Archive of Our Own

The first night after Robby leaves, Dennis sleeps in Robby's bed.

He tries not to think about it. It doesn't help that the sheets smell like Robby's laundry detergent, a smell Dennis doesn’t even know is familiar until he lays on the bed and the ghost of Robby rises up around him.

Something in his gut clenches tight and doesn't let go. He curls in on himself, breathing in deep for a long time. Lets the shame wash through him, the violence of the want, and doesn't move until it ebbs.

In the bathroom, he touches Robby's things.

Uses his aftershave, rubs a drop of his beard oil onto his fingertips until it soaks into his skin.

Brushes his teeth with his toothpaste so he carries the taste of him at the back of his throat.

He doesn't bother to be embarrassed, because nobody's looking. With Robby gone and Trinity a safe distance away at the apartment, no one's paying much attention to the details of Dennis's existence. He's free to explore this bottomless pit of intrigue, this fascination that borders on worship.

He never understood the fanaticism of his family church growing up, the strange movements and sounds of bodies in the throes of praise. Never understood being so overcome that you'd be willing to make a fool of yourself that way, to prostrate yourself before a force you weren't even sure was real, to sing high and sweet and celebrating your dependence on this thing you do not understand.

He gets it now.

Now, he's ten months into a residency he didn't think he'd survive ten hours of. Ten months of strange touches awakening stranger longings, of leaping to attention when Robby enters a room. Ten months of knowing the flush and flutter of Robby's approval, the slippery precipice of his disappointment.

Dennis would give anything for this. For any piece of Robby he can claim, for any length of time that he can claim it.

He uses Robby's soap when he showers. Dries off with Robby's towel.

Crawls naked between Robby's sheets and closes his eyes.

It's not the thing he wants, but it's close. It's close enough to make him ache, to turn the burn of shame in his veins into something almost sweet.

Almost singing.

§

The second day, he wanders around Robby's home.

There is art on the walls, nondescript and impersonal. Sketchy drawings of buildings, of skylines Dennis doesn't recognize. Two pictures, in a side-by-side frame on a low shelf near the television. A young couple, dark haired. The image yellowing with age. The facing picture is an older woman, with a little boy by her side.

Robby's parents. Robby's grandmother. Robby.

The only family Robby's ever had, Dennis realizes. He looks for Jake. Finds a couple of images held to the fridge by magnets. Nothing that says he's permanent. Not the way Robby talks about him, sometimes.

In the back of his mind, Dennis is thinking about Robby offering him this place.

Thinking about If I don't come back.

The house feels like a mausoleum around him, and Dennis searches through the cabinets for something to wipe the thoughts away.

He finds Robby's scotch.

The bottle is heavy. Dennis doesn't know much about any kind of whiskey nicer than Jack Daniels, but this bottle feels expensive.

He pours some into a glass and sits on Robby's sofa. Drinks.

§

He's two glasses in when he sends the first text.

Thanks again for letting me use your place. Hope you have a good time.

There's no reply. He has one more glass and texts, Promise not to do anything you wouldn't do. :)

The smiley face looks stupid, but it's too late now.

Dennis turns a playlist on and puts his headphones in. Lays back on the sofa. Turns his head into the cushion, which smells faintly of Robby's shampoo or his skin or something else Dennis hasn't pinpointed yet.

Thinks about Robby's bike. About his hair in the wind, his absent helmet, the disapproval heavy in Dana's voice.

He sits up. Drinks one more glass, to avoid what he wants to do, or to give himself courage to do it. Later, this part will be fuzzy.

His evening dissolves into snapshots. Refilling his glass. Finding a speaker, connecting his phone. Turning the music up.

Texting, a few times.

You okay? And You don't have to answer, you're probably driving. And But when you stop, maybe.

There's nothing.

Eventually, another full glass in hand, Dennis hits the call button. Listens to the ringing, not sure which is worse: Robby answering. Robby not answering.

He gets his voicemail. Says, stumbling and smeared: "Hey, it's me. That's stupid, you know that. But you didn't answer, and I'm—it's dumb, probably. Sorry. Just thinking about what you said. I hope—I'm sure you're fine. I'm sure it's good. I'm good, too. Just. If you get a chance—you said something. You said If I don't come back. So stupid, I know you're joking, but if—if you get a minute. Please. Robby, I really want you to come back. Fuck, that sounds—but yeah. Okay, whatever. I'm worried. Sorry. Call me."

There's a lurch in Dennis's stomach, then.

Later. He's in the bathroom. He's thrown up in the toilet. Stripped down to his boxers, and his hair is wet. He doesn't remember why.

He rinses his mouth out with Robby's mouthwash.

Later. He's in the shower. The water just starting to run cold.

Later. Naked, but in Robby's bed again. The smell of him is everywhere. He reaches for his phone, but it's somewhere else. It doesn't seem important.

Dennis sleeps.

§

He dreams that he's at work. Robby's hand on his neck in a crowded room.

Robby's voice in his ear, saying his name, his tone gentle and urgent all at once.

He reaches back to find Robby's fingers, to intertwine them with his own. Pulls his hand down, wraps Robby's arm over his shoulder and clutches Robby's hand to his chest.

"Stay here," he says, in his head or out loud. It doesn't matter. "You have to stay here."

His name in Robby's mouth again. Closer.

A shift of weight, pressure at his back.

But that's wrong. He's standing.

He's not. He's laying down. He's—asleep? Not asleep enough.

There's an arm around him, held tight to his chest by his own hand.

A smell, familiar, but mingled with exhaust and sweat and whatever blooms in the summer night air.

Robby.

Real and warm and here.

"Whitaker," he says.

Dennis doesn't scream, but it's a close thing.

He lets go of Robby's hand, tries to sit up. Gets tangled in the sheets, and is grateful when he realizes he's still naked. The twist of the covers hides it, but he can smell himself, alcohol and panic sweat.

"Jesus," he says. "Shit."

"Sorry." Robby's hand is hovering, close without touching. Afraid, maybe, that Dennis will grab him again. That Dennis will say—oh God, what did he say? In the voicemail? Just now?

There are too many holes in the night for him to trace a linear pattern of events.

"Didn't mean to scare you," Robby says.

"Scare me? Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. What did I—? Did I say something? Did I—fuck—"

Both of Robby's hands now. Palms out, placating. He shushes Dennis, and Dennis obeys the way his body always does: immediately. Without much intervention from his brain. He settles. Can't look Robby in the eye, but stares at his chest.

He's wearing his favorite hoodie. A tee shirt underneath. It looks soft. Dennis makes himself close his eyes against a wave of nausea.

"You called," Robby said. "Sounded a few sheets to the wind. Thought about calling Santos, but it's late. Well, early, now. I hadn't made it far. So I came back."

"Came back," Dennis repeats, stupidly. His stomach won't sit as easy as the rest of him, ignores all of Robby's calm command and threatens to rise up.

"To check on you," Robby says.

"Fuck," Dennis answers. "I ruined your trip. Fuck, I'm sorry—"

Another hand, palm out. A turn of his head that pulls Dennis up short.

"You had any water? Anything except half a bottle of my best scotch?"

Dennis shakes his head. Ignores the guilt, because the curve of Robby's lips is teasing. He's talking to Dennis like he's a patient. Too kind and too gentle, and Dennis wants to bask in it.

"Okay," Robby says, like it's a complete sentence. Then he's moving away, and Dennis reaches for him before he can stop himself.

His hand brushes Robby's arm. Curls around it, not quite holding on. His brain blaring alarm bells even as he's already touching him, even as it's too late.

Robby stops. Looks at where Dennis is touching his arm. Looks up at Dennis's face, where his mouth is working around something he can't get out.

"Sorry," he says at last. Pulls his hand away with a monumental effort.

"Just getting you some water," Robby says. And slowly, a little awkwardly, leans down to pat Dennis's hand where it droops miserably on the comforter. "I'll be right back."

Dennis nods. Swallows hard against the way his stomach tries to climb into his throat. His head is still floating strangely, like the bed is an ocean and his body is a ship in a storm.

He hears Robby in the kitchen. Hears cabinets opening, closing.

He needs to piss. He takes the moment to free himself from the sheets and stumble into Robby's bathroom. Remembers to kick the door closed before he urinates. Valiantly does not throw up again.

He finds his boxers on the tile floor near the shower and struggles into them.

When he comes out again, Robby is waiting. He's rearranged the bedding, smoothed out the tangle Dennis made of it. He nods his head to it, silently directing Dennis to lay down.

"It's your bed," Dennis says. "I can take the—"

"Shut up," Robby interrupts, mildly. Dennis shuts up.

He gets back into the bed. It feels better to be sitting, anyway.

Robby puts a pair of aspirin in his palm. Watches him swallow them with a glass of water, makes sure he gets through at least half before he lets him lie down.

Runs a hand up, out of habit, maybe, to check Dennis's pulse.

Dennis sucks in a breath. Makes himself stop holding it as soon as he realizes.

"Little fast," Robby says after a minute.

"Yeah," Dennis says.

"How you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"I bet."

Dennis says, "You didn't have to come."

Robby's head tilts to one side. His fingers are still pressed against Dennis's neck.

"You got here fast," Dennis tries, changing tack a bit.

"Like I said, I wasn't far."

"Thought you'd be farther, faster, I guess."

A sigh through his nose. "Me too."

"What held you up?"

Robby shrugs. His fingers drop, just a little. Not touching Dennis anymore, but resting on the bed right beside him. Clutching at the sheets, idly. Unconsciously.

"Was at a motel outside of town. Just…thinking," he says.

Dennis is quiet for a long minute. Trying to keep his head above water. Trying to read the shadows moving behind Robby's odd little grin.

"You said—," Dennis starts, and Robby shakes his head. Stops the thought before Dennis can get it out.

"You need to sleep," he says.

Dennis hesitates. "Are you—are you going to go again?"

This time, Robby's head shake is slower. Less certain.

"Robby," Dennis says.

That spectral smile. Dennis is too dizzy to stare at it straight on. He leans back into the pillows.

Robby's hand is still toying with the sheets. Dennis touches it. The back of one finger, sweeping along the side of Robby's palm.

He doesn't have anything to say. Or has too many things to say, and none of them appropriate. Robby is looking back at their hands, at the place where Dennis is reaching out—crossing a line, he realizes, even though he didn't see it until he was over it.

He pulls his finger back a fraction. Closes his eyes again.

He can say he's drunk. He is drunk. Tomorrow, he can say he doesn't remember. Act like he didn't do it.

Robby's hand twitches. Pointer finger moving so minutely it might be an accident. Closing the space again, jostling Dennis's finger slightly.

Dennis opens his eyes.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Robby says softly.

It's enough.

Before Dennis falls asleep, he feels the bed dip. Feels the weight of Robby at his side, watching.

Smells him, everywhere and immediate.

The sleeve of Robby's hoodie near his hand, and his fingers find it. It's as soft as it looks. Warm with Robby's body heat, worn and comfortable. Dennis brings it to his face. Leans his forehead against it.

Is still there, when he tips over the edge and the ocean around him claims him.

§

Morning of the third day.

Or, later in the morning, at least. Dennis wakes feeling heavier than he's used to. His head is fuzzy and his stomach uneasy, but he doesn't feel like he's been hit by a bus, exactly.

His brain comes back online in fits and starts. He thinks he should be worried about something. Can't figure out why he's not.

The heaviness of his body shifts, and that's when he realizes it isn't his body—not all of it.

It's an arm, wrapped in a soft hoodie sleeve, draped over him. It's breath at his neck, tickling his hair. It's a leg, thicker than his, hard and unyielding where Dennis's ankle is hooked around it.

Oh. Oh, Christ.

Terror and elation. His pulse leaps so high so fast that he can hear it, a liquid rush in his ears, in his throat and behind his eyes.

His foot moves. Feels the texture of Robby's leg hair against his skin. Feels a corresponding burst of air against his neck, the thick edge of a snore cutting off as Robby shifts.

Dennis freezes. Forces himself to relax his muscles, to control his breathing. He can't do anything about the riot of his heartbeat, but maybe that will be lost on Robby.

"Fuck."

It's so soft, but it's right beside Dennis's ear. Hot against his skin. Moving his hair with the force of it.

Robby's arm across his chest goes tense. Pulls away minutely. Dennis pretends this disturbs him. Breathes in sharp.

Robby withdraws, and Dennis can feel him sit up. Still hear him muttering under his breath, unintelligible.

He makes a show of waking up. Of rolling to look over his shoulder.

Robby is fully dressed. Rumpled at the edges, his hair pressed flat on one side, a line from the pillows etched into his cheek. Dennis aches suddenly and sharply with a need to touch him.

He doesn't.

Robby is looking at him, wary under a too-easy smile. "Sorry," he says. "Fell asleep on my watch."

Dennis tries on an answering smile. It feels crooked and stiff, but it sticks. It sells, maybe. "I'm the one who stole the bed," he says.

It makes Robby laugh. Not because it's funny, but because it gives them an excuse to avoid talking about it. About the fact that Robby's arm was around him. About the fact that Dennis felt so safe, held like that. About the fact that Dennis called. About the fact that Robby was somewhere, alone, thinking about—

Robby is moving, pushing himself to his feet. Groaning a little as he stands.

"You oughtta eat something," he says, without looking at Dennis.

"Not very hungry."

"I wasn't asking." He turns his neck one way, then the other. Stretches his arms. The side of his shirt rides up, showing a hint of his side, his back. Soft at the edges. Dark hair.

Dennis looks away. Gathers the covers in his lap. Pulls his legs up to his chest, protective.

"I'll get something going," Robby says. "You shower."

"Oh." Dennis blinks. Remembers the scent of himself last night, acrid booze and stale sweat. "Yeah."

He waits until Robby is in the kitchen to get up. Has to hobble a little as he walks to the bathroom. Turns the shower on cold and climbs in, cursing softly.

He washes quick. Uses Robby's soap again, Robby's shampoo. Wishes he had something else, because being covered in all of Robby's smells like this feels so much more incriminating with Robby in the next room. So much more obvious.

He dries himself off briskly. Perfunctory. Finds a change of clothes—sweats and an old tee.

Robby is still in the kitchen when he emerges from the bedroom. He's got two plates on the counter, two sandwiches laying open faced as he tips scrambled eggs onto them, lays a slice of cheese on each.

Dennis's stomach turns over slowly at the sight of the food, but he makes himself sit down at one of the stools pulled up to the counter.

Robby glances at him. That same smile in place, delicate. Desperate, almost.

"Not much of a cook, but you can't ruin an egg sandwich," he says, and puts one of the plates in front of Dennis. He must see the way Dennis's mouth twists, because he adds, "It'll help."

Dennis picks it up, reluctant. "I don't do this," he says. "Drink like this."

"Yeah?" Robby says. He turns the stove off. Lays the pan in the sink. "That's good."

"I'm sorry."

Robby shakes his head. "It happens."

"It doesn't. Not to me. Not like that." Dennis makes himself take a bite of the sandwich. His stomach hates it, but Robby is nodding approval, is taking an encouraging bite of his own sandwich, and that makes it worth it, almost.

He swallows.

Makes himself look at Robby when he says, "I was really worried."

Robby's gaze slides away immediately. He takes another bite, to avoid answering.

Dennis allows this, for a long while. Gets through three more bites in the time it takes Robby to finish his, but he can feel the food working on his stomach, feel it slowly unclenching, in spite of itself.

Finally, when Robby is adding his plate to the growing pile in the sink, Dennis says, "Were you going to do it?"

"Do what?" Robby says, too bright and too quick.

"Fuck you," Dennis answers, before he knows he's going to say it. It comes out low. Not a threat, but a rebuke. It snaps Robby's eyes back to him, Robby's mouth gently agape.

"It's not funny, Robby."

"I'm not laughing."

But he is smiling. Always that quizzical little smile, like he's got a secret. A secret he's shit at keeping.

"Can you just tell me the truth?"

Robby does laugh, now. Just a little, a scoff that comes out hard and mean. "Eat your sandwich, kid."

Dennis puts the sandwich down.

He doesn't slam it, but the movement makes Robby freeze anyway. The deliberate disobedience instead of blind adherence to Robby's orders.

A heavy sigh. "I didn't come back for this," Robby says, looking up at the ceiling.

"Then what did you come back for?"

"Because you got trashed and begged for it, Whitaker," he says. Precise. Surgical. Cruel.

Dennis breathes out loud and long through his nose, trying to control his frustration.

"Or because you hadn't made up your mind and you were looking for a way out," he says, and the way Robby's lips stretch in response to this is something—pride and irritation and that miserable horror of a smile all vying for top billing.

Robby comes around the counter so he's standing in front of Dennis. Looming over him on purpose, like the physical presence of him will make Dennis flinch away.

But Dennis doesn't flinch. Isn't sure he could peel himself away from Robby if he tried.

Dennis looks up at him. Sees the manic flicker of his eyes, pinched at the corners with the effort of pretending.

"Go take a shower," Dennis says. "Wash the road off."

He makes himself turn back to his sandwich. Take another bite. Watch Robby in his periphery as he scoffs again. As he laughs, a little softer. As he goes into the bedroom, through to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, Dennis hears the water start up. He finishes his sandwich. Puts the plate in the sink. Washes the dishes, to give his hands something to do.

He thinks about leaving. He thinks about opening the door and joining Robby under the spray. Thinks about that patch of skin he saw earlier, and has to stop thinking this almost immediately, the hunger rising up huge and hideous in him.

He finds Robby's bag in the bedroom and unpacks it. Lets himself indulge in this smaller intimacy: taking the shirts and the underwear and the pants and the hastily rolled socks, finding their homes in the dresser drawers.

Like every piece of Robby he puts back is a piece he can force to stay.

§

Dennis is back in the living room by the time Robby emerges. Sits on the sofa and waits, listening to his shuffling, his pausing, to the rustle of clothing and something muttered low and faintly annoyed.

From his position curled in the corner of the sofa, he watches Robby come in. Stop briefly in front of him, then decide better of it. Sink into the sofa beside him, the safety of an empty seat cushion between them.

Robby's put on something comfortable, loose pants and a shirt for some band Dennis thinks his older brother liked, years ago. He looks tired this way, stripped of the armor of authority afforded him by scrubs and a badge.

He says, "You put my stuff away."

Dennis doesn't respond. This doesn't need an answer. Yes, he did. And Robby's not an idiot. He knows why.

His silence makes Robby uneasy. Dennis can see it in the stiffening of his neck muscles, the rounding of his shoulders, the way he manages to fold up all his height to peer up at Dennis. "Little invasive, don't you think?" Robby says. "Not really your decision to make."

"It's the right decision. One of us had to make it."

Ten months. He's learned a lot from Robby. He can be quick, he can be surgical. He leaves the cruelty out of it, though. Figures Robby is full up on whatever his own head is feeding him.

Robby says, "You don't have to do this, you know. Take some kind of fucked up responsibility for me."

Dennis absorbs this. Turns it over. Breathes out slow. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

The tilt of Robby's head is condescending, the lift of his eyebrows. The look he gets when a med student asks a question they should know already.

Dennis ignores the slick burning shame of this, because that's the point. This is one more weapon Robby will use to defend himself, when he's backed into a corner. And Dennis isnt going to be scared off by it.

"If you hadn't come back," he says, "I'd have your house."

He can see surprise in Robby's face. Wariness. This attack is unexpected. But Robby laughs anyway, dry and ugly. "Exactly. Better—"

"Do not say better off." Dennis is on his feet before he knows it. He has to wrestle himself still again, strive for calm. Anger doesn't work well on Robby. He's got too much of his own to be impressed by anyone else's.

But Dennis can't help the sudden ferocity in his tone. "There's no world," he says, "where I'd rather have your house than have you."

Robby blinks rapidly. His mouth open, scalpel thin and ready to cut. His eyes, though. Damp at the corners, wide and wild.

Dennis's hands are loose fists at his sides, fingers flexing. "And fuck you, by the way, for acting like that doesn't matter. Like the rest of us only care about what you can do for us. Like I—"

He falters. Closes his eyes to banish the sting there, to give himself time to school his voice again.

In the dark behind his eyelids, he hears Robby move. Feels it, when one heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

Tugs at him reflexively. Pulls Dennis roughly to his chest and holds him there. Pats him, a little stiffly. A little awkwardly.

Robby's shirt smells like his sheets, like his soap. Dennis's face is buried in it before he thinks to stop himself. His arms around Robby's middle, the fabric of the shirt bunched in his fists.

"Hey," Robby says. "Easy." Says it soothing, his basest self rising to the surface, a thing that wants to fix. The hand that was patting Dennis's shoulder settles, rubs a slow circle into Dennis's back.

Dennis breathes him in deep. Presses his mouth against the fabric and shapes Robby's name, another talisman to ground him here.

His hands find the hem of Robby's shirt, seek out the skin he remembers, the soft edges of Robby's body, his vulnerable places. Palm pressing against Robby's bare back under his shirt, thumb sweeping over skin.

Robby tenses, but doesn't pull away.

"Whitaker," he says, but it sounds like confirmation instead of warning.

"I know," Dennis says into his chest, hearing the warning anyway.

Robby's big hand on his back, trailing up to his neck. Thick fingers tracing the line where his stethoscope lays sometimes, the spot Robby has touched less and less, the farther away he's gotten.

God, Dennis should have seen that sooner. The pulling away. The isolation.

His own fingers press into Robby's skin. Slide around to his side, still stroking. He takes another breath, and it shivers a little—grief or nerves or the lingering aftermath of booze, Dennis doesn't know.

Robby's thumb on his neck brushes slow against Dennis's hair, hardly touching. Dennis is braced for him to step back, to distance himself again. And for a long second he can feel all of that intent in the barely-there pressure of Robby's hand on his head.

Then Robby's weight shifts. His fingers, brushing Dennis's collar, slip under it. Glide down along the ridge of his spine, exploratory.

"Shit," Robby says, and his voice cracks a little.

Dennis dares to look up at him.

All of his slippery meanness has dropped away, and Robby looks wrecked and bewildered. Adrift. His eyes find Dennis's.

"Fuck," he says. And then he bends down and kisses him.

Dennis has imagined this. Has thought about it late at night and in busy trauma rooms and in crowded hallways.

The reality is better. Rougher. Robby's beard against his chin and cheek, Robby's tongue in his mouth. He tastes like the toothpaste Dennis borrowed. Smells like the beard oil Dennis rubbed into his own skin.

Dennis has never been kissed like this, raw and desperate and fraught with everything they both know and aren't saying.

That this is a bad idea.

That this seems unimportant right now.

That Robby almost did it.

That he came back.

That he chose to come back.

That's all it is, in the end. Every moment a choice. All of them adding up to a life.

Right now, Dennis chooses this. Kisses Robby back with everything he has, lets his hands wander under Robby's shirt.

The feel of the hair across Robby's belly makes him moan into Robby's mouth, and Robby does pull away, just for a moment, panting heavily.

"God," he says. "Whitaker—"

"I know," Dennis says again. "Shut up."

Robby's hand on Dennis's hip, Robby stepping backward. Gathering Dennis into his lap on the sofa.

Dennis folds immediately. Puts his hands on either side of Robby's face to hold him there and kiss him and kiss him. Reaches down to pull Robby's shirt up and over his head, kiss him again when Robby looks at him, surprised at the eagerness, maybe.

"Shut up," Dennis tells that look. "Please, Robby."

And Robby does. Gets Dennis's shirt off, and God, his hands. The span of them over Dennis's ribs, the strength of them kneading Dennis's chest, one thumb digging into a pectoral muscle, making Dennis gasp against his mouth.

"Yeah?" Robby says, and then both his hands are under Dennis's thighs, are reaching to grab at his ass, to pull him closer.

Robby's mouth kissing a line down his throat, along his collarbone. Biting at a nipple, sucking there.

He's not gentle. They're too frantic for gentle, and Dennis doesn't want it anyway. He wants purple and red spilled on the canvas of his skin, wants to feel it and see it, that Robby was here.

That he's still fucking here.

Dennis's teeth scrape along Robby's jaw, his tongue against the pulse just below. Robby's heartbeat in his mouth, under his hands.

He digs his nails into Robby's shoulders, his hips moving, trying to find friction, rutting against Robby's stomach, against his thigh.

Robby makes a sound, almost agonized. Swears again, gets a hand down Dennis's sweats, and oh—oh.

A brief pause, both of them breathing hard. Dennis realizing, belatedly, they've blown past any pretense that might've absolved them later. Robby knowing it too, his forehead pressed against Dennis's, shaking his head a little.

Dennis takes Robby's face in his hands again. Tilts it upward, but Robby closes his eyes to avoid meeting his gaze. Dennis kisses the closed lids, kisses the corner of his eye where it's damp with everything Robby's still holding back.

He says, "Please. Please don't stop."

Robby laughs without smiling. Dennis can feel it ghost across his cheek. His hand squeezes, and Dennis gasps again, bites at his lip to stop the sound.

One of Robby's eyes cracks open. Then the other. He does it again: tightens his grip. Releases. Gives a slow stroke, awkward in the close space between their bodies.

Dennis's inhale shudders.

"I thought about it," Robby says, hardly more than a whisper. "How you'd sound."

And oh, fuck.

Another laugh against his lips, because Robby can feel exactly the effect this has on Dennis, feel the wet welling under his fingers. He swipes a thumb through it, kisses Dennis when he groans.

Oh, God. Dennis wants to drown in him. Wants to break him apart and swallow every piece of him.

He bucks up into the pressure of Robby's hand, and Robby, all his cruel clawing for control again, pulls away. Puts his hand up around Dennis's jaw instead.

So Dennis turns his head, finds Robby's hand, still smeared with traces of himself. Curls his tongue against the pad of Robby's thumb, puts his whole mouth around it. Sucks.

Robby makes a low, gut-punched sound. Dennis can feel him hard against his thigh now.

When he opens his mouth, Robby's thumb slides down to his chin, damp. Robby's eyes fix on it.

Dennis says, "Want to know what I thought about?"

Robby feeds him two fingers this time, runs them over his teeth and lays them on his tongue.

"Show me," he says.

§

It's afternoon on the third day of Robby's sabbatical, and Dennis is in Robby's bed.

Robby is under him. Inside him. Making soft, broken noises every time Dennis moves, his fingers digging bruises into Dennis's thighs, his buttocks, his back.

Dennis tells him what he wants him to know: that he needs him. That he's good. That he's wanted. Pours the words into Robby's ears, pours everything else into fucking him until he's tearful and begging, until he can't look anywhere but up, up, up at Dennis.

Robby makes him come once with his hands. Once with his mouth. The last one Dennis drags from himself arduously, riding Robby slow and punishing, ignoring anything Robby asks for until he's spent himself again. Hardly anything left, by now, but worth the work for the way Robby groans when Dennis clenches around him. The already aching tenderness where his thumbs press into Dennis's skin, the places Dennis will feel tomorrow and remember.

Only then does he let Robby roll them over. Lie nearly boneless as Robby puts him on his belly and sets his own pace. Bite down onto a pillow and let Robby do what he wants, as hard as he wants, for as long as he wants.

He remembers lying in this same spot two days ago, waiting for the stab of longing in his stomach to ease.

Stupid, really.

Now he has it, the thing he longed for, and he knows: it will never be enough. Having creates more want. He wants everything, all of Robby. There is no easing.

Robby comes with his hand in Dennis's hair, pulling him back to bite at his neck, too open mouthed and desperate to be called a kiss.

After, Dennis curls against him, and Robby lets him. Drapes his arm around him again. Doesn't pull away when Dennis laces their fingers together over his heart.

Mouths aimlessly at Dennis's shoulders for awhile, his breath ruffling the curls at the base of Dennis's neck.

Says, eventually, "How long will you stay?"

Dennis lets go of his hand. Rolls over to face him, to study him.

Robby's eyes are soft. The lines at the corners deep, his mouth relaxed. Not a test, this time. Just a question.

So Dennis answers honestly. The way he always does, when it's Robby asking.

"I'll stay as long as you will," he says, and puts one hand up to brush the back of his fingers over Robby's chin, down his throat.

A laugh or a sigh. Soft air, warm on Dennis's skin.

"Okay," Robby says. Closes his eyes, bends his neck to press his forehead to Dennis's. "Okay."

§

FIN