Chapter Text
It’s not as if Dennis Whitaker was under the impression that med school would be inexpensive. Nor was he under the impression that he would have any help. He had to sit through hours of lectures from his mother, his father, his brothers, about what a burden it would be just to have him away for undergrad, how he was throwing away the life they had toiled to provide him. When he moved five states away to go to med school, the plane ticket alone cost him three hundred dollars. For someone with a couple thousand to his name, it felt like being stabbed. It was worth it.
So is med school. It’s worth it, he tells himself, to be an impoverished student for a while instead of a hanged priest. Foolishly, he thought that maybe if he just budgeted right, his meager bank account might last him at least through the first semester. By October he was homeless, sleeping nights at shelters with his whole body tucked around his expensive textbooks. By November he was only eating every couple days.
It wasn’t until he almost slept through a final exam that he decided next semester had to be different. He spent the four-week break picking up as many jobs as he could physically force himself to do, sometimes working twenty-four hours days, multiple days in a row, because it meant more money in his pocket and a night he didn’t have to spend in a crowded, dingy, loud shelter.
He saved up enough by the start of the spring semester that he wasn’t imminently in danger of being put out on the streets, but the shelters just weren’t tenable any longer, not with his fragile mental state and perpetual hunger and neuroscience and microbiology courses taking up every inch of space in his head. If he just had enough for rent, or even a shitty car, he’s sure he could manage everything else. He could go without food, without new clothing, without any luxuries, so long as he had a full night’s sleep, a library to study in, and his textbooks.
He tries to hold down odd jobs, but nothing makes him enough money to justify his lack of sleep. He might as well doze off in corners of the library for the meager paychecks he’s raking in every two weeks.
That’s when he gets an idea. On a desperate, frigid January night, tucked deep into the basement of his university’s library, debating between another energy drink or a power nap slumped against a bookshelf, since it’s far too cold to walk all the way to the shelter he’s been frequenting, when desperation drives him to a sudden, thrilling realization.
His tired fingers type it out of their own accord, riddled with typos from how hazy his vision is. He scrolls through a few reddit pages before finding a site that people seem to concur is legitimate. It only takes a few minutes to make an account and link his card. The website is black and red and sexy, with two sections: one for sugar babies shopping for daddies, and one for sugar daddies shopping for babies.
He hesitates, though, when he has to fill out his profile. Dennis, 22, Pittsburgh area. He taps his fingertips lightly against the keys as he thinks. Bisexual, vers, inexperienced. He attaches a few photos of himself. None particularly sexy. It’s not like he has any place to take nice pictures, or anything pretty to wear, or that he would even really like to do so. He doesn’t hate his body or anything, but he’s pretty utilitarian about it, and he’s lost a lot of the farmboy muscle and tan he built throughout his teenage years. From seminary, from the omnipresent gnaw of hunger.
He ends up with a fairly cohesive profile. A couple pictures, most of them taken summers home, but a couple from school. You can’t really see his face in most of them. One is of him on his knees praying, and he hopes that substitutes for anything sexual. He tries to play into the naïvite of his constructed Christian, good boy persona. He sets his rates through the website and then closes the tab. If he gets any messages, fine. If he doesn’t… he’ll figure something out soon.
It takes a couple days for his identity to be authenticated, and then he receives a flurry of messages. Mostly bots or perverted old men who want to undercut the very reasonable rates he set. The first real inquiry he gets comes almost two weeks later, while he’s in the middle of a physiology reading. The man is respectful and polite, and offers even more money than Dennis is asking. He gently advises that he isn’t asking for enough money. Dennis thanks him, but he won’t be changing it any time soon. Not until sugar daddies are banging down his door. Not until he has a door to bang down.
The date they go on is nice. They end up at some steakhouse. Dennis had to buy a nice outfit for the occasion, and he thinks maybe the man realizes that, because he adds another hundred dollars by the end of the night. They drink wine together and Dennis tries to savor his steak instead of scarfing it down like he hasn’t eaten in two days, which he hasn’t. He lets himself be felt up in the passenger seat of the man’s expensive car and has him drop him off by some random apartment building that he pretends is his.
They go on two more dates before the man lets him know he’s found a more long-term arrangement. Dennis makes almost fifteen hundred dollars from those three dates, combined. He still doesn’t raise his rates. For the next couple months, he subsists like that. Usually one-off dates with older men, one with a woman. Most of them want more than a little groping, but Dennis can put up with it. Some of them are vulgar with him. It isn’t anything new.
He only ends up in scary situations once or twice, when men threaten to withhold payment if he doesn’t let them go as far as they’d like, or when he’s being pinned down to luxurious mattresses by his throat and realizes if he died right now, literally no one would think to look for him. He goes back to that man’s house twice more, the one who kept him on the verge of oxygen deprivation all night, because he offers double the price if he can invite friends over. Double the price, per person. Dennis leaves with a thousand dollars from a single evening. There’s very little he wouldn’t do for that much money. He has to sit on his balled-up hoodie for four days to get through lectures. It’s worth it. For the first time since leaving home, he has somewhere to sleep. It’s his car, hardly a place to call his own, but he can lock it and block out the windows and he doesn’t need to listen to snoring or crying or shouting while he’s trying to get some rest.
☾
By the end of the semester, though, he’s beyond exhausted. Exhaustion isn’t nearly enough to encompass how awful he’s feeling. He’s in constant pain, between the marks left on his body by increasingly violent patrons, and the ache of sleeping half-sitting-up in the back seat of his car, and the constant hunger that just won’t recede, no matter how much rice and ramen he tries to fill it with. His head hurts from how long he spends reading and writing and cutting open fucking cadavers in lab. He can barely move sometimes. He falls asleep in class, and standing up, and studying, and while trying to service the men who rent him for the night.
He makes a deal with himself, once he sees that he’s passed his finals. If he doesn’t make enough money to rent a real room and eat at least once a day by the end of the summer, he’ll go home. Lick his wounds, give up on his pipe dream. Do what his parents did, or be a priest after all. Something. Anything to have a roof over his head and food in his stomach.
He finds a job at a diner that works well with his hours at the supermarket, neither of which clash with the time he spends working the overnight shifts at a twenty-four-seven drive through taco place. He uses his free meal at the diner for breakfast, his free meal at the taco place for dinner, and his employee discount when he needs something like toilet paper or toothpaste. He’s in the middle of his ten-minute break, shoveling syrup-logged chocolate chip pancakes into his mouth and chugging down a glass of orange juice when he notices a notification.
Michael - 54 wants to connect!
He clicks on it idly, licking traces of maple from his lips. The man in the profile photo looks like they all do, if a bit more attractive. Salt and pepper stubbly beard. Handsome features. Dennis likes that he’s smiling in the photo, most men don’t, and it makes his eyes crinkle pleasantly. His profile is even more intriguing.
Michael, doctor, 54, single, vers/switch, bisexual, looking for a companion. All ages welcome.
The attached photos are sweet, too. Dennis quickly realizes that it’s a new profile, set up like maybe a friend forced him to, or suggested it to him, or he made it in a fit of loneliness. He’s dressed casually, but very neatly, in unassuming clothes from nice brands in most of them, and all but one are cropped from group photos with other men’s arms slung around him. The sole solo shot is of him in his white coat. There’s something sexy about that. Dennis has always found intelligence attractive, and it might be nice to spend some time with another person in the medical field, instead of these business, finance types who seem to favor young, vulnerable twinks like Dennis. Dennis accepts the request to match, and shoots off a quick message before getting back to his breakfast.
Den_whit22: hey :) what kind of medicine do you practice, if you don’t mind me asking? i’m a med student. just finished my first year actually
MRRob71: Emergency Medicine. You have any idea what you’re interested in?
Den_whit22: not yet tbh. i’m still kind of. waiting to see if med school is actually gonna work out for me lol
MRRob71: Are you not sure about medicine? Or is it the money?
Den_whit22: you could probably guess it’s the money given that i’m on a website for sugar babies lol
MRRob71: Touche. I worked two jobs all through school and still ended up saddled with debt.
Den_whit22: yeah lol i’m actually at work rn haha. job one of three
MRRob71: When are you off?
Den_whit22: depends how much you’re offering
MRRob71: Friday evening, 1.5x your going rate to start, plus dinner, etc.
Den_whit22: i’ll see you then ;)
Over the course of the week, he chats a couple more times with Michael, about what to wear, about how Michael is looking forward to it, about where Michael will pick him up. Dennis can’t help but feel some measure of excitement for the date. Maybe it’s because Michael is a doctor, or maybe because he’s a switch. Or maybe Dennis has finally lost it.
Whatever it is, he’s almost excited when he clocks out of his shift at the grocery store and returns to his car to change. He wears the slacks and button-up shirt he wears almost every time, and combs his hair neatly. He showered this morning at the YMCA, so he looks a bit more presentable than usual.
He parks his car a few blocks away and loiters by the steps of the apartment he claimed was his until Michael pulls up. His car isn’t exorbitant or showy, but it’s nice, and well taken care of. Michael gets out to open the passenger door, and Dennis slips inside with a quiet thank you.
They make small talk on the drive, except it feels almost like Michael actually cares about Dennis’s answers. He asks about school, and what courses he’s taken so far, and what he likes most. He smiles a lot. Dennis is surprised at how endearing he finds it. He wouldn’t necessarily say his type is older men, it’s just the demographic that pays best, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find Michael really fucking attractive.
Everything about him is so… normal. Presentable, nice, effortful, but not at all for show. His hair is nice, obviously trimmed regularly, obviously done with maybe gel in the morning, and a comb, but not flashy, not moussed, not toupeed. His clothes, again, are nice, but they aren’t performative. Clearly, these are navy-blue dress pants he likes, and this is a white button-up he finds comfortable, and they are ironed nicely, but he makes no effort to flash labels or logos or shiny cufflinks at Dennis. He offers his hand to help Dennis out of the car when they park for the valet, but doesn’t treat him like he’s glass, or like he’s incapable on his own.
The restaurant he picked is an Italian one, just elevated enough that Dennis is glad he dressed nicely, but not so elevated that he’s put off by the number of forks at their place settings. Again, Michael pulls out his chair for him, and tucks it delicately as he sits. He does it simply, like it’s a common courtesy. Their table, a small, round table with just two chairs at it, is rather secluded, in the very corner of the stained-wood-and-crystalline room. There are mirrored surfaces everywhere, and Dennis tries to ignore his reflection.
“Is it banal if I ask you why you’re pursuing medicine?” Michael asks, as his eyes scan quickly over the wine selection. Either he doesn’t care about wine, or he already has a favorite he knows he’ll order. There’s a bit of amusement in his eyes.
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean I won’t answer,” Dennis shrugs, returning the slight smile. “I’ll answer if you will.”
“Deal.”
“Because I’ve wanted to save things since I was a kid, and I stopped believing that saving souls really meant anything. I wondered why evangelizing and converting never felt anywhere near as real as holding an underdeveloped newborn lamb in my hands and keeping it alive until it was old enough to run around and fend for itself. And that was just a lamb. Imagine what really saving something could feel like.”
There’s something akin to— Dennis hopes— admiration in Michael’s eyes. Probably because Dennis didn’t give some idealistic, brain-dead answer of to help people or to make a shitload of money. “When did you have that realization?”
“Too late, probably. I… I always knew I was drawn to medicine, and I… I think I hoped that the priesthood would… would be a good enough alternative. Better, even. No… temptations, no disapproval, no shame. I think… when I realized what exactly I was hoping to replace, what I was hoping to find in religion that I knew I could find in medicine… I knew then that it was futile.”
“Do you come from a religious family?”
“Religious enough. Enough that I experimented with boys in high school, but never brought one home. Enough that my parents knew I probably didn’t pray every night before bed, but never let me skip Church.”
“Catholic?”
Dennis takes a sip of sparkling water and looks at Michael pointedly over the rim. “What, was it my glowing personality that tipped you off? Or the obvious lack of guilt in my eyes?”
Michael honest-to-god laughs at that, and he tucks his thumb below the collar of his shirt to lift out a golden Magen David hanging from a thin chain. “Maybe it’s because I’m Jewish, but I’ve got a radar for those sorts of things. It’s a familiar guilt.”
Dennis does the same with a silver crucifix, smiling pursed-lip. “Well, now you have to tell me why you got into medicine.”
Michael runs his tongue over his teeth. He looks almost like he’s about to say something when the waiter comes over and asks if they’re ready to order. Michael quickly asks Dennis about his preferences— Do you have any restrictions? Do you eat meat? Dairy?— before ordering some starters and his own meal. When Dennis hesitates, wide eyes on the menu, Michael kindly suggests one of his favorite dishes, and Dennis nods his agreement. He’s almost surprised that Michael doesn’t order outright for him. A lot of the other men seem to like that.
Dennis looks to him expectantly when the waiter leaves, and Michael thinks for a moment longer before thoughtfully answering. “Because I was drawn to it. And I have the talents for it. And… it would have been wasteful to do anything else.”
Dennis nods, absorbing the answer for a moment. “If you had chosen something else… what would it have been?”
“I don’t know the last time I let myself consider that,” he chuckles softly. “I’ve been practicing for… shit, much longer than you’ve been alive. Any… hesitancy, any thought that I might have done something else, is decades bygone at this point.”
Dennis just stares at him, face placid. He waits for an uncomfortable beat.
“Firefighter, maybe,” Michael eventually responds, almost shyly, and it pleases Dennis.
They move on to lighter topics, though neither seems to have much in their lives but work and schooling, so their conversations remain largely medical in nature. Dennis is particularly tickled by Michael’s recollections of what he learned in med school, and how much procedures have changed. Frankly, and Dennis doesn’t say this, at the risk of seeming unduly flattering, but Michael looks damn good for fifty-four, despite his insistence that he’s so old and decrepit and ancient, that half of the shit he learned has been proven untrue, that he became a doctor before penicillin and inoculations. Given the stress of his work, it’s a fucking wonder that he’s as drop-dead sexy as he is.
They share sourdough and dipping oil with balsamic and herbs floating in the mirrorlike surface, and tomato bruschetta, and tiny meatballs that Michael fork-feeds him from across the table. For the first time, Dennis almost forgets to be self-conscious of the people around them. For the first time, this feels more like a date than a paid thing. He immediately quashes whatever fondness that realization springs up.
Then their mains arrive. Michael suggested for him a pasta dish, with a heavy meat sauce and thick noodles, while he got some pasta dish with chicken and tiny, red tomatoes. It’s like he knows Dennis has been subsisting off of the free food his jobs offer him. Gratefully, Dennis devours the whole meal. He tries to do it delicately, but Michael also eats like a man used to going long stretches without eating. Dennis wonders if he had work before this, or if he has work after this.
After that, Michael orders a slice of tiramisu for them to share, and two espressos. The jolt of sugar and caffeine is welcome. He’s warmed from the inside out by the time they leave. He catches sight of the bill as Michael signs for it. Somehow, he feels guilty knowing half of that was his dinner, even though the fucking point of this is to take the other man’s money.
They’re waiting by the marble facade for the valet to bring Michael’s car around when Dennis speaks again. He tries not to stand all hunched over with his hands in his pockets. Michael is a solid few inches taller than him, and he doesn’t want to seem too pathetic. “Do you have work tomorrow?” he asks casually.
Michael looks at him obliquely before turning his attention back to the direction from which he’s expecting his car. “I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” he shrugs. “I don’t work until six tomorrow, and you paid for the night…” He keeps his voice low, in case this is a place where Michael is at all concerned about running into someone who expects propriety from him.
The car comes, and Michael opens the passenger door for Dennis, and they’re down the street before he answers. “Is that something you would like?”
Dennis’s skin prickles with sudden anxiety. “I would like whatever pleases you, Sir.” He can slip into that character, the demure, sultry submissive character he’s constructed in his head for months, at any moment, whenever advantageous. He doesn’t play it up too much right now, since Michael doesn’t seem like the typical Daddy-Sir-Master type, but he lowers his tone just enough to be suggestive.
When Michael doesn’t drive him back to the apartment building he’s pretending is his, he assumes the decision has been made. His apartment fits with the profile Dennis has constructed of the man in his mind. Modest, clean without being too obsessive, prioritizing comfort and utility above all else, but not without an appreciation for aesthetics. Michael kicks his shoes off at the door, so Dennis does the same. He pads at Michael’s side, trying not to look like he’s cataloging everything in the apartment.
“Sit. Wherever looks comfortable,” Michael encourages, and Dennis does. He perches on a soft navy-blue couch, eyes skittering around the living room. Television mounted on the wall. Coffee table covered in books and binders and empty, ringed mugs. Everything in deep browns and blues and the occasional green. Clean, but not necessarily tidy. The apartment smells of laundry detergent and pine, so strong that Dennis is sure he must have a pine candle or air freshener somewhere. He probably needs something to smell other than antiseptic and alcohol after a long day. “Do you want anything to drink? Coffee, soda, water, whiskey, anything.”
“Coffee sounds nice,” Dennis smiles a little. Soon, the air also smells like coffee. Michael fiddles with a record player on one of the side tables while it percolates. The music adds a pleasant ambiance. Everything about the apartment is quite pleasant.
Michael dips into the kitchen. “Do you want cream or sugar or anything in your coffee?”
Dennis stands quietly, moves to the threshold between the two rooms. “Um, anything is fine. Cream would be nice if you have it.”
Michael peeks over his shoulder, slightly surprised to see Dennis standing there. He goes to pick up the handle of the coffee pot before pausing. “Do you want to…” he trails off, and Dennis cocks his head, confused. Michael blinks. “Would you like to see me pour the coffees?”
“I…” Suddenly, Dennis understands. “Oh, I didn’t… I don’t want to insinuate, no, that’s not…” He swallows hard, suddenly flustered. “I apologize.”
“Don’t. I wouldn’t be offended if that was what you meant. I’m a strange man, and you’re in my home.” Michael pours out two mugs of coffee, and then drips a splash of cream into both. He extends both to Dennis, a goodwill gesture, and allows him to choose. Dennis takes one, and sits back down on the couch. Michael takes a comfortable-looking green corduroy recliner, closer to the window and the record player.
They sip their coffees and listen to the music for what feels like ten minutes. Occasionally, Dennis looks over at Michael. He’s a bit odd. None of the men, even the kindest men who have rented him, even the one women, have all taken something from him by this time of night. He hasn’t stepped foot into anyone’s home or apartment untouched. This is probably part of some game, though. Michael said he wanted a companion, maybe this is what he meant. Someone to playact domesticity with, to pretend like the sex is something genuine.
“You look like you have a question,” Michael breaks the silence, mug still lifted to his lips.
The coffee is really good. Maybe Dennis is just too used to burnt diner coffee or the instant stuff he sometimes buys from the supermarket, but it’s really fucking good. It almost tastes like chocolate. “Do I?”
“You have expressive eyes.”
Dennis looks down at the coffee in his hands. It’s lighter than he usually drinks. Not a black mirror. Soft and sweetened and a bit rich going down his throat. His throat has been sore. Maybe he’s sick with something, or maybe his body is just rejecting the dicks he’s been seeing recently. “It’s not really a question. I’m just… curious.”
“About?”
“You,” he shrugs, wary of overstepping. “You aren’t…” He tries to rephrase to seem less… assuming. “There’s a type of men who want to see me. They’re predictable, and they want the same things, and you… don’t fit that profile.”
His brows raise, and his forehead wrinkles. Thankfully, he seems more curious than offended. “Oh? How so?”
“You don’t seem interested in bossing me around. It gets most of them off. Y’know… ordering for me, telling me where to go, where to stand, what to do. And even… even if that’s something you want to do, you’re showing… commendable patience right now.”
“I can boss people around at work. I have dozens of people trained to listen to me, to do everything I say. If they don’t, people die. At the very least, they know they’ll be penalized. Those men, who get off on shoving you around, they do it because they don’t feel in control. That’s not what I’m looking for. I’m not looking for control.”
Dennis ended the night completely untouched. He tried to feel grateful for it. Ironically, he thought maybe Michael was the only man he’d met who he’d wanted to touch him. There was no indication that they might see each other again, but the amount of money deposited through the website into Dennis’s bank account later that night was closer to twice his rate than his rate and a half. He sleeps through the night in his car and starts work at six.
☾
Saturday and Sunday are busy, as they always are, with families coming in after Sunday Church and groups of women for Saturday brunch, with frat boys driving through the taco place at two am asking for bagfuls and bagfuls of food, with housewives doing their weekly shopping. He makes a good wad of money in tips, though. He stares at the balance of his account. Even when he mentally subtracts his car payment, and gas, and a couple dollars for some sorely-needed toiletries and odd expenses, there’s enough padding that he doesn’t feel sick at the number.
He doesn’t hear from Michael for the rest of the week. He goes on two dates, though, one that’s dangerously close to a paid hookup— he really would prefer to have dinner before, to spend some real time with his clients, to make him feel a little less like a prostitute and a little more like this is a legitimate, legal form of employment— and another on Saturday to a very expensive restaurant with very mediocre food and a very underwhelming dick at the end of the night.
It’s Tuesday of the following week when he gets another message from Michael. He pinches himself at the warm thrum of blush in his cheeks. He might be dumb, but he isn’t an idiot. There’s no reason to be flattered that some old man wants to pay to hang out with him.
MRRob71: Are you free this Saturday?
Den_whit22: i can be :p
MRRob71: Same rate as last time?
Den_whit22: it’s a date :)
He feels like a fucking idiot for saying that, but Michael doesn’t seem to be put off by his response. Later that week, Michael asks him what kind of cuisine he likes, and Dennis replies with a very bland whatever you like, until Michael restates that he expects a real answer by the end of the day and Dennis finally decides, somewhat arbitrarily, on Japanese. It seems easy enough to digest, if Michael expects anything sexual of him this time.
He goes out to buy a new shirt. It’s disquieting that he cares enough to do that. He has the money, he figures, it’s more an investment into his own business than anything. It isn’t vain. He despises vanity, he’s been taught to his whole life. It’s white, with thin grey pinstripes. He wears the same pants, and the same shoes, which he polishes as best as he can with bunched-up paper towels and wax.
He has Michael pick him up at the same apartment, of course. Once again, he holds the door open for Dennis, and makes small talk as they drive. Polite questions, volleyed, about their respective weeks, their work, comments on how unseasonably mild the summer has been so far. The Japanese place Michael chose is, much like the Italian place, ever so slightly elevated, with sleek, clean design and intentionally-placed foliage and dim lighting.
“What do you suggest?” Dennis asks once they’re seated, to avoid the same awkward shuffle of having to figure out what to order with the waiter right there.
“What do you usually get?”
“I’ve only spent a year outside of Nebraska,” Dennis answers soberly. “Do you know how many Japanese restaurants there are in Broken Bow?”
Michael chuckles, amused, and turns his menu to Dennis. He suggests a few rolls of sushi to start, for them both to share, and then a noodle dish for Dennis’s main. None of that sounds offensive, so Dennis agrees and they order and silence lapses over them once more. “Nebraska?” Michael eventually asks.
“Mhm. Spent my whole life there. It’s… a beautiful place, really. Not a tourist destination, but… there’s a lot of beauty there.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“Mhm. Everyone in my family is still there, they all still live on the farm I grew up on, actually. I kind of want to visit, but… tickets are expensive. And I want… I want my feet under me first, before I go back. They weren’t… overjoyed when I told them I had been accepted to school here.”
“Why? Because you were leaving, or because you were going to med school?”
“Both. Probably more that I was leaving, honestly. It’s not… I mean, my family’s religious, but they— we believe in medicine. I got all my vaccinations as a kid, and my grandma had three rounds of chemo, and my Pa takes medicine for his heart. And my Ma… it’s not that.”
“You mentioned… studying to be a priest, is that what you thought you’d end up doing?”
“Mhm. For most of my life. See, my brothers were always… bigger than me. We all knew one or both of ‘em would take on operations at the farm. And they…” He tries not to sound like an arrogant prick. “I’m the book-smartest out of the three of us. And the most… the least… manly, I suppose. And my parents wanted at least one of us to… do something respectable. Nothing more respectable than becoming a priest. Especially…” He bites down on the inside of his lip.
“Especially?” Michael prompts gently.
“They know I’m… I’m into women, too, I could… it’s not… they just don’t seem to get the whole…” He tries to make sense of the words skittering around in his mind. “I know, if I needed to, I could feel perfectly content with a woman. I tried to tell them that, when they found out, but they didn’t seem to buy it, or maybe they think… I’m weak-willed, that I’ll give in to temptation eventually. They’d prefer I just… spent the rest of my life alone, I think. Married to the Church.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They love me. They think… I know why they think what they think. It isn’t out of hate.” He absently fingers the crucifix around the neck, the tiny bumps of the sculpted body. He isn’t even sure really why he wears it. But he does, and he doesn’t want to take it off. He reaches for it often enough that he knows he’d miss it, even just out of shallow habit. “Not to, um… justify it,” he adds, self-consciously, afraid that Michael might take what he said the wrong way, that it might seem like some justification for persecution and hate, hate he’s sure Michael’s been on the receiving end of before.
“That’s a very level-headed way of looking at it,” Michael commends. “If a bit sentimental.”
“I’ve always been both,” Dennis quips. He takes a sip of the drink Michael ordered, something with a Japanese name that he should have paid more attention to. It’s a little sweet, and a little bitter, and overwhelmingly strong, clear like vodka.
He is honestly surprised at how much he enjoys the sushi. It isn’t like they eat much fish in the most landlocked state in the country, so his scope is pretty limited. They’re almost sweet, the thin, raw cuts of pink fish. Fatty, smooth, generally pleasant, especially with sauce and vinegar-y rice and avocado. Michael watches his expression each time he tries a new piece. It’s almost charming.
They eat, and talk, and end up sitting with empty plates in front of them for almost an hour as they chat. Dennis is a little looser than he’d like to be, a tiny bit too tipsy, but he figures if he’s aware of it, he can’t be that drunk. Stupidly, he trusts Michael. The same goes for that trust. If he’s aware of how stupid it is, it can’t be that bad.
“I’m starting to think you don’t like me all that much,” Dennis teases, slightly overconfident with drink, as Michael drives them back to his apartment. At least, he assumes that’s where they’re going. The streets start to look vaguely familiar from last time.
“Why’s that?” Michael responds, lightly humored. Dennis likes that it’s so easy to tell when he’s smiling.
“You haven’t kissed me. By now, most of my clients have been inside of me. Multiple times.”
“I thought we agreed I wasn’t like them.”
“If you’re scared of taking advantage of me or something, or if you think it’ll make me like you more, don’t.”
“Maybe it isn’t what I want,” Michael responds mildly, sliding his eyes over to Dennis for a moment. His deep gaze is startlingly intense. “And maybe that isn’t a reflection of you, or what I think of you.”
“Maybe,” Dennis whispers, turning his face to the window, feeling duly chastised. They go back to Michael’s apartment and drink coffee until Dennis is sober. They listen to music, and Michael gives him a sweatshirt to wear over his formal shirt, worn and dark bluish and so soft. It smells of pine, like everything in the apartment does, to a degree, and soap and hand sanitizer. Michael drops Dennis off at the place he pretends is his apartment. He doesn’t let himself wish that Michael would kiss him goodbye. That would be pathetic.
☾
By the time he wakes up on Monday, there’s already a message from Michael.
MRRob71: Are you free this week?
Den_whit22: i’m always free for you
Den_whit22: well not that kind of free lmfao. costly but available
MRRob71: Thursday night?
Den_whit22: it’s on my calendar
Michael tells him to dress casually this time, which is a fucking relief, because he doesn’t feel like buying something new, and while he’s never thought any of his other clients might realize that he rewears more or less the same outfit every time, nor has he ever cared if they did, something is different about Michael. Still, he dresses presentably, in jeans that aren’t too faded or ripped or worn, and a black t-shirt, and his sneakers that don’t have holes. This time, Michael sends his address, and asks if Dennis can get there himself or if he needs a ride. Dennis considers telling him he needs a ride, just to get that extra time together, but he decides to drive himself instead.
He parks in the garage down the street and walks through the muggy evening to Michael’s apartment. He buzzes in to the lobby, and Michael greets him by the elevators. When they walk into the apartment, it smells less like pine than usual, and more like… roasting meat, maybe? Something that makes Dennis’s empty stomach gurgle in anticipation.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Michael offers as Dennis stoops down to untie his sneakers. “Seltzer, soda, wine…”
“Soda’s fine,” Dennis smiles pleasantly, accepting a frigid can of cola. Michael’s apartment is air-conditioned, but it’s still a bit warm from the oven. Michael gestures for him to sit at the breakfast bar. He pulls out a stool and sits, watching over as Michael moves through the kitchen, lifting the lid off of a steaming pot, cracking open the oven and peering inside.
“I felt like something homemade. I hope you don’t mind. I’m a fair cook. I just get so tired of takeout during the week.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.”
Michael glances over his shoulder, something almost sad in his eyes. Then it’s gone, and he grabs a beer from the fridge. They chat about work, mostly Michael’s, as they wait for whatever’s in the oven to finish cooking. Dennis sits at the island, arms braced on the countertop, legs swinging off the stool, while Michael recounts his week. He likes when Michael uses technical jargon, even if he doesn’t understand all of it. When he can understand, it’s thrilling. Makes him feel like the idea of being a doctor might not be so impossible after all.
Sometimes Michael laughs when recalling something upsetting. He touches his face a lot when he’s stressed. Yesterday sounded like hell. A jumper, who was saved by a good Samaritan and wanted to kill everybody and herself when she realized she failed. A father, his small, too small daughter in tow. She was the one who called 9-1-1, and nobody noticed her slip back into the room before he coded. They lost him, and she saw. A college girl and her roommate, stabbed to death by her boyfriend. Neither had a chance. She was DOA, the roommate lasted a good twenty minutes. He barely drinks his beer, just fiddles with the bottle.
“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to scare you out of med school,” Michael chuckles, a bit shallowly. “I wouldn’t change a thing about where I ended up. Couldn’t’ve ever done something else and been fulfilled. You just deserve to… to know.”
“And you deserve to have someone to talk to.”
Dinner is delicious, the kind of hearty cooking Dennis hasn’t had in too long. Braised beef, white rice, roasted vegetables. He has two full servings before they end up on the couch together. Far enough apart that they aren’t touching, but close enough that either one could reach out to the other. As always, there’s music playing, and mugs of coffee on the table.
“What’s your plan when the semester starts?” Michael asks offhandedly. “Gonna keep… working?”
“Um… I’m trying to save up as much as I can now. I tried working my first semester, and I… my studies suffered for it. Last semester I did, um… this. And that was… I could manage school at the same time. I figure that’s what I’ll do, as long as it keeps working for me.”
“You have your courseload yet?”
“Pathophysiology, pathology, pharmacology, clinical skills, and…” He looks down as he tries to recall. “Oh, immunology.”
“Do you have your textbooks yet?”
Dennis laughs wearily. “Not yet. That’s my next big purchase.”
“I’ll cover it.”
For a second, the words don’t register. “No, no—”
“I’m investing in the next generation of doctors. You’re the ones who’ll be taking care of me when I’m geriatric, the least I could do is make sure you get a good education.”
“That’s too much—”
“Too late. I expect a receipt the moment you buy them, and I’ll get you back.”
Dennis shouldn’t feel guilty about that. He probably wouldn’t if it was anyone else. “Michael, I—”
“Call me Robby. Michael… it’s my name, it’s the name I used on the stupid website, but I can’t remember the last time someone called me that when I wasn’t in trouble.”
Dennis can’t help but crack a smile. “Fine, Robby, I can’t accept that—”
“It’s what? Five hundred? A thousand? Fifteen? Let’s not act like you’re a cheap date, you know I have the money.”
“That’s…”
“You aren’t used to people being kind to you.”
Dennis clears his throat uncomfortably. He reaches for his coffee just to have something to occupy his hands with. “Not when I don’t earn it first.”
“I think you’ve earned some kindness.” Their eyes interlock, and Dennis can feel his lips parting to say something, but he’s quiet, he’s still quiet. They both let out shallow breaths. Michael— Robby lifts a hand. Dennis can’t help but flinch away, and he feels fucking stupid for it. Robby pauses, before placing his hand down on Dennis’s shoulder, gliding to where the skin of his neck is exposed, shifting up his throat until it cups the side of his face.
Dennis tilts his head, savoring the warmth of his palm. No one has ever touched him like this. Unhurried. Robby brushes his thumb against Dennis’s chin, and then his bottom lip. One of them moves first, but then they’re both leaning forward until their lips touch. For a moment, Robby is absolutely still, completely slack, until something jolts awake in him and he takes Dennis by the face with both hands, inhaling into a deep kiss.
Dennis sits there, stunned, trying desperately to get his mind online. His eyes startle open when he feels the splash of hot coffee against his shirt. “Fuck—” he mumbles, swallowed by Robby’s lips, and it takes him a moment to realize Dennis has stopped kissing him back. When he pulls away, he can’t help but snicker softly at the coffee stain all down his front, hands still framing Dennis’s face.
“I’ll wash it,” Robby offers with a chuckle, taking the cup from Dennis and holding his hand out for the shirt. When Dennis pulls the black cotton over his head, he’s more than a little embarrassed at just how much sinew shows beneath his skin. There used to be muscle there. Robby unzips his sweatshirt and hands it to Dennis, who slips his arms inside with a quiet thank you. Robby disappears into another room, and Dennis can hear the quiet noises of a washer being opened and shut, the muted clicks of dials.
When he returns, Dennis is perched on the couch wearing the too-big sweatshirt, face chagrined and pink. “I’m sorry. I’m clumsy. I’m surprised I haven’t… fucked something up before now.”
“I don’t think you fucked anything up. Practicing medicine is gonna put a lot of things into perspective for you. Spilled coffee won’t even register to you in a few years.” Robby stands before him on the couch, massaging gently at his trapezius, before sitting back down next to him. Dennis leans against his shoulder, but he pretends like he doesn’t. “Take a deep breath, kid. You aren’t in trouble.”
“I know.”
“Then why’re you looking at me like that?”
“What, like a deer that knows it’s about to be shot? It’s fine, that’s just what I look like.”
Robby chuckles softly. “You’re funny.”
“It’s not usually a trait that does me any favors.”
“It’ll come in handy in a few years, I promise.”
Though the tension has been broken, neither seems particularly in the mood for another kiss. So long as they’ve done it once, and there’s the promise of another… Dennis can wait. They end up curled together on the couch, Dennis’s legs across Robby’s lap, watching an action flick that they both find half-stupid and half-entertaining. He must doze off like that, because he wakes to Robby gently jostling his leg, his hand resting a little high to be casual.
“When are you working tomorrow?”
“Six,” Dennis mumbles, tilting his head away from the television to block out the glowing blue light.
“Are you… if you fall back asleep, do you want me to wake you up before then?”
“No,” he mumbles, only mostly aware that he’s speaking out loud. “‘M tired.” He hasn’t slept on a surface so soft since he left Nebraska. Michael laughs quietly and starts stroking up and down his shin. Dennis drifts off to the gentle sensation.
☾
Dennis is on two hours of sleep the next time he sees a client. His face is swollen when he looks in the rearview mirror to fix his hair, his eyes pink and bloodshot. It doesn’t matter. Robby is probably the only person who would notice, let alone care. He has to dress nicely again. It’s the same client who choked him, brought a few of his friends in on it. At least he knows he’s going home with a good chunk of money. If he keeps going like this, he might be able to afford a motel room, at least for some of the next semester. Maybe for midterms and finals.
He arrives at his home, quite far from the heart of Pittsburgh, tall and recently remodeled. Dennis parks down the street, just in case anyone ties the car full of clothes and toiletries back to him, and walks up the driveway. He can hear voices inside, several, deep. He only lets himself consider turning around and driving away for a moment before he raises his hand to knock.
He doesn’t remember most of the night. He makes it back to his car, though, because he wakes up there to the sound of a notification. It’s dark, thank god, which means he didn’t miss his morning shift at the diner. He’s glazed in cold sweat. Maybe he should find someplace to shower. He’s so sore all over that he can’t pinpoint anything particularly painful. He fumbles for his phone. It’s mostly dead. He groans when he sees the time. It’s just past five, which means no time to shower before work. He clicks into the notification. At first, he’s surprised to see a message from Robby so early, before remembering that he probably starts most mornings at five.
MRRob71: Are you free any time this week?
Den_whit22: yeah just lmk and i can move shifts around. tomorrow night might be best?
MRRob71: Sounds good. 9 work?
Den_whit22: yup!
For the next two days, he suffers through a consecutive five shifts, diner, supermarket, taco place, diner, supermarket, before taking a shower at the Y, dressing casually once again, in a turtleneck thermal to hide the hideous bruising on his neck and a hoodie and comfortable jeans, even though it’s still July, and heading to Robby’s place promptly at nine. Again, Robby meets him in the lobby and brings him upstairs.
“I’m sorry, I… it’s been a rough few shifts. I didn’t have the headspace to make anything for dinner. Are you alright with takeout?” Robby asks as he pours himself a few fingers of bourbon. He silently offers some to Dennis, but he just shakes his head meekly and grabs a soda from the fridge. It’s full of ingredients, purchased in an obviously well-intentioned hope that Robby might actually cook himself whole meals this week.
“I could… cook something,” he offers, anxious he’s overstepped. “I’m a good cook. My Ma taught me. Just something simple. You… honestly, you look like you could use it.”
Robby sinks into a chair and watches tiredly as Dennis prepares pasta and chicken and steamed vegetables for them both. Something quick to digest, full of carbohydrates and protein and vitamins, all of which he’s sure they both sorely lack.
“I can cook better than this,” Dennis promises as he lowers two plates onto the tabletop. “I can bake, too, better than I can cook.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime,” Robby smiles, for Dennis’s sake. The promise of seeing each other again, again and again and enough times for Dennis to bake Robby something, fills him with excitement, despite how fucking exhausted he is. They eat silently, shoveling food into their mouths for purpose over pleasure.
They end up on the couch again, dirty plates still on the table. Dennis with his head resting in Robby’s lap, which might be too intimate but when you’ve had a stranger’s dick down your throat within ten minutes of meeting, nothing feels too intimate anymore, Robby with his legs kicked up onto the coffee table. There’s coffee brewing in the kitchen, but neither seems intent on staying up.
After a while, Robby lets his hand fall to Dennis’s neck, his shoulder, all tense with stress and exhaustion. He’s touchy, which is strange, because he’s also so emotionally reserved. Dennis winces when his fingers massage a particularly bad bruise left on his neck. Dennis looks up at Robby, apologizing with his eyes, before trying to settle back in. “Are you alright?” Robby raises his eyebrows.
“Just tense, I guess.”
His eyes narrow. He presses down gently on Dennis’s shoulder. “No, this is tense. This,” he once again presses into the hidden, mottled bruising, and Dennis flinches, “is bad.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine. Hickeys. Comes with the job.”
“Seemed in a lot of pain for a couple hickeys.”
Before Dennis can get him to stop, he flicks a lamp on and tugs two fingers under the thin material of Dennis’s turtleneck. Dennis can’t see what he’s seeing, but from how awful they looked in the mirror on the drive here and the way Robby’s eyebrows keep raising, he’s sure it looks pretty bad.
“Sit up,” Robby commands, and Dennis feels compelled to obey. Is this Doctor Robby, his bedside voice, his ED mannerisms? He tugs at Dennis’s hoodie until he raises his arms and allows Robby to pull it off, and then does the same with his shirt. Dennis crosses his arms self-consciously over his chest. “Jesus. These aren’t just hickeys, these…” He palpates with his fingers, lines up his own hand with the handprint Dennis knows is emblazoned into his skin. “Did one of your clients choke you?”
“He asked first. And paid extra.” Dennis picks at the cuticle of one of his thumbnails, scarlet all down his chest.
“He could’ve killed you.”
“He’s done it before, and he never has.”
“It isn’t safe—”
“And this is?” Dennis laughs, incredulous, gesturing around the apartment, at Robby, at himself. Robby takes it in stride, nodding in acquiescence. “It’s dangerous. The whole job is. I need money. Okay? I don’t know if you get just how poor I am. I need money more than I need air. I can’t work three jobs when I’m in school, and I have a little over a month until the semester starts. If I say no to every jerkoff who wants to hurt me, I’ve got one client left.”
“You can’t go to medical school if you’re dead,” Robby replies evenly.
“If I can’t go to medical school, I might as well be.”
Robby sighs deeply, lowering his hands from Dennis’s body. He purses his lips, brows still raised, somewhere between concern and incredulousness and frustration. “No… no other symptoms? No difficulty speaking, muscle weakness, vision problems?”
“No,” Dennis says quietly. “I know what to look out for.”
“Difficulty breathing, trouble swallowing, cough…” Dennis shakes his head. “Loss of consciousness?”
“I don’t remember.”
Robby nods slowly. “Okay. Okay. You feel any symptoms, you let me know.” Dennis nods, but he isn’t sure how much he means it. Or how much Robby buys it. They tentatively find their ways back to the comfortable cuddle they were in before, except now Robby holds a cold pack to the worst of the bruising while Dennis slips in and out of sleep.
When he wakes up, barely before five according to the clock on the TV console, he can hear the rush of water in another room, deeper into the apartment, a shower. Robby must be up for work. He rubs at his sore shoulders, his tired eyes. He has no recollection of falling asleep. There’s a soft, velvety blanket tucked around his body.
After a few minutes, the water shuts off. The dark end of the hallway is thrown into light as a door opens. Robby’s silhouette, naked except for a towel held around his waist by one hand, comes into fuzzy view. “Dennis?” he whispers into the sunrise-blue apartment.
“Hey,” Dennis replies, hushed and hoarse.
“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, you can take a shower too if you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you need anything? A drive? A change of clothes?”
“Nah. But thank you.” Robby starts into his room, but then Dennis realizes it might seem suspicious if he takes a shower here, which he certainly will, any shower not in the mildewy basement of the Y is a fucking gift, but then says he’s going back to his apartment— an apartment which doesn’t fucking exist— for a change of clothes. “Oh, actually—” Dennis interjects, cringing. Robby peers back around the corner. “Maybe some clothes. Just a shirt or something.”
“C’mere,” Robby nods, gesturing for him to come closer. Dennis untangles himself from the blanket and pads over to the bedroom. It’s the first time he’s seen inside. It matches the rest of the apartment. Lots of blue and grey and brown. A comfortable looking bed without a headboard. Blackout curtains. A wooden dresser, the surface so littered with papers and mugs and pieces of half-folded clothing that it’s completely obscured. “There are shirts in this drawer, underwear, socks in here… though I can’t say how much of it might fit you.”
Dennis edges past his mostly-naked body, rifling through a couple drawers until he has an armful of clothing. He excuses himself with a timidity that he thought was long ago fucked out of him and showers and changes in the bathroom. The shirt he ends up borrowing is too big, but honestly not as big as he feared. If he still has some muscle, it would only be a little oversized. It smells like pine. The elastic boxers, which are probably skintight on Robby, are big enough on him that they won’t stay up on his hips without help, but it’s passable for the day.
Dennis waits a few minutes longer for Robby to come out, eyes on the clock, before walking back to the door and rapping on the frame with his knuckles. “I’m gonna head out,” he calls through the door. He has time, but he’d rather not have Robby offer to walk him to his car, which he has a feeling he would if they left at the same time.
To his surprise, Robby opens the door, dressed in brown pants and a white t-shirt. His black scrub shirt and blue sweater are laid out haphazardly on the bed. Dennis pointedly does not gawk at the way his biceps pull at the white shirt, even after he notices. “Where did you park? Do you need—”
“Nope, I’m alright, I’m just down the street,” Dennis shakes his head, lips pursed. “Thanks for, um. The shirt, and the clothes, and…” He breathes deeply. “Last night. It’s nice to, um… feel kind of normal.”
Dennis smiles, but he doesn’t look happy. “I enjoy your company. And it seems you need someone who’s looking out for you.”
“I can look out for m—”
“How much did he pay you? For that,” Robby gestures to the bruises on his neck.
“A lot. He, um… had friends, so they… it was a lot altogether.”
Robby nods, for too long, like he’s buying himself time. “You let me know if you start to feel…”
“I will.”
Dennis spends the rest of the day covertly bringing the sleeve of his borrowed t-shirt up to his nose, inhaling the earthy pine, the faint tinge of rubbing alcohol that hangs around Robby’s apartment, the comfort of something soft and clean, the promise that he’ll have to see Robby again, if only to give it back.