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The silent descent into apathy is an inevitable one, but not any less painful regardless if the outcome is predicted. There is a tipping point for healthcare workers, the stinging realization that maybe do no harm is a fallacy, that just living in the best way a person can is not free of pain and suffering - that helping others comes at a cost, a little of your life for theirs, a little of your happiness and restful nights for theirs. Dr. Robby had spent decades knowing that the price would never be too high for him, that he could push through, that his life was made to be donated, ripped apart and distributed into needy hands. He knew this and remembered this every day walking through those glass doors. He recited it as a mantra: this is for a reason, a duty I have that is far greater than I. Do no harm. Do no harm.
Then the aching in his chest became too obvious, every breath feeling like a punch to his sternum, a pressure pushing out from inside of himself, bruising his tender flesh and threatening to spill out onto the floor. He had known he was on the brink for years now, since the pandemic, since he was forced to swing the hammer of death on his colleagues and his neighbors. Foolishly, childishly, he believed it would get better, that someone would grant him some mercy and allow him to be the person he’s begged to be his whole life. The days pooled in front of him, deep, dark wells of despair rising at his feet and he watched the water begin to flood his shoes. He thought: if I can wade through the water, it’s fine, if I can swim, it’s fine, if I keep my head above it all, it’s fine.
He knew he was due to fall down and what terrified him the most was not that it would happen, it was that he wouldn’t be able to predict just when. He could feel the creeping darkness start to lap at his skin, its spindly fingers clawing their way under his clothes. He just wanted more time, a little more time, just enough to see his residents be able to do it without him, just enough to inspire his students. But the death toll rang loud above him after PittFest. He had known without any shadow of a doubt that he was to make a choice right then and there: live or die.
After that shift, he had gone home, back to his tired life, and laid in bed trying to sleep past the horrors flashing behind his eyelids. The heaviness of it all seemed to center itself right in the middle of his chest, trapping him face-up on the mattress, unable to escape the things he had seen, the things he had done. Then suddenly, it grabbed hold of his head, his wrists, the backs of his heels and he was being pulled far away from himself, dragged back into the dark from which he came and he knew it was his time to hold his breath and let himself slip beneath the surface.
Days and days passed, one after another, sliding into each other, the feeling of the world outside of the ED’s cold concrete and linoleum seeming made up like a beautiful pink scene painted inside of a children’s book. It began and did not stop until Dr. Robby was haunting the luminescent halls.
He cries now, often and with vigor — more akin to weeping. He can’t exactly pinpoint when it will come on, but it has no prejudice for the moments it decides to choke him up and rip at his senses. When he gets home and barely has enough time to strip out of his scrubs, when he wakes up and his pillow is stained with salt, when he’s in the shower or walking or eating or breathing. Every moment is filled with the desperate human need to crumble under his own weight and mourn all of the people he’s met, all of the moments he’ll never get back. He tries to hide it, tries to swallow down the tightness in his throat, tries to squeeze back the tears, but then it begins to feel like holding in a laugh, like the longer it’s pushed down the louder it becomes, the more it bubbles up and out.
A little girl was in a car accident, her mother hydroplaned on the rain slicked pavement and they skidded into a median — nothing but bumps and bruises, nothing but an innocent fear of reality almost catching up to them and their sunny lives. She was wearing little blue pajamas, the fabric thin and delicate over her tiny legs and Dr. Robby had excused himself. He rushed to the bathroom and crashed through the door, hid himself away in a stall and put his face in his hands. He let the tears roll down his cheeks and he thought of her little body, how she shouldn’t ever have to experience such carnal fear, how her mother clutched her so tight to her chest, how they forgot about who they were before that moment, that for a few seconds they were the pure amalgamation of love and it made him want to dig his nails into his skin and rip the itch from beneath it.
He’s so angry and so, so sad, all the time now. He wanders around the ED in a daze, an alien to this world, observing and cataloguing all of the things that make people people. He’s living out someone else’s script, no longer in control of his actions or his words, all of it predetermined and decided by forces greater than he. He thinks that if he were smarter or more important that he could take these out-of-body scenes and turn them into something more introspective, something profound about the human condition, about the grand plan; but through the IVs being pushed and the wounds being bandaged, he understands that he is to be used as a conduit for someone else, that the constant ringing in his ears is not for him to diagnose, that he must suffer as he was designed to. So he lets himself become shredded, torn apart and ripped open, and he apologizes and holds himself through it all.
He thinks he’s getting away with it, thinks that he can shy away from concerned looks and worried whispers, because he’s clocking in and making good calls and saving lives. He thinks everyone will ignore him, save for his healing hands, because that’s the most important thing about him, not the jumbled radio blaring in his head every hour of the day, the nonsense he must parse through so he can answer questions and ease pain. He thinks it’s all okay, until the day that the crying begins and does not stop.
Up until now, he’d been able to get it out, wipe his face and get back to work, eyes red-rimmed but clear nonetheless. Up until now, he could still crawl his way out of bed, still eat, still exhaust himself enough to sleep, still speak in clear, coherent sentences.
“He’s aggressive, he doesn’t seem to have taken anything, but he’s not making much sense either. We need Pysch down here,” Langdon crosses his arms and watches the patient get strapped down to the bed from across the room.
Robby nods and hovers over the bed flashing his light in the patient’s eyes, checking his pupils as he flaps around trying to fight off the nurses. “Alright. If he doesn’t calm down, let's sedate.”
From the paramedic report, a mid-20s male was found standing on the side of the Roberto Clemente bridge seemingly attempting to jump. He fought the police, fought the paramedics. He didn’t want to be saved, but they did it anyway.
There’s nothing strange about him, nothing terribly significant — a normal, healthy, young man — but something about him makes Dr. Robby want to hover around the door. He can feel the hollowness in the room permeating out onto the floor, the vacuum of silence that is created when he walks over the threshold.
He’s calm now after the sedation, lying eerily silent in the bed staring up at the ceiling.
“How you doin’?” Dr. Robby’s voice sounds grating in the still room. The man doesn’t move, eyes still fixed on the ceiling tiles. “We’re just waiting for our psychiatric doctor to come and do an evaluation. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
He’s met with silence again. He checks the screens in the room pointlessly, he knows his patient is physically well, that it isn’t something as simple as a bad heart or broken bone that landed him here. Though he should leave the man to rest, he can’t find it within himself to leave the room just yet. There’s a sweet calm in this room, different from throwing around rushed orders and trying to find the source of the bleeding. Shamefully, he lets himself catch his breath under the guise of checking on a patient, lets his mind fall silent for a moment. Even when he’s home alone after a long day, his mind begins to spin in circles, a constant stream of noise, deafening and inescapable.
Standing here, though, he can feel the air in his head begin to clear. Maybe he needs another person around to block the signal, someone else to focus on so he can distract his own thoughts from himself. He rifles through the patient’s chart, knowing he won’t find anything, mostly just trying to look busy. Glancing out at the ED through the gap in the curtain, he can see the haze of frantic energy sweeping through the department and, not for the first time, a wave of disgust stirs in his stomach. How can anyone live like this? Day in and day out, how does he live like this?
“ — some water?” his patient croaks. Dr. Robby snaps from his stupor and hooks the chart back on the bed. He pours some room temperature water into the plastic cup and lines the straw up to the man’s lips. He drinks for a few sips then spits the straw back out, and Robby watches him. He sees the dark, bruised bags under his eyes, his dirty, matted hair, his dry lips — it all looks so familiar.
“Better?”
His patient nods and they catch each other’s eyes for a brief moment. Dr. Robby can see how clear his gaze is, that he’s still there, still present.
Before he stops himself, he falls victim to his over-familiarity, “Why did you do it?”
He doesn’t need to clarify, they both know what he’s asking. He’s glad his residents aren’t around, that this isn’t a teaching moment. Sometimes he just wants to do something he shouldn’t, speak out of turn, make a poor choice.
The man leans back onto his pillow, his eyes drifting back up to the ceiling and the world around them seems to fall away, because they can see each other, more than doctor-patient.
“I’m just…tired. Really, really tired.” He swallows and Robby can see his eyes start to well with tears. “I just—I can’t, anymore. I can’t—I don’t—”
He shakes his head as his face crumples. Choked, gasping breaths escape him and it sounds painful. His harsh sobs fill the room and Dr. Robby regrets asking him.
“I’m sorry,” Robby says. He places a warm hand on the man’s hair and holds it for a breath. He’s sorry for asking such a horrible question, but also for all of the things in this man’s life that led him to feel this way because he understands. Despite his silent pleas, he understands.
Suddenly, he remembers being in the car as a child and looking out the window at the blur of the world passing him by, the long expanse of the road beneath him. He remembers wondering how the car can be driving for so long, how the wheels can keep turning and turning, seemingly forever. Don’t the wheels get tired, he thought, doesn’t the car get tired? If the car keeps going, will there be enough road for it to drive on? When does it all end, when does it stop?
He rushes out of the room and barrels toward the bathroom. He collapses on his knees in front of the toilet and heaves. Nothing comes up, and he’s left gasping with his head hovering over the toilet bowl, his hands clutching the seat. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, the fuzziness in his ears making his head spin. He can’t catch his breath, can’t swallow the air fast enough to feel satiated. He imagines how he looks right now, on his hands and knees on the dirty floor, trying not to vomit, trying to remember how to breathe. Shameful, pitiable.
The bathroom door creaks open and if he wasn’t panicking, his hands and feet ice cold and numb with fear, he would push that person onto the floor and threaten them to never speak a word of what they saw. But he can’t move, can’t react in time and his heart lurches. He wishes with all of his might that this could be over, that when he gets up he’ll be better, he’ll be healed once more.
“Dr. Robby?” Whitaker asks tentatively, voice sweet like the bleating of a lamb echoing off of the walls. He steps in and closes the door behind him, his shoes silent on the tile as he walks stall to stall until he finds Robby crouched in the handicap stall, leaning over the toilet. “Are you okay?”
He gingerly pushes the door open and doesn’t hesitate to walk over and crouch down next to Robby. He places a small, warm hand on Dr. Robby’s back and it feels like a focal point that he can draw his mind toward, something to ground him and return him to himself. His breathing is still ragged and harsh, his shoulders heaving with great might trying to open his body up enough to get air. Whitaker’s hand presses gently over his spine and slowly it begins to drag up and down in soothing repetition. “Just breathe like me. In and out.”
Dr. Robby’s knees start to scream under the weight of his body against the hard tile. He rests his forehead against his arm, burying it against the fabric of his hoodie, focusing on the rough texture against his skin, breathing through the waves of nausea and embarrassment. He keeps hearing his patient’s sobs in his mind and seeing that look in his eye; it was all too familiar. Is that how Robby looks to everyone else? Do they see this shell of a person alive but barely living, shuffling around amongst them like the living dead?
He’s tired, too, exhausted beyond the point of helping. Sleeping feels like a respite for his body but not his mind, the poisoned thoughts and cursed memories flashing in his dreams like a film reel. Will he end up standing on the side of a bridge, too? Has he felt the urge? Is he becoming this kind of person?
His mind rattles off back at him, all the while Dennis has his palm at the center of his back like he’s not phased by any of it. It makes him angry, that this practical child would think he can sit here and dare to witness his mentor in such a vulnerable way; but then that thought fills Robby with guilt because here he is, clearly needing help, and Whitaker is being the doctor he is training to be, sitting here and making sure his attending is alright.
Hot droplets of water fall from Dr. Robby’s eyes, far past the point of trying to hide how he’s feeling. He just can’t think straight, and for a man that always has the answers, that’s a scary reality to live in. He wants to solution himself out this feeling, but all that is coming in clear and true is Dennis’ touch and his even, languid breaths. He thinks about his patient and feels a sob choke out. He wants to be better, to feel better, to be strong for everyone else. Instead, he’s crumbling in front of a student and he’s sure that if someone were to ask him what’s wrong, he would say I don’t know. All he knows is that it hurts, all the time, every moment of every day, and that it’s finally too much to ignore.
“Can you sit up?”
Dr. Robby takes a few deep breaths, trying to muster the energy or the courage to draw himself back to this moment. He blows out a breath from his mouth and nods, not daring to look at Dennis’ face just yet as he pushes back to lean against the stall wall. He lets his head fall back, his hands in his lap. He closes his eyes again, just trying to concentrate on staying in his body, not letting his mind wander away from him again.
He can feel Dennis looking at him, probably with that mousy worried expression of his that makes him look so innocent. He wants to get up and run out of the hospital but not move from this spot all at the same time. Maybe this is a fitting end to his career — embarrass himself one final, irreparable time and leave whatever house of cards he’s created behind him — make it all someone else’s problem.
He chuckles quietly at that thought, an unshed tear sliding down the apple of his cheek. All of this, for nothing. His whole life is a joke and he’s the only one around to laugh at it.
He opens his eyes and notices the water stain on the styrofoam tile above them before looking down and seeing the saddest expression he could have imagined contorting Whitaker’s sullen face. It’s cute, like a little kicked puppy stuck out in the rain waiting for his owner to come back for him. This must all be very bizarre to him, and for that, Dr. Robby is truly sorry.
“What’s wrong?” Whitaker asks, his hands gripping his thighs as he sits on his haunches, unmoving.
What a loaded question, and again, Dr. Robby feels just like his patient must’ve. A small question for a big problem, how is anyone supposed to answer that truthfully?
They stare at each other for a moment and Robby notices the puffy, pillowy skin under Dennis’ eyes, how he already looks like he’s lived a whole lifetime, his straight cropped hair greasy across his forehead. He looks like a child, pale and wanton.
He pulls his eyebrows together apologetically and sighs. He can’t put the decades of this dull, stabbing pain into words, so he says, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
It’s such a pathetic statement, not at all as grandiose as the way it feels saying it. The admittance that he’s failed, that he isn’t as good a man as he led himself to believe, it feels crushing. The way Whitaker’s face falls, how his mouth drops open, his eyes down turned and big like marbles. A pit forms in Dr. Robby’s stomach, to see the embodiment of his disappointment so blatant in front of him, it’s just too unbearable.
“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he says, another sob constricting his voice, trying to make itself known.
Dennis’ eyes widen and he crawls across the floor to sit beside Dr. Robby, just as he did in that pediatric morgue.
“No! No, don’t be sorry, don’t. It’s okay…” And maybe because they have been here before, maybe because this isn’t about a massacre, just one doctor crying on the floor, Whitaker feels like he can reach out and snake his arm around Dr. Robby’s shoulders. Robby doesn’t have the strength to pull away like he wants to, and against all of his instincts, he chooses to let himself sink into the feeling of another man’s heat around him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Oh, how wrong he is and all over again Dr. Robby can’t keep it hidden. His face pinches painfully as he drops his head, sobs racking through his chest, his shoulders shaking with the effort, little droplets of water stain his pants as tears stream down his face. He’s given so much already and it just hasn’t been enough, he knows it hasn’t been enough, but he doesn’t have anything else in him. He can’t give over his body or his heart or his mind any longer; he’ll die within these walls, he’ll fade away, get swept up and thrown out like a blood soaked rag. Maybe once, that would've been enough for him, a punishment fit for the crime of caring too much, but now he’s inextricably scared. Scared of giving too much and yet, not enough.
“It’s just—I can’t—I don’t know—what to do anymore,” he sputters out. “I’ve done everything and I just—” he shakes his head back and forth, trying to shake the bad thoughts out from inside of his head, “ —I can’t, I can’t.”
He puts his head in his hands and digs his fingers into his forehead, trying to hide away, make himself small to stop this all from happening. Dennis doesn’t say anything, only squeezes his shoulders tighter, tugging Dr. Robby closer to his small chest. He should push away, he should scold Dennis and tell him this is entirely inappropriate for two colleagues to be doing, but then his head is guided into the crook of Dennis’ warm neck and it all washes away. He can feel the blood pulsing gently, his heart thumping strong against his ear. Dennis’ knobby fingers slide up Robby’s nape and entwine themselves through his shorn hairs. He holds Robby’s head against his skin and they sit huddled together on the bathroom floor as Dr. Robby cries and cries.
“...You don’t have to know right now.” His voice is soft and firm in Robby’s ear and it all feels like lies, half truths told to a terminal patient so they can pass in peace. Not true, not true, he repeats in his mind, his head shaking back and forth, back and forth.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Whitaker counters and draws his other hand up to grip at Robby’s neck, holding him in a makeshift hug, cradling him, his thumb pressing into Robby’s stubble, passing over the hairs in a soothing pattern.
They stay like that for what feels like hours. In the time they’re pushed together, Robby unforgivably memorizes the cadence of Dennis’ breath, the smell of his laundry detergent, the feel of the soft pads of his fingers. He holds onto these solid points of reality and uses them as a tether back to the seconds passing them by. When he can breathe again, when the tears dry and his hands stop shaking, he sits up and Dennis’ hands fall away.
“We have to get back out there,” Dennis says, like it’ll be the march to their death. Robby nods and scrubs his hands over his face, trying to wipe away his own sagging expression. Dennis stands up and holds out his hand, and once again, bears the weight of Dr. Robby to help pick him back up. It feels like he’s living the same day over again and he just wants to leave. Go back home and crawl under the covers until he disappears, until they all forget about him and stop saying his name.
“Are you gunna be okay?” Dennis asks, like he’s really concerned, like he really cares and Robby looks at him, sees the person he was once inside of those doe eyes.
“Do I have a choice?” He mutters and turns to open the door.
—
He has four consecutive days off after that shift, and he’s grateful for that at least. He’s determined to spend these next days in his bed getting over this moment of weakness. He can’t live like this, he can’t spend every other hour breaking down in the hospital just because he’s doing his job.
Before he manages to make his escape that night, Whitaker calls his name. He wants to ignore him, to pretend like he doesn’t owe him an ounce of time outside of work, but he’s not that kind of man, and no matter how much shame he has endured, he will always repay his students with the attention they ask for and need.
He swings his backpack over his shoulder and stands in front of his locker until Dennis sidles up to him, panting like he ran over to catch him. His face is flushed and Robby absently notices that it makes the pink in his lips seem more plush.
“Whitaker.”
“Dr. Robby, uh, I just wanted to say, about earlier—”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.” Robby looks past Dennis’ shoulder, trying to spot any onlookers to their conversation, “I appreciate what you did, but please.”
Dennis’ mouth snaps shut at the look on Dr. Robby’s face, stern and almost threatening. He swallows and nods once, sharp in understanding. Robby nods back, and thinking they’ve come to an agreement, moves to walk around Dennis and leave. He’s stopped short with a soft grip on the crook of his arm pulling him back. He looks down at Whitaker, then down to the hand discreetly holding a crumpled piece of scrap paper.
“I was thinking you could take this…just in case.”
He looks at Robby with those drooping eyes and downturned mouth, with all that heartbreaking sincerity, and pushes the paper toward his hand. Robby takes it, unfolding it slightly and sees ten numbers scrawled on the ripped paper, Dennis Whitaker spelled out in careful capital letters.
“If—if you need anything—just…yeah.”
Too many things are shuffling through Robby’s mind and the desperate need to escape from this moment makes his skin burn, so he nods again and shoves the paper into his pocket. He scoots around Dennis and tries not to sprint all the way home.
—
He crashes through the front door of his apartment and begins to strip out of his clothes in the entryway, dropping piece after piece with every foot step until he walks into his bedroom wearing only his boxers, collapsing into bed without turning on a single light. He gets swallowed by his exhaustion so easily these days, it feels debilitating, like he’s being held down by an anvil on his chest.
He listens to the sound of the city filtering in through the window panes, the amber of the streetlights casting a sickly shadow across his carpeted floor. He should have never cracked up like that at work. What if it hadn’t been Whitaker that found him again? How would he have explained himself then? How would he have been able to convince everyone that he is capable of still working, despite the persistent dread and constant tears?
He knows this has been coming on for awhile, a steady simmer beneath his skin just waiting to boil over, but he thought he would’ve had more time. More time to save others, even if he can’t save himself, more time for his residents to grow, more time for him to figure out how to keep surviving. It’s come crashing down around him too soon and he wishes he could turn back time, just a few weeks, just so he can prevent this.
He hates Whitaker for being the person to keep seeing him like this, hates that he’s so kind and understanding, hates that some kid feels like he has to take care of his teacher. It’s inexcusable, the things Dr. Robby has put his student through, the things he’s made him be witness to. It feels like making him an accomplice to murder — he didn’t ask for any of this, and yet here he is, having to treat his patients and his attending.
He thinks about that suicidal patient, the way he seemed so devoid of anything, so hollow, except for his eyes. They were like deep pools of black, glistening, begging from the inside out. Robby hated it, hated seeing it, hated that it scared him, made him cringe with knowing. He sees that same look in the mirror, in the reflection of a glass. He tries to avoid looking at himself these days because what he sees is haunting, it’s not him, it’s some creature that has possessed his body and made it its home.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shrink into the black he’s familiar with, the peaceful solitude of sleep, of a place far away from the horrors of the life he’s created. His fingers drift up to his chain and trace over the warm metal of his Star of David. It feels like he can’t outrun this thing that surrounds him, this hungry animal waiting for him to turn his back, this primal fear of being eaten alive and everyone screaming I told you so! over his mutilated corpse. The points on the pendant stab into his skin, a welcome reminder that he’s still here, that maybe he still has a chance.
He thinks back on the day, tries to see all of the faces of the people he’s helped with these very hands, thinks about their grateful words and their smiles, and their eyes. Their eyes like the sky after a cloud passes overhead, their eyes soft around the edges, downturn and solemn. Eyes made for begging for forgiveness, mouth small and voice hushed, made for prayer, made for silent pleas. Pale skin and bony shoulders, sandy blonde hair that curls at the ends.
Before he can drown himself in shame, Robby drifts to sleep remembering those warm hands and that long sloped nose, and those eyes.
—
He wakes with a jolt to the sun beaming in hot through the open curtains. Sweat is damp under his legs and his mouth is dry. He can see the crystal blue through the window, it looks warm with the sun still high in the sky, still plenty of time in the day to enjoy. Robby doesn’t move, barely able to rip the heavy blanket from his overheating body. He feels stiff, trapped, not able to conjure up a single reason to leave his bed. He has no one to see, nowhere to go, he has four days of not existing to anyone but himself. He’s sure he used to do something on his days off, sure he used to get things from the store to cook for dinner or see movies in the theater or do his laundry, but all of that seems like someone else now.
He thinks that his life used to move forward, that there was some upward motion, some sort of momentum, but these past few months have felt frozen in time. Waking up, falling asleep, it all blends into the same 24 hours looping over and over, an endless record scratched and skipping at the same parts. He wishes he could rip up the needle, find a way to escape this monotony, feel like he can put his hands back on the wheel, but instead he’s stuck atop these sweaty sheets staring out at the world that spins on without him.
A single tear slips from his eye and then he yanks the covers off of himself and slinks into the bathroom. He turns on the faucet and sticks his head under the running water to take a long drink. Avoiding the mirror, he turns on the shower and once steam starts to billow out and stick to the ceiling and floor, he steps inside and feels the water sharp on his sensitive skin. The unbearable heat is a reminder, he’s here, he’s still here.
During the day is okay, he can distract himself long enough with chores to quell the whispers, the echoing voices in his mind that follow him through halls and down sidewalks. But when the sun goes down and the noise dies from the street and he can’t fight off the encroaching blackness, he cowers under his comforter and pretends like he can’t hear it all loud and clear.
Not good enough, useless, unworthy, a burden, not good enough, not good enough. It rings through his ears high pitched and whining, a constant melody he can’t seem to forget. Was there ever a time when he didn’t feel this way, will there ever be a time when he won’t have to? Has he contracted some sort of incurable disease, something that he’ll have to attach to his person like a felony?
He just wants to sleep, the fatigue consuming him, keeping him locked prisoner inside of himself. He was supposed to be better than this, he was supposed to be one of the ones that survived. It would all be in vain if he gave up now, for all of the people that he couldn’t save, but maybe it’s truly eye for an eye. Maybe his debt must be paid for all of the good he couldn’t do, for all of the mistakes that cost innocent people their lives, for all of the times he couldn’t outsmart the illness and the injury.
—
The next day is the same. Lying in bed, getting up to eat and pee, sleeping dreamless sleep. He wonders if that patient is getting the help he needs, if he’s grateful that he didn’t jump. He wishes he could’ve understood what pushed that man to that point, then maybe he could compare their stories and see the exact point that it would be too much. He just needs someone to tell him what not to do, then maybe it would be easier to wrap his head around his problem. He just needs a little guidance and then it would all get better.
Robby sits on the edge of his bed and watches streaks of water draw rivers down the window pane, rain pattering heavily on the pavement below. A better doctor would be able to diagnose his problem and issue the treatment without blinking. He’s spent days, weeks, trying to detangle his own thoughts to find the source of his pain. It keeps slipping through his fingers and getting harder and harder to find as the days go on. It’s starting to seem like there is no one thing, that maybe it’s just the seconds passing in agony that make him feel this way — sometimes the source of the illness is the pain itself.
He thinks about Whitaker and his shining eyes. So much potential, so much hope, so much of what Robby used to be before he got old and worn down. He feels a sting in his chest and remembers the bathroom floor and the paper thin skin of his neck.
He stands abruptly in search of the dirty pants he had been wearing. He grabs them from his laundry pile and shoves his hands into the pockets, digging through them in search of that little crinkly piece of paper. Without giving himself enough time to think about what he’s doing, he punches the number into his phone and listens as it rings. He thinks about that ringtone going off during their moment of silence and he lets his mouth quirk up into a half smile.
His heart jumps as a voice crackles through the line.
“Hello?”
“Um, Whitaker, it’s Dr. Robby.”
“Oh!” he sounds genuinely surprised and Robby isn't quite sure how to decipher that, “Dr. Robby, you called? H-how, um, how are you?”
Robby clears his throat and looks down at the wrinkled paper in his hand, his thumb absently tracing over the thin letters spelling out Dennis’ name. “Uh, I’m…hanging in there.”
“Oh, right…that’s good, then.”
He can imagine Dennis doing that awkward little head nod he does when he’s not quite sure how to respond.
“Look, I know that this has probably been…difficult…for you and I, uh, feel like I owe you an explanation. Especially since PittFest and the bathroom…I just—would hate for my problems to affect your education and I, uh, want to apologize.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“Well, what if I said I wanted to? That I need to?”
Dennis goes quiet on the other side and Robby hopes he hasn’t ruined this for himself by trying to do the right thing.
“Okay. That’s—okay. That would be okay.”
“Good,” he crumples the paper into a little ball and tosses it over his bed onto the floor, “I’ll, uh, send you my address, come when you’re free.”
—
A tentative knock at the door and a sheepish looking Whitaker standing on the other side snaps Robby from his hole of silence. Turns out, Dennis was just as free as Robby, making his way to Robby’s apartment that same night, dressed in a fading t-shirt and worn down blue jeans. He looks even younger dressed out of his scrubs, his sleeves hiding his muscular biceps, his broad shoulders slumped and narrow.
“Hi.” He lifts a hand up in greeting and Dr. Robby tries not to smile in amusement. He’s not sure there’s ever a time when Dennis doesn’t look like he just got scolded.
“Come in,” Robby opens the door wider and watches as Dennis takes careful steps into the entryway like he’s sussing out if this is really a trap. “Take your shoes off, you can leave them by the door.”
He nods and bends over to unlace his scuffed sneakers, kicking them off and aligning them politely by the wall. Robby can’t remember the last time he had someone in his home — probably when he was still dating — and it’s an odd feeling letting someone step into his little cage. He tries not to dwell on this situation too much, because he knows that if he let his rational mind creep in, he would give himself whiplash from the force of his regret.
“Want anything to drink? Hungry?"
He watches Whitaker straighten, his white socks looking so small over his feet; there’s truly never a moment where Robby doesn’t look at Dennis and feel impressed. So young, so much against him, and yet here he is.
“Um, I’m okay, thanks.” Dennis hovers by the door, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He looks totally uncomfortable and Dr. Robby wants to apologize all over again for forcing him to bend over his boundaries just for his own momentary comfort, just to soothe his prickling guilt.
“Come. Have a seat,” Robby gestures to the living room with his head.
They sit far from each other on the sofa, plenty of space between them to seem respectable, Dennis keeping his hands in his lap like how he was raised. This is probably a huge mistake, but Robby can’t handle thinking about how he’s going to go back to work after this and so he clears his throat.
“I know this is — well — I don’t really know what this is, inappropriate, maybe, but I know you’ve probably noticed how I’ve been these past few months, so I thought we should talk…get on the same page.”
“Yeah,” Dennis wipes his hands over his thighs, “uh, sure.”
Cars splash through puddles on the pavement, voices chattering below as they walk past, not fearful of the wet and cold. It’s just them here and it feels like Dennis has stepped into the little paused block of time Robby has been living in for far too long. He could’ve left him ignorant, and maybe that would’ve been the kind thing to do, but somehow this feels like the only option.
“I’ve been doing this job a long time. I’ve seen a lot of horrible shit — stuff no one should have to see, you know? And…I felt good doing it, I mean, I love that hospital, I love the people we work with and what we do.”
Dennis nods along, his eyes fixed on the floor, looking out of place and perfectly fitted in his seat at the same time.
“I love it, I really, really do…” his voice sounds far off and hollow because he knows he’s trying to convince himself of something, even as he tries to tell Dennis the truth he’s still hiding from himself. “...and for a long time, I thought that would be enough. I thought caring for people was the most important thing I would ever do in my life, so I put everything else on the back burner: all my interests outside of medicine, hobbies, relationships, everything. I became so…dedicated…that I forgot to live my life. And I think it all sort of came crashing down on me… I don’t know. I don’t really know what happened.”
He shakes his head trying to decipher his jumble of thoughts. He looks down at his hands and sees the rough palms and cracking knuckles, skin dry and calloused.
“I’m just…so…tired…all the time now. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for making you deal with all of this. You shouldn’t have to take care of your attending, so, I’m sorry.”
He feels ridiculous for calling Whitaker all the way to his home just to tell him he’s sorry again, but it feels even more ridiculous that he’s waiting for his response. He wants to hear what Whitaker has to say, what he thinks of his teacher, because it might help him decide if he’s been going about this all wrong. How do people see him, truly? Is he as righteous as he leads himself to believe — does anyone else view him as a wielder of justice, or is he just a foolish old man crying out for sympathy? Is he a good person?
“Did I ever tell you my parents own a farm? Back in Nebraska?”
Robby stops picking at his ripping cuticle and looks up. He shakes his head a little, his eyebrows drawing together, “No, I don’t think so.”
They trade a look for a look and Dennis tears his eyes away to focus on his own hands in his lap. He swallows, choosing his words carefully, “Yeah, I grew up with my brothers mucking stalls and counting cattle. They still live out there, all of them, my mom and dad. It was, like, all I knew, just—farming and church, but I didn’t really mind it too much, you know? Like, I knew I could do it for the rest of my life because my family did, and…I thought it would be okay because I liked taking care of things, feeding the animals and helping the vet, stuff like that.”
Robby listens intently; he’s gotten glimpses of Dennis before, the odd scripture being paraphrased, the little hints of where he’s from dropped casually throughout the days, but here he is, revealing himself in the way he likely hasn’t done with anyone since he’s moved states. Once more, Robby feels a twist in his stomach knowing that he’s failed his student, that he could’ve done so little as leant an ear to a man quite literally all alone in a strange new city, but he did what he does best: ignore the world and focus on the medicine.
“But when I graduated high school…I realized that I didn’t want to end up like my parents or my brothers or my pastor or the other boys at school. I wanted to be better than that, I guess? I wanted something for myself, something that would make me—worthy.”
They meet eyes again and Dennis chuckles a little at himself, self deprecating and awkward, and Robby hates it. “Sorry, that’s a little—”
“No, no. I understand,” Robby says and he does. With all of the grey in his beard and the wrinkles folding his skin, he was made to learn that men don’t put the lives of others in their hands unless they are looking for redemption, that is not a unique fact amongst physicians; what is unique, however, is the reason they are seeking to be redeemed. Robby has yet to discover his reason, and so he toils away within himself, burning away at the sin he can’t remember committing. He wonders if it feels the same for Dennis.
“You know, you remind me of my parents a lot.”
“Wow, I know I’m twice your age, but come on,” Robby scoffs.
“No—not-not like that—like, you push yourself a lot, and I know you’re our attending and all, but,” he shrugs, looking back down at his hands. A pause stretches, but Dr. Robby doesn’t try to fill it.
“When I was little, we had this one heifer—she was really big and mean, especially after she had her first calf—and whenever she saw me or my brothers she would start charging across the field, like, full speed, so we were always real scared of her, but when it was just my dad, she would walk right up to him and put her head on his chest, like she was the sweetest thing ever.
Anyway, when she died, my dad took it kind of hard, even though he would never tell any of us—we could just, kind of, tell. He would always go on and on about life on a farm, that death is just as much a part of life as anything, so ‘don’t get all choked up when something goes belly up’. But after she died, he would stand out in the field with the other cows for hours, just watchin’ ‘em eat. I was little, but I could still see it, like, even though a man says everything’s fine, it doesn’t mean it really is, and…that’s okay, like, you can be hardworking and tough and still…get sad when things die, you know?”
Dr. Robby remembers the first patient he ever lost. He remembers how it felt in the moment she was pronounced dead, how it all felt excruciatingly real; they weren’t just students playing Operation anymore, they were real life doctors expected to keep people from death’s door for one more day. He remembers how tight the air seemed, how the family wailed, how he had to witness a human being slip from this earth and let it roll off of his shoulders like rain water. He’ll never forget the sound of her choked breath squeezing from her throat, how her body fought and fought to keep going. He remembers it all.
A pressure starts to build behind his eyes and he can feel the redness returning, the downturning of his lips, the need to let it spill over because he does get sad when things die, when people die. He was sad after that first patient and sad after every patient since. He’s never not wanted to grip onto the hospital bed sheets and weep over the deceased, he’s never not wanted to beg for another day, to keep the machines beeping and the monitors hooked up just to prove there is some sign of life. He wants permission to cry too, but he is forced to give the family their grieving moment, their dignity of privacy as they navigate the first few steps of their life without their person in it. He doesn’t get the luxury, instead having to make his rounds, move from patient to patient, act like the human urge to hold the grief for a life lost in his hands isn’t so powerful that it could cripple him.
Robby bites his lip in a last ditch effort at keeping his sobs at bay, but it’s clear that Whitaker sees it anyway, because he leans in a little, angling his head to catch Robby’s eyes as they point toward the floor.
“I know I’m new to this, but—Dr. Robby, we know you’re not like the other doctors. You care, way more than anyone else. We can all see it.”
That turns him sour because it doesn’t matter if he cares more than the entire goddamn world if he can’t do anything about it, if he can’t be better, if he can’t fix the problems. He shakes his head, and doesn’t stop because it’s all too much, all the time. The constant battle upstream, trying and trying, fighting to be good, running from himself; he just wants to give in, to let the water fill his lungs, to sink to the bottom.
He balls his fists and clutches them to his forehead as he lets his face fall into a painful sob.
“I-I’m not—that person. I’m not, I’m not,” he chokes out through gasping breaths, “I’m not a good doctor or—a good man. I’m just—just—I don’t know…I don’t know.”
He can feel the warm tears dampening his face and any fear of being seen or heard like this drops from his body. He lets the truth engulf him, the loneliness and constant, sickening terror. He sits hunched over his knees, his head in his hands, and sobs into his silent apartment with his student watching it in all of its gross glory.
“I just can’t—do it, anymore. I’m so goddamn scared all the time! I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
Dennis could’ve gotten up and walked out of the room and he would’ve had no idea. He unravels into himself, his body shaking with the unadulterated emotion pouring from his mouth and his mind. It’s like the room is spinning around him, the air getting thick and hard to breathe through; he’s drowning, choking on nothing.
For all of the pathetic, sorry things he’s done in his life, this has to be the worst. A doctor in his fifties that can’t handle the small life he’s led, even that is too much for him, too big. He wants to give it all to someone else, someone far more capable, more charismatic and smarter, just long enough so that he can sleep and try to forget about all of the wrong turns he’s made. He just wants to start over, and maybe then he’ll be able to do it all right.
He’s sitting all curled around himself, just trying to breathe, when he feels Dennis’ warm hand slide around his shoulders, tugging at him gently, beckoning him in. He goes willingly and feels his cheek press against soft fabric laid over flat, firm muscle and bone. Robby can hear the rhythmic thump of Dennis’ heart beneath his ear. He counts the beats—one, two, three—letting his mind blank, washing away the panic, centering itself on the one real, true thing amongst them. He doesn’t open his eyes or pull away, only focused on aligning his breaths in and out with Dennis’, distracting himself with the scent of clean skin and cheap deodorant. Robby can feel Dennis moving his arm up, his hand brushing the gold chain around his neck, his fingers settling against the shell of Robby’s ear, holding him to his chest.
It should be embarrassing, foolish, even, but as Robby is pushing against the adrenaline, he allows himself to be comforted. This man that has somehow always been there to see him fall down, and been there without shame to help him get back up, is holding him with the pure intention of making him feel better. For once, he takes pity on himself and lets himself be protected.
“It’s okay…it’s okay,” Dennis whispers, his voice low and clear. He pets Robby’s hair, his fingers combing through the short strands and Robby feels something inside of himself crack. His eyebrows pull together, tight in desperation, before he’s wrapping his own arms around Dennis’ waist and grabbing onto the back of shirt, clutching onto him like he’ll be his salvation.
Dennis turns his body, opening up toward Dr. Robby, and grasps his shoulders, his other hand coming up to hold onto the back of Robby’s neck. Dennis’ body is shielding him from all of the bad that is floating around them both, Robby’s face buried and temporarily hidden from the horrors.
He holds Dr. Robby in his arms and Robby squeezes back as he swears, “You don’t have to be strong all the time because…because we trust you and—and—”
He seems to lose momentum, maybe because he’s at a loss for any more lies to tell. Robby doesn’t need the pep talk, he knows he’s beyond a little cheering up, just the silent touch is enough for him. He battles his own thoughts daily, a handful of good natured white lies from his student won’t cure him.
“ —you’re kind,” Dennis finishes, and it’s said as if it were fact, a transparent truth. It’s not a profound statement by any means, but it makes Dr. Robby stop his momentary spiral.
Through all of the overcomplication, beating dead horses until they turn to pulp under steel boots, hashing and rehashing war stories and creating new ones amongst it all, he’s forgotten the only thing that’s kept him coming back to his manufactured hell. He can’t think of the last time he thought of himself as kind, or the last time someone has said it to his face. He used to care about things like that, but somehow, through the years, he’s stepped farther and farther from goodwill and, instead, plunged himself into efficiency and economy and the cold things that turn clinicians into icy practitioners wielding scalpels and slipping on blood. He used to want to be kind, more than anything, where did that want ever go?
Dennis slides his hand down, his fingertips cradling the soft skin of Robby’s neck, his thumb resting across his hollow cheek. He presses his fingers in and gently pulls Robby’s head back so they can look at each other. Robby’s eyes are bleary with exhaustion and unshed tears, his face hot and red with exertion, but all of those physical discomforts slip away because he looks up and sees Dennis in a way he’s never seen him before, like he’s not known him until just this moment. A light is shining bright behind his head, his face shrouded in shadow and backlit, the peaks of his cheekbones and his wispy eyelashes seeming to glow from the streaks of polluted yellow light filtering in through the window. He looks so sure, more sure than Robby has been ever of anything in his entire life, like a true man, strong, confident.
The pad of his thumb ghosts against the thin skin of Robby’s undereye, swiping away the spent tears that are making his eyes glisten. His thumb traces along the crescent of Robby’s orbital bone, following it up to the fatty fold of his eyelid, to the tail of his brow. Dennis’ eyes follow the trail of his touch, his mouth falling open, the white of his teeth stark against his pink lips. He follows the hard line of Robby’s cheekbone down, thumb sliding along its edge.
“We need you, Dr. Robby,” he says. He skates along the coarse hairs of Robby’s mustache and it’s becoming more dangerous with every breath.
“What are you doing?” Robby musters, though it comes out strangled.
Dennis’ eyes skip across the outline of Robby’s lips, thumb hovering over the corner of his mouth.
“...I need you,” Dennis says, distracted, like he’s deciding if he wants to cross that line. His eyes snap up to meet Robby’s and then a great wave of desire crashes over Robby and he chases after the first good feeling he’s had in months.
Dennis’ lips are tense against his, close-mouthed and dry. Never once while working did he ever have the want to end up here, never once did he think to risk his entire career, his entire reason for being, just to lay hands on a student. Something in the way Whitaker was speaking, as if he has all the answers and was willing to reveal them to Robby one by one, something in the way he wasn’t afraid or ashamed to pull Robby to his chest and hold him there until the crying stopped, something in the way he acted so beyond his years made Robby want to understand him just a little bit more, to push and keep pushing.
Robby pulls his hands from Dennis’ ribs and slips them behind his head, cradling the base of his skull in both hands, his long fingers splayed over his trimmed hair. They stay suspended in the moment, frozen with their lips resting atop one another’s, feeling each other and trying to reconcile with what they’ve just done. Robby pulls back slowly, their mouths sticking together lightly before they separate.
He looks at Dennis as his eyelids flutter open, his lips parted, now wet with spit, his cheeks dusted rosy pink. His eyes are so big and round, the way they seem to hold the world within them in wonder, dark blue like the sea. His long nose, perfectly straight leading Robby’s gaze naturally down toward his full, plump bottom lip. His features are so soft, the pale, almond milkiness of his skin illuminating under the low light. Beautiful, is what Robby thinks, how had he not noticed it before?
He takes a hand and hooks his pointer finger to glide his knuckle along the warmth of Dennis’ cheek. An unfettered silence settles around them and Robby doesn’t try to hold himself accountable anymore. For once, he wants to move unrestrained, to feel things deeply and react to them uninhibited, to be human in all the ways he can bear. He wants to be gentle, he wants to be kind, he wants to put his lips to sweet skin and forget the person he is.
The pad of his thumb presses into the puffiness under Dennis’ eyes, feeling how petal-like his skin is there; he admires how even in tiredness Dennis holds onto his boyish innocence and the way that purity seems to emanate naturally from his body.
“Is this okay?” Robby asks, not bothering to remove his hands.
Dennis swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing inside his narrow throat. He nods.
“Can I kiss you again?”
Dennis nods.
This time they both come together to a centerpoint, their mouths open and willing. It feels right, natural, like this is how they were meant to end up the entire time. Gone is the strained dynamic of mentor and mentee, the only thing remaining their desire to touch. Dennis licks into Robby’s mouth and Robby tightens his grip, curling his fingers around the nape of Dennis’ delicate neck.
He can hear the night birds chirping, the wind tickling the window, their wet mouths slipping against each other. He distracts himself with the feeling of Dennis’ hands in his hair and around his body, the way he’s beginning to pant as Robby denies him any respite to break apart and gasp for breath. If he lets his mind wander a single moment, he’ll begin the never ending descent into the inevitables after they come out of their drunken lustful stupor. He doesn’t want to spoil this moment, the allowing of himself to lead with his body instead of his mind for once, to quiet all the constant voices spewing their practicalities at him. He likes how supple Dennis’ skin feels under his palms, the sound of his whimpers in the back of his throat as Robby starts to push in deeper and deeper. He asked him, and he said yes — he held Robby when he was down, he came into this apartment on his own accord — there should be nothing that stops Robby from enjoying this, but he’s not ignorant enough to lie to himself. They are making a mistake, he knows, so he vows to devour every second he can, taste and not stop until he’s satiated.
He slides his hands down the square frame of Dennis’ broad body, drinking in the way his hands are wide and oversized against his waist. Slowly, he lifts up the hem of Dennis’ shirt and slips a hand beneath, wrapping his palm around the top of his hip bone, proud as he feels Dennis suck in a breath of surprise. He abandons Dennis’ lips in favor of peppering kisses down his cheek to his jaw to the vulnerable flesh of his neck. He feels like an animal as he sucks and nips at his steady pulsepoint, scraping his teeth along the vein and kissing away the sting.
Dennis tips his head back and grants Dr. Robby full access, eyes closed, mouth open, letting himself be had. Robby feels his way up the smooth skin stretched over Dennis’ stomach, over the steps of his ribs, up and up until he grazes over the peak of his perked nipple. He teases it with his thumb and Dennis gasps, holding his breath like he’s trying to keep his composure. Robby wonders how many times Dennis has done something like this, if he’s done it at all. A trickle of fear drips down his spine as he thinks that maybe he is inadvertently taking advantage of his subordinate, that he’s not only ruining a professional relationship but taking the virginity of a man twenty years his junior, ruining a moment that’s supposed to mean something.
He pushes down that thought because he can hear Dennis trying not to make a sound, biting his lip with his eyes squeezed shut, his erection growing stiffer against his jeans. Robby doesn’t want to exhaust himself with his morals anymore, he just wants to fall victim to a moment like everyone else. He can smell shampoo on Dennis’ hair, feel the curled ends tickling his nose as he plants wet kisses behind his ear, and he focuses himself on that feeling, on the primal desire of wanting and having.
Robby catches a patch of skin in between his teeth and Dennis lets slip an Ah!, as if he pinched his finger between a door jam, and then suddenly, their bodies aren’t close enough. Robby leans back letting the heat they’ve created between them disperse into the room. He waits until Dennis picks his head up and looks at him in confusion before he slides his arm out from under his shirt and finds his hand, holding it in his own loosely.
“Come here,” he beckons, and gestures his head toward his lap. When Dennis doesn’t move, he tugs his hand gently, pulling it toward his body. “Come, it’s okay.”
The self-assured man able to soothe his superior is gone, now reduced down to the meek twenty-six year old that has been here this whole time. The springs under the couch cushion creak as he shifts his weight, maneuvering to face Robby and sling a leg over his lap. He keeps their hands connected, using it as a pillar to balance against, the metaphor not lost on Robby as Dennis’ solid body settles onto his thighs, sinking him comfortably into the cushion. His lips are bitten red and swollen like shining, wet candy apples, the back of his hair mussed and manhandled. Robby can see little bruises starting to surface on his neck and he wants to apologize for it, but he gets a sick sense of self satisfaction at the sight.
He puts his hands on Dennis’ cheeks, traces his thumbs over where the slope of his nose bridge meets the socket of his eye. His eyes dance around Dennis’ face, cataloguing and satisfying the lingering curiosities he didn’t know that he had; the creases around his mouth, the subtle curve of his jaw, the youthful plump of fat still filling out his cheeks.
“Look at you,” Robby says gazing up at this man, feeling the corners of his star filled eyes lift with admiration. He’s so far from where he was only moments ago, terrified that everything he has become would be stolen from him with his arms tied behind his back. In this moment, though, it’s like the slowed down, electrical vibrating of a guitar, a bass that he can feel thumping beneath his chest. In this moment, he’s not worried about being good or omnipotent, just or maleficent, he’s only the tips of his fingers and the ripeness of a body.
This time, when he pulls Dennis in for an unforgiving kiss, he’s sure to lace it with his appreciation, his gratitude for the momentary semblance of freedom he’s been granted. Gifted by God, maybe, Dennis has been able to steal Robby away from his own shackled mind, breaking through the chainlink, slithering through with his thin hands and pulling Robby out by the collar of his shirt. He wraps his arms around Dennis, hugging their bodies close, feeling them tangle around each other, lapping each other up.
Forgetting all of his hesitation, Dennis loses his inhibitions to their melding and drapes his arms around Robby’s shoulders and then it all seems to settle around them. There could be something much bigger than them both circling them like wolves, but all Robby knows is that he won’t be able to forget the perfect weight in his lap or the taste of this warm tongue or the sound of muffled breaths. He puts his flat palms at the base of Dennis’ spine, memorizing the dip of his lithe muscles meeting in the middle as he slides his hands up, lifting Dennis’ shirt as he goes, the hem bunching at his wrists. He pushes up until they have to break apart to pull the cloth over Dennis’ head, the pale expanse of his skin revealed to Robby.
He wastes no time in returning his hands to Dennis’ body, though now he takes the time to drink in the remnants of a farmer’s muscles, firm and resistant beneath his fingers, hidden under a layer of softness. Dark nipples stand stark against light skin, a strawberry blush beginning to rise high on Dennis’ chest under Dr. Robby’s scrutiny and it’s practically irresistible. He wraps his lips around a pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue gently, and revels in the way Dennis presses himself hard onto Robby like he just can’t hold himself up.
Desperate fingers cling to Robby, digging into his flesh and gripping at his hair. He can feel the soft fullness of Dennis’ ass on his thighs and their erections grazing against each other with every breath, ghosting the sweet satisfaction of desperately needed friction. He trails his hands down the curve of Dennis’ back, spreading his fingers wide and taking his time to admire. The tips of his pinkies butt up against the rough denim of Dennis’ jeans; a small gap in the back reveals the elastic band of his boxers and Robby dares to slip his fingers between the tight band and Dennis’ skin, catching a feel of a few hidden inches.
This makes Dennis grind down, the weight of his body pressing hard on Robby. He groans with the ache of want and abandons Dennis’ swollen nipple, a string of spit snapping from between them as he grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in for another biting kiss. Slowly, he reaches between them and puts his hand over the front of Dennis’ pants, kneading at his hard-on, appreciating the painful tightening of hands on his shoulders. A whine escapes Dennis’ throat that makes Robby only want to push his luck even more. His fingers skritch at the tightly woven denim, his fingertips burning as they rub along the hard fabric and he can feel his own cock twitching in his pants. He makes use of the doctoral skill of his hands as he unbuttons Dennis’ jeans, eyes closed, with one hand knotted in his coarse hair.
The button slides through the hole, his pants popping open unceremoniously. He pulls the zipper over metal teeth, the plaid of his underwear showing itself through the opening. Dr. Robby follows the sparse procession of blonde from Dennis’ belly button down to the thick patch of hairs at the base of his erection. Robby wraps his around and gently squeezes, pumping the shaft as much as he can manage in the confined space behind Dennis’ zipper.
He breaks from Robby’s mouth suddenly and lets out a lewd, open-mouthed moan, his eyes closed in pleasure. He drops his forehead and plants it heavily on Robby’s shoulder, the folds of his stomach cradling the back of Robby’s hand as he works Dennis up and down. He pulls his hand out, freeing Dennis from his pants and eyes the full length of him. The tip is flushed and leaking like an overripe berry, the weight of it pleasantly heavy in Robby’s hand. He swipes his thumb over the sensitive hole, catching the poised droplets, making Dennis flinch, his stomach flexing against the shock. He’s breathing hard alongside Dennis, his mouth hovering over the long tendon pulled between Dennis’ neck and shoulder creating a humid damp spot on his hot skin. His heart is beating hard with unrestrained desire as he methodically pulls the tight skin on Dennis’ cock, making him rock his hips in time with the movement. He’s pushing his face as far as it will go in the crook of Robby’s neck, hiding away as he moans.
Picking up his speed, Robby bites kisses into Dennis’ neck, sucking on the tender flesh, listening to the perfect tempo of breathy moans and throaty groans. He can feel a wet spot impressing on his own pants, but his own pleasure is so far from his mind as he is drowning in the need to deliver some well deserved admiration to his student.
It sounds like Dennis is biting his lip as he gets louder and louder, until he grabs Robby’s wrist and lifts his head. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, his chest heaving with exertion. “You, too.”
He looks down between them at Robby’s fully clothed body and the erection straining painfully against his pants. Dennis’ eyebrows are pointed up in the way they do that accentuates his hopeless eyes, the tips of his ears and the peaks of his cheeks rushed with blood and pink. When Robby doesn’t make an effort to move, Dennis reaches for his zipper and button, undoing them. Robby watches as he works and he’s reminded of the hospital, all of the times he’s stood on the sidelines and waited as his doctors proved themselves to him. He supposes he likes this position, watching, letting the people around him find the strength within themselves that he could never find in himself.
Dennis tugs down his pants and underwear as much as the stiff clothes will budge. Robby’s cock bobs against his stomach, the dripping precum sticking to the soft brown hair beneath his belly and Dennis gazes at it for a moment before finding the courage to wrap his nimble fingers around it. His mouth falls open slightly as he concentrates on guiding his hand up and down, not too hard, not too soft. Robby watches the hand moving and knits his eyebrows together tightly, admiring the stark contrast of this thin, pale hand gripping his reddened erection. It’s a little clumsy, obvious that this is probably the first handjob Dennis has given, but that makes it feel all the better. Selfishly, Robby wants to be the definitive First Time that Dennis didn’t know he was getting.
He pulls him into another kiss, their tongues pushing and pulling, and Robby puts his hand back on Dennis and resumes his rhythm. They’re sweating against each other, licking and rubbing their bodies together like animals. It’s not enough for all of the horrible things Robby has done in his life, he knows that he will have to fuck Dennis, but he can’t stop this now, so he pulls his hand back and pushes them apart.
He holds his hand in front of Dennis and commands, “Spit.”
“What?” he says, mind swimming with too much arousal to think clearly.
“Spit in my hand.”
He doesn’t hesitate, then, grabbing Robby’s hand and angling it before working his mouth to procure a wet string of saliva that forms a pool in his palm. He watches silently as Robby takes that wetted hand and wraps it around their cocks, lining them up and pressing them atop one another, slicking them up. His big hand fits comfortably around both of them and Dennis grabs his shoulder as he feels the heat from Robby’s shaft on his own.
“Oh!” Dennis breathes.
Robby begins to move his hand, the saliva and precum aiding in gliding his palm easily up and down. He squeezes his fingers, trying to get the pressure just right, and Dennis moans. He drops his head to Robby’s shoulder again, and falls victim to the feeling of Robby rubbing against him. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt this way, this primal need to put his hands on a body, to claw and rip and kiss and fuck. He’s had girlfriends before, sure, but he’s always the polite, caring, doting sort, never allowed to lose himself to the grit and nasty lust that men carry within them.
Their swollen tips bump against each other and it makes his head spin as he hears the moans falling from Dennis become more frantic. His mind is swimming with pleasure, the hot breath on his neck and the twitching of aching hips rubbing up against his legs, it feels like he could start a fire.
“I-I think,” Dennis pleads, “I think I’m gunna cum.”
Dr. Robby mouths at the sensitive spot behind Dennis’ ear and keeps his pace, listening to every breath to predict the very moment Dennis orgasms. He scrapes his teeth against Dennis’ neck and then his body is tensing under Robby, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise, as he cries out. Hot ropes of cum shoot onto Robby’s stomach, covering his cock, and he can feel his grip get slicker with it. Hearing Dennis crack his voice in pure pleasure from Robby’s hands makes his heart swell with unabashed pride and greedy hunger. He cums only moments later, mixing it with Dennis’ on his stomach, and they nearly collapse from the crash of adrenaline.
They don’t move as they breathe heavily together, trying to regain their senses and bring themselves back to where they were before they fell into hot kisses and heavy hands. Robby is almost scared to move because he knows it will launch them into the After, the harsh reality of who they are now, the unknown people they’ve transformed themselves into by crossing this threshold. He does it anyway, removing his hand from between them, sticky with cooling cum, and Dennis lifts his head.
He looks down at the aftermath and then at Dr. Robby and a quiet panic begins to break out on his face, the calm air settling heavy over his body.
“I-I’m sorry, I—” he starts to shift his weight and move from Robby’s lap, but before he can swing his leg over, Robby puts his clean hand on his cheek and presses another kiss to his mouth, catching him just before he escapes like a rabbit in a trap.
Though, maybe he should be feeling stomach clenching regret, all he really feels is relief; finally, he’s allowed to succumb to the desperation, he’s been given permission. He was alone, all this time, alone with the thought that maybe it’s just him, that no one else could understand or care enough to.
He pulls back and looks Dennis in the face, keeping his hand on his hollow cheek, “Didn’t you tell me once I have nothing to be sorry for?”
He raises his eyebrows in question, stroking his thumb over Dennis’ skin. If there’s anyone that should ever apologize, it should be him. He’s the one that has put everyone around him through things they didn’t deserve, Dennis now at the top of that list. He should’ve never provoked him, should’ve been the mature one, the one to tell him no, but he was too selfish and that’s no one’s fault but his own.
“Don’t apologize,” Robby says, his tone soft, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
They search each other’s eyes for a moment, and Robby waits for Dennis to understand that he means what he says, that he should be the only to bear the brunt of the guilt. When he finally nods, Robby gives him a little smile, just a small quirk of his lips, just enough to show him that it’s all okay.
They untangle themselves from each other and Robby makes his way to the bathroom. The overhead light seems too bright as he flicks it on, blinding and too real. He turns on the faucet and grabs a rag, letting the water get warm before dampening it. He wipes the cum from his stomach, scrubbing it gently from the hair there, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s just done.
He slips his hands under the stream of water, closing his eyes as the warmth spreads from his fingertips over his entire body. He liked what they did, he more than liked it, he wanted it so badly his skin was burning with it and briefly, he remembered how it felt to need something, to want to feel everything all at once, even if it hurt. The water is turning his hands pink with the heat, and he stares at them, watching as his veins grow wide and fat. Is this about Dennis or is this about him? Is he even capable of opening himself up again? Though it feels more like closing himself up around someone else like a venus flytrap, like he could swallow them whole and force them to dissolve into the poison that is his life. It feels like he’s been wide open this entire time, a prize rose and its delicate flowers drowned out by too much rain, and he doesn’t know how to be anything else, anymore.
He hears the snap of a floorboard before he sees Dennis appear in the doorframe. “Dr. Robby?”
Robby turns the faucet off and dries his hands, hiding away as he does. He looks to Dennis then, as he leans against the sink, and sees him so small under the frame, and he feels so, so sorry. Dennis looks so unsure, afraid, and Robby has maybe never wanted anything more. He rests his hands on the porcelain edge so as to keep his hands to himself, though, he supposes, he doesn’t need to anymore. He thinks is free to touch, to hold, but maybe Dennis saw right through him and knows that this was an act of desperation, of instinct, of survival.
He takes a step into the cramped bathroom, his socked feet silent on the tile. A long silence stretches between them where it seems no words are good enough, too grand or not grand enough. Robby wishes he has something to confess, something that would make all of his actions explainable, but he’s destitute in reasoning, and he couldn’t embarrass Dennis by admitting he did all that because he had no reason. It would be too cruel, so he stands in the quiet and tries to think of a kind way to say ‘it felt good and I wish it meant more or less that what it meant to you.’
“Um, I—,” Dennis starts. He clears his throat and looks at his feet, his mouth tight with unformed words. “—I liked that and, um, I hope you did, too.”
He looks up, sheepish and Robby takes pity on him. He nods his head once, “Yeah, I did.”
“Good, I’m glad,” he breathes in relief. He rubs his hands on his jeans and sneaks another step closer. “I just—um—I didn’t do any of that because I felt sorry for you. I just want you to know that…I…um, really do…care about you.”
And for all of the cruel things Robby may have done in his life, for all of the things he’s said and can’t take back, he chooses to believe Dennis, just this once. He reaches a hand out and Dennis comes to him. They wrap around each other in a hug, Dennis’ arms circling around Robby’s ribs perfectly, like they were made for each other. Robby kisses his hair.
“Thank you,” he says, and strokes the back of his head. “Thank you.”
Water drips from the spout, punctuating every second passing around them. Robby can’t say he’ll acquit himself of his past, or even his future, just because he’s been forgiven by one virtuous man, but he will try to hold him closer than he might’ve. Though he may not be absolved for the worst that has happened to him, for the worst that he has done, he will bathe himself in the momentary deservedness. He wants to understand what Dennis sees in him, wants to be able to see the same in himself even when he’s all alone. Even if he can’t see it, maybe he can learn to transform into the kind of man that a good person like Dennis would need. He can try, and through doing, maybe he can become.