rushes through him and tries to spill over every time Dennis looks his way. He cannot see himself keeping it in the way the can keep it together with Jack. Not yet at least.
At the end of the day, if there is anyone Robby could ever be okay with losing Whitaker to, it's Abbot. And if there is anyone Robby could ever be okay with losing Abbot to, it's Whitaker.
So after a while, Robby might eventually be able to stomach this.
He likes the picture.