Archive of Our Own

"Hey, stranger," Robby throws over his shoulder as soon as he hears the front door open.

"Hi," Jack says, peeling off his coat. The cold September air squeezes past him and ghosts up Robby's back. Shivering, he makes an urgent gesture for Jack to close the door, which he does. He approaches the army of bowls littering the kitchen counter, surrounding a single baking dish. One is filled with ricotta, another with shredded Mozzarella, another with broccoli, another with spinach, and well-browned beef sizzles on a burner closest to the cluster. "What're you making?"

Robby tells him, "Homemade lasagna," as he places a noodle along the bottom of the sauce-laden pan.

"I love lasagna," he says fondly.

"I know." He preens, "I made the sauce from scratch."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. Roasted the tomatoes over the flame, made a little garlic confit, the whole nine miles."

"Oh, keep talking dirty to me," he says, earning a chuckle from Robby as he watches him layer the ricotta, smearing it flat with a wooden spoon.

Robby adds tantalizingly, "And I'm going to make some garlic bread, too."

"Fuck, I'm starving." He pats his stomach for good measure.

"Want a beer?"

"Do I want a beer?" Jack echoes, deadpan, the answer obvious; he swings the fridge open to help himself. He cracks the cap off on the countertop for one, then a second bottle. As he sips, he peers over into the fixings. Out of the corner of his eye, Robby watches him pluck a steamed broccoli flower out of the designated bowl and eat it.

The baking dish is soon full to the brim, and Robby carefully feeds it onto the oven's metal rack. A blast of pleasant warm air hits his face as he closes it. He takes the second bottle from Jack's hand when he offers; the glass cools his palm.

"Should be done in about forty minutes," he says. He swings his head back to drain as much of the beer as he can in one go.

"Yum," Jack hums along.

They linger together at the counter. Quiet, they nurse their beers and listen to the low clicking sounds of the oven firing.

"You don't usually come over for dinner," Robby says, stepping lightly.

"It was like a pie on a windowsill, man," Jack replies. "Smelled it three blocks down." In the corner of his eye, Jack scavenges what's left of the Mozzarella out of the bowl and makes his face innocent when he glances over in full. He says, "So, you just went through all the trouble of making a nice homemade lasagna for... yourself?"

He cants his head as if to say, 'Touché.' The bottle lingers at his bottom lip. "I'm learning that I like to cook."

"You've always liked to cook."

The smell of roasted garlic wafts through the oven's glass door, accompanied by the sharp sting of tomato. Robby says, "I was planning on divvying it up into lunches and putting them into the break room fridge. Way more than I could eat normally."

He shakes his head in consideration, says, "I don' know, I think that if you believed in yourself, you could house a couple 'a slices," as he gestures at the dish with his beer.

Sighing, amused, Robby adjusts his statement to: "Maybe I'm learning that I like to feed people."

"Three hours of work is a hell of a way to start that tradition."

"More than," he supplements; Jack raises his eyebrows as if to argue that he was only proving his point. He hides behind a sip of beer. "It beats three hours of sitting quietly with myself."

He says easily, "True, that."

As the cheese starts to bubble, adding to the savory aroma clouding around them, Jack leans off the counter and limps to sit on the first island stool he sees. He murmurs, "Wasn't there a game on, tonight?"

Robby makes a face of consideration and pads around him, glancing past the plane of his back and into the living room. The curl behind Jack's ear reveals itself as he looks, too. The television rotates through bland advertisements, and although the pre-season hockey schedule lists out that there is indeed a game coming within the hour, he tells Jack, "I don't know if I'm feeling like drunkenly screaming at a TV tonight, to be honest with you."

"You should sit down," he agrees, patting the seat beside him.

He can't argue with that. His knees voice their annoyance as he lowers himself on the offered stool. The counter is ice-cold when he props himself on his forearms, but he finds it ultimately soothing, having hovered his fingertips over flame and red-hot oven-gut. His lower back hurts. He couldn't have been on his feet for that long.

They sit beside each other, in the same formation as when they were standing, lingering like they had always been there, and were always going to be.

After a long while, Jack breaks the silence by complaining, "Man, I'm fucking hungry."

"Patience is a virtue," Robby replies. The other gives him some sort of stink eye. He goes to take another sip of his beer and finds it empty. So, instead, he faces him directly and asks, "How was last night off?"

"Not as restful as I thought it was going to be."

"No?"

"Unh-uh." Jack seals his mouth around the rim of his beer like a pollinator seeking every drop of nectar he can get from it. Robby looks away. "I think my neighbors have a split-custody thing going on. Guy next door brought a gaggle of kids home with him – I mean, I'm talking half a dozen of them, all under 10. Maybe one of 'em was eleven. Those kids screamed and threw themselves off things in the backyard all night. Just screamed and screamed and screamed. Ruined any chance I had of getting a good amount of sleep."

"How dare those children play in a safe neighborhood," Robby remarks, his voice gravelly with sarcasm. Jack knocks him with an elbow.

He piles on, "Don't they know a night shift attending lives next door? Ugh, so entitled."

Robby chuckles. In a flash, his hands twitch to take their bottles and supply them with two more, but instead, he keeps himself still to watch Jack's face crinkle against the warm orange light emanating from the oven.

Jack dips his chin and playfully bats his eyes. "How was work, Honey?"

"Just fine, Sweetums." He flutters his eyelashes back. "It was okay. The usual."

"Mm?"

He wracks his brain, unknowingly making a face to pair with it; he supplies, "Some guy managed to cut his hand down to the bone with one of those little churchkey can openers. Probably the most bloody thing I've seen in a while."

Jack says reasonably, "They are made to open things."

It makes him laugh out loud. He barks a laugh that visibly startles the other man, hiding by pretending to drink from his empty bottle. Finally, he stands, takes Jack's beer, and asks him, "What's your schedule for the week look like?"

"I managed to steal another night off tonight," he says as Robby tosses the bottles into the recycling and shuffles through the fridge for another pair.

"Jack Abbot? Pilfering two days off in a row? Who are you?"

"I know, I know."

He pops the caps and Jack reaches for his claim like muscle memory. They have been doing this for years, he reasons to himself. They drink in unison.

Jack snarks, "What about you, Dr. Robinavitch? Shouldn't you be working on getting some sleep before your shift tomorrow?"

"I, uh...," he replies, suddenly sheepish, working his hands together, "also got the day off."

"Well, look at that. Perfect. It's almost like I knew your schedule or something."

"Like how you knew I was making dinner."

"That was a genuine coincidence," he says.

Robby huffs one laugh, still not believing him, unties the plastic bag on the counter that holds his pre-sliced bread. It's fluffy, just barely giving under his fingertips. Thick, flour-dusted crust, just how he likes it. If he were any more ambitious, he would have made his own, but what's in the oven after a twelve-hour shift is a miracle already. He passes out slices onto a sheetpan until he guesses both their servings, then a few more.

"Let me help," Jack offers. He even drags over a coaster to set his beer.

"No." He says, "Your leg is bothering you."

"When is it not?" Still, stubbornly, the other hops off the stool and searches his pantry for the good Parmesan he knows Robby has.

"Is it still from that sore on your calf?"

"My doctor and I were thinking of naming her 'Gloria'." He gets out the cheese and seasonings and brings the leftover mozzarella over.

"Don't name it. You'll get attached." Robby eyes him as he butters each slice. He uses a little more than if he were serving himself. "You know, walking on the leg is only doing more to piss it off."

"Yeah, yeah. I have better things to do than sit here and get drunk," Jack grouses.

"Yeah, like sitting on the couch with an ice pack on it until dinner's ready. Here," he says, offering a buttered slice. "To keep you busy."

With a scowl pinched under one nostril, Jack takes it with a paper towel as a plate and ambles toward the living room. He says, "I don't want to have to take the leg off."

"You don't have to. Just take your weight off it for a minute." Robby fishes an ice pack out of the freezer with one hand, tosses it at him, and raises his brows when he catches it with barely a glance.

Jack grumbles something to himself but does as told. As Robby sprinkles the seasonings and cheese over the sheetpan, the characteristic blaring horns of a Penguins game shout from the other room. He can't help but smirk, thinking about Jack luxuriating in his nice sound system and plush sofa, slightly drunk, munching on a piece of well-buttered bread.

He slides the sheetpan onto the rack beside the bubbling baking dish and lets them get acquainted. As he nurses his beer, he leans over the island to watch the game over Jack's head.

When his timer squawks at him, he sets both dishes on his stovetop to cool. Jack appears again when the aroma blasts through the house. His nose is tipped up; he might as well be wagging his tail. Smiling, preening, Robby cuts them healthy servings and the other helps himself to the darkest slices of bread. Asking the question with a raised eyebrow, Robby gestures to the wine rack in his pantry, and Jack shakes his head. Steam caresses their faces as they gather together at the dining table.

Jack groans around the first bite like he hasn't eaten in days. He must be burning his tongue. Doesn't seem to care. Robby, flattered, blows gently on his forkful of steaming lasagna.

"This is fucking delicious," Jack says around a crunch of bread.

He returns, "Thank you."

The rich flavors of tomato, cheese, and well-seasoned meat warm his stomach and melt his expression into something gooey. He chews slowly to savor it. Jack does the complete opposite. He uses the bread as a vessel to more efficiently shovel the perfect ratio of carbs and cheese into his mouth, soaking up any excess sauce with the fluffy bellies of his slices. Robby has long since learned to take it as a compliment.

When Jack is about halfway finished, buttered up with good food, Robby begins, "So, you have another night off..."

The other man stops mid-bite.

"Do you... want to spend the night?"

"Oh," he says, placing the bread back down onto the plate to rearrange its fixings. "I mean... I wasn't really thinking about... spending the night, you know. I don't mean that in a bad way–"

Robby says, "You think I'm talking about sex."

Jack's pile topples over. He replies, as if it's obvious, "What else would you be talking about?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. "Just... spending the night."

"Hm." He shifts in his seat, a mirror to the adjustment he's making in his mind.

Robby says, palms open, "You know, winding down together, maybe watching a movie, sleeping in the same bed."

"Haven't done that before."

"I know," he says. The food waits patiently underneath him, and he wishes he'd drunk a little more liquid courage, because then he'd at least be better at selling it. "I don't know. Just thought it'd be nice. Forget it."

"No, no, I want to. Not saying no. I'm just thinking about logistics," Jack soothes. "I'll have to leave and come back with my go-bag. I didn't think to pack it."

"That's fine."

He adds, speaking more to himself, "And bring my wheelchair."

Robby nods to show he'd heard him. A lasagna noodle trembles at the end of his fork. He wonders if that's the end of it when Jack suddenly says, "Wait, did you think you had to bribe me so I'd spend time with you?"

"No...," he says sheepishly, "You just happened to be here already. Thought it'd be nice."

"You didn't wonder why I chose tonight off?" Jack tilts his head like a curious dog.

One eye wincing, he says, "Did you want to have sex?"

"Maybe at first." The other waves him off. "But I can live without it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Gloria is bothering me."

"I don't want to think about any kind of Gloria while talking about having sex with you."

Jack laughs into his bite. Despite the knot twisting nervously in his chest, Robby laughs along; it slowly uncoils. With the agreement made, they eat with more ease than before. He gives Jack a second serving and divvies the rest into some cheap food prep containers that he knows he'll never see again.

Jack pats his stomach as he stands, satisfied, adding the plate to the pile in the sink. He stretches. Groans. Robby, amused, starts the hot water.

He announces, "'Kay, gonna run over there, quick. Be right back."

"Here, wait," Robby says. Quickly, he clicks the lids closed over two fat slices of lasagna. He holds them out in a stack. "Put these in your fridge."

Humming in approval, Jack takes them. He neglects to take his coat when he leaves, closes the door behind him before the night air gets a chance to chill the brownstone again. Still, Robby shivers. The oven is slowly calming. He might be sweating from lingering near it too long. His ear perks when the rumble of Jack's car erupts and then diminishes as he cruises out of the neighborhood.

Robby slowly-but-surely dismantles his mountain of dishes, scrubbing until his fingertips start to prune. Then, when he only has a handful of utensils left, there comes a thud at his front door. He wipes his hands haphazardly and rushes to it, swinging it open; Jack has just finished hiking his go-bag over his shoulder, the size of his own torso.

"Hey– can you help me out? Bring the wheelchair in?" he says as a greeting.

Grunting, Robby pushes the door as far as it can go to let the other shoulder through, and taps his cold feet down the patio steps. The car has its trunk open like a mouth. He carefully wrangles the wheelchair out from where Jack tucked it carefully inside. It's Jack's favorite, and the one he's had the longest. The large wheels pitch inward ever so slightly, and the back stretches to only meet his first ribs. No handlebars, either, which makes it a little precarious for Robby to set it down in his front doorway and guide it forward, setting his palm in the center of the back panel.

"Wanna finish the game first?" Jack suggests, to which Robby makes a noncommittal sound before following him to his bedroom.

Jack has been in his bedroom plenty of times before. The only difference is that he has never stayed in it for more than a few hours at a time. Still, it's muscle memory. His eyes are practically closed, feeling his way through the house, and finally, he drops the bag at the foot of Robby's bed.

He asks, "What do you think about showering together?"

And Robby replies, "My shower isn't big enough to fit both of us," as he rolls the wheelchair perpendicular to where Jack now sits, so he can swing himself into the seat with ease.

"Not with that attitude." His leg hisses sharply as he cracks the seal, sighing in relief. The bag nudges at his lower back. "I'm surprised we haven't tried before."

"Can I look at your leg?" Robby asks.

The other makes a face. He props the leg aside and peels off the liner. An angry, red blotch seethes just near the crease of his inner knee, reaching down to what's left of his calf. He says, "Let me clean it first. Maybe some hot water and soap'll do'er good."

"I have some for sensitive skin," he begins, gesturing to the cabinet through the open bathroom door. Jack waves him off.

"I'll be fine." He places himself in his wheelchair, fishes in the bag with one hand for his toiletries, and puts the bottles on his lap. He hoists himself forward in bursts like a jellyfish. He struggles with the carpet, but maneuvers into the bathroom alright. Robby closes the door for him.

The shower has had a bench and a railing for years, if not for Jack's leg, then as a kindness to Robby's knees. He knows Jack manages fine. Still, he can't help but think about how his other must be throwing himself around with Herculean effort in such a cramped space. Because Jack forgot, he rummages through his go-bag for a change of clothes; just a pair of plain blue sweats, a sleep shirt, and some boxers. He smiles. They wear the same brand and style of boxers. How did he not know that before? He supposes he wasn't exactly paying attention to the brand of Jack's underwear when he would go to take them off. A handful of minutes later, when a frustrated shout soaks through the bathroom door, Robby squeezes an arm inside and provides him with the clothes.

Then, he goes to his dresser and drapes a pair of boxers and a tank top over his forearm. He isn't really looking for something to wear, just grabbing the first thing he sees from each drawer. He sits on the bed and waits. Yawns.

Wrestling the door open, Jack grumbles to himself. Steam billows out from behind him, framing his silhouette in it, following with a soothing sandalwood scent. Robby imagines the label on his body wash reads "aromatherapy." His curls are slightly frizzed from being towel-dried, sticking out in this or that direction. The skin around his nose and eyes glistens.

Robby shuffles over to give him space on the bed. Jack transfers easily from the wheelchair and spends some time folding his old clothes. Robby knows that he knows he's only delaying the inevitable.

"Used your towel," Jack announces quietly. "Sorry."

"Let me see your leg."

He flattens his mouth into a line. After returning the clothes inside the same sleeve as the change had been, he lugs the bag onto the floor. Then, he leans back and rolls the pant leg up to expose his residual limb. Robby slowly maps the sore with his fingertips, he tilts Jack's calf toward the ceiling, earning a small grunt as the angry skin stretches; it looks more flushed than before, but that might be from the hot water.

"Looks like a friction rash," Robby says. "One that got away from you."

Jack 'mmm's, then supposes, "I think I've been losing weight. The socket's too loose. Liner gets sweaty, can't breathe, too much friction, pinching. Ergo., Gloria."

"Do you need to get refitted?"

"Just need to bulk up a little." Smiling to himself, the other pats his stomach. "If your cooking keeps up, maybe I'll have some help with that."

"You say that like this is a one-time thing." Robby internally catalogues his bathroom cabinet for anything that might soothe the skin. He lets go of his limb, but Jack hovers it in the air for some time more, pointing the bottom plane of his calf toward the fan above.

"I mean, like, cooking enough to share."

"I know that's what you meant. I don't necessarily plan to commit to it, but I want to do it more often." Jack eyes him, as if he's made his point for him. He says, "What?"

His other shrugs and looks away, setting the leg down to air out atop the sheets. "Nothin'."

"Are you going to tell me I have commitment issues when I asked you to come to bed with me?"

"Is this committing?"

It's Robby's turn to make a face. He doesn't answer. Instead, he lifts himself onto his feet and walks slowly into the bathroom. There's an ancient tub of vaseline in his cabinet; it might be good for Jack's leg. He puts it on the counter as a bookmark. He showers in the hottest water he can stand. The suds cascade down his body and trick him into thinking that fingertips are caressing his spine. Sandalwood slowly dissipates and is replaced by rich pinecone and honey, rough, woody, but slightly sweet.

He lets himself air-dry, standing just before his toilet because he doesn't think he'll get up if he sits. He stares at the towel Jack draped over the shower's curtain rod. Sharing a towel might as well have been sex. He puts on deodorant. Scratches his lower back.

Quietly, before he leaves, he loops the Magen David around his neck. The little star filters beneath his tank like it knows where to go. He opens the door, and Jack gives him a little wave from his wheelchair; a toothbrush and blue floss container keep him from opening his fingers, but Robby understands the greeting – smiles back. He rolls in front of the sink. Robby tiptoes around the wheels, pressing himself against the door to make room.

"Your house is so small," Jack says absentmindedly. He hoists himself up to stand and leans his hips against the countertop for balance. As Robby mumbles, "Sorry," he gets his things comfortable on the countertop, huddled in a corner along with a dedicated glass that Robby takes from the cabinet.

They brush their teeth side by side. Robby finds it strangely intimate. His toothbrush is black, and Jack's is green; his boxers cling to his hips, and Jack's peek out from between his shirt and sweats, almost scandalous. Robby can't help but stare at the strip of gray waistband fabric as he scrubs noncommittally at his molars. Jack looks almost rabid, foam collecting at the corners of his mouth as he brushes with fervor.

He and Robby work in tandem, one rinsing their mouth while the other spits into the sink three times over. Then, Jack flosses, leaning forward into the mirror to work the fiber between his teeth with the precision of a sewing machine. Robby wipes his mouth with a nearby towel. Not the towel Jack used, but he can imagine it is.

"You're not goin' to floss?" Jack says when he pulls away toward the bedroom.

"I can barely brush on a good day," Robby says.

"Gotta take care of them or you lose them, man."

"Yeah, I know."

Jack peels back his cheek to get behind his canines. He stares into his mouth. "My dad was a smoker out of the womb, got shitty genetics from his father, and when he was my age, he had all of his teeth pulled out and replaced with dentures because they were so bad."

"Wow," Robby hums.

"Uh-huh. I am determined," he says, reworking the floss around his fingers, "to not let that happen to me."

"That's, uh, a good intention."

Jack places the blue floss container on Robby's side of the sink with a passive-aggressive thunk. In reply, he taps the lid of the Vaseline container. They stare at each other in a stalemate. Blinking slowly, Robby folds his towel, drapes it over the shower's curtain bar, and leaves. His bed welcomes him like an old friend; a dip the shape of his body has been honed into the left side. He pulls aside three layers of blankets and sits in the empty space.

He lingers upright and listens as Jack returns to his wheelchair and hoists himself over the lip between tile and carpet.

"You know I'm probably not going to sleep, right?" he says to Robby's back; he leans and locks his wheels. "I'm basically nocturnal."

"I think that's actually called insomnia, Jack," Robby says. Glancing back, he suffocates the urge to reach out and help the other from his seat.

"Tomato, tomahto." Jack thunks the bag onto the floor, ruffles the covers out of his way on the right side of the bed. He swings himself onto the mattress, and Robby expects him to immediately lie back, but instead, he tucks his thumbs in the hem of his sweats and peels them off. With a quiet 'hup,' he bounces to get the pants out from under himself; Robby finds it incredibly endearing.

"There's no shame in trying," he says.

Jack wobbles his head in consideration. He takes off his sleep shirt, too. The muscles in his shoulders are even more defined in the low light. Freckles like paint flung from bristles spatter down to his mid-back and elbows. Robby thinks he might blush. He looks away.

"If you need a blanket taken off, just let me know," Robby tells him when he settles back onto the pillows; in a mirror, he feeds himself into the cocoon feet first.

"Nah," Jack hums. "I run cold at night."

"Me, too."

"You run cold all the time."

"Yeah." Trying not to feel like a show-off, he flips the corner of his duvet and clicks on the heated blanket hidden underneath.

"Ooh." Jack brings the layers up to his chest. Shuffles deeper into the embrace of the mattress. It must be comfortable. It's sometimes too firm for Robby, but he knows less support would throw his back into all sorts of fits.

He hums, "You mind if I turn the TV on?" as he paws blindly around his bedside table for the remote. He first knocks into his phone and then his watch.

"No. Go ahead."

Robby throws on his readers just to peek at the buttons; the TV's waking sequence makes them both wince, a blast of white across their faces. After waiting for the channel menu to load, the light softening to a deep blue, Robby hovers one finger over the power button. Jack hums a question.

He says, pointing the remote at the screen, "Never mind. I think I'm going to be fine."

"I'd prefer if there was some background noise, actually," Jack refutes. He's since sunken deeper into the covers. He must enjoy the warmth.

"You're not just pulling my leg?" He sounds incredulous.

"No." He shakes his head.

"...Okay."

Their heads slowly hover closer together as Robby squints through the channel selection menu. He cycles until they discover one dedicated to Laverne & Shirley reruns.

Jack says in approval, "I grew up with this."

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm." He continues as Robby sets the remote back where he got it from – taps the volume down so they can barely hear it, "You ever notice how it's always two names? Laverne and Shirley, Mork and Mindy, Sanford and Son... why is that?"

"Well, a comedy duo is called a comedy duo for a reason. They need the personalities to bounce off each other to keep the story going. A guy talking to himself for fifty minutes isn't a comedy. It's just sad." Fabric rustles lowly as Robby buries himself deeper.

The opening credits play; Laverne and Shirley, looped at the elbows, hop in pattern while shouting, "One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight! Schlemiel! Schlimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!"

"Man, I miss Mork and Mindy," Jack says. His face is tipped toward Robby, but he watches the screen. "Remember Robin Williams would hold his hands up? You know? What was it he'd say?"

"I can't remember." He fluffs the pillow underneath his head and sets himself down again.

"'Nah'... 'nah'-something."

Tired, mostly blind, Robby hovers a finger in front of Jack's lips. "Shh..."

Jack crosses his arms. Closes his mouth like somebody pinched it. He almost looks like he's pouting. But he does hush. Robby puts his hand back at his side. There are only small rustles as they finally settle to sleep, shifting this or that way, crossing or uncrossing their ankles under the covers; Jack tucks his foot under the opposite calf to warm it– hisses at the rash. On the TV, Laverne says something up an open pipe to their neighbors, but the volume is so low that Robby couldn't make anything out if he tried.

The sounds soothe the white noise inside Robby's skull. His thoughts go hazy. Jack breathes in, out, in, out, as well-timed as a machine. He finds himself mirroring it. It takes a while for him to sink under the current of sleep, but the next time he opens his eyes he realizes about twenty minutes have passed. The closing credits play.

Again, he wakes when the right side of the bed creaks.

"Taking a piss," Jack whispers to him, legs hanging off the mattress, hands braced on either side of him. "Go back to sleep."

By the time Jack returns, Robby has forgotten why he was gone. He hums curiously, so near to sleep that his limbs are numb. Jack hums back to affirm, likely not sure what question he's answering. Even so, he settles, satisfied.

Robby dreams about walking down the beach. The sun smiles into his face, warming his skin, making him smile back. He turns and Santos is there. He doesn't think about why. She hands him a beer bottle, and they both have hair nets on.

"Are you even old enough to drink?" he asks.

"I'm 46," Santos replies, sneering in offense.

"Oh," he says, "Sorry."

A cursive "L" is stitched into the plain blue overalls she tugs at the straps of. After she downs half her beer in one easy gulp, she points out into the sea. "The patient in North 5 is hemorrhaging."

Robby puts his own beer in his pocket, pulls on yellow dishwashing gloves, and starts walking into the water. "Okay. Thank you for telling me."

"Do you think you can save this?" Jack asks. He walks beside Robby, meeting him step for step; the seam of his scar is obscured by the waterline.

"I don't know." His voice is low. Too low. He doesn't think Jack can hear him through the sloshing waves. The water shocks cold in his groin. He keeps pushing forward.

"Myrna might have the right clamps we need if the clamshell won't reverse on its own," Jack says.

"You'll have to ask her."

"Robby," Jack says.

"Do you want this? I think it's cream soda. I don't know where I got it from." Robby takes the bottle from his back pocket and pops the lid open. Sweet foam erupts over his fingers. Quickly, he licks his bare knuckles to save the mess, and Jack's stare intensifies. The water tickles just beneath their ribs.

"Robby."

Sharply, he says, "It's cream soda, not that $300 malt scotch you drink. What do you want from me?"

A hand jostles Robby's shoulder.

"Robby, wake up," Jack has just finished saying.

"Muh?" He lifts his head suddenly, peeling his eyes open by working his knuckles into them.

The other is sitting up straight; he almost looms over him, face sagging as he murmurs, "You're snoring. I can't sleep."

"Sorry."

"It didn't sound great. Like it was hard to get air in. You think you have sleep apnea or something?"

Robby doesn't reply. He rests his hands idly over his stomach. The heated blanket has done its work. Combined with Jack's warmth beside him, he is almost starting to sweat.

Jack remarks to himself, "If I knew I was going to be sleeping next to a lawnmower..."

He huffs, "It wasn't that bad."

"You wouldn't know! You were sleeping." He throws up a hand as part of his argument. The TV screen reflects in his curls, which glow nearly white against the dozenth go-around of opening credits. "There's no way nobody before me said anything."

Robby doesn't want to think about anybody before Jack. He sighs in defeat and confesses, "I have a CPAP in a box in the garage somewhere."

"Seriously? And you haven't even opened it up?" Jack replies, shocked.

"I don't need it." He shrugs as best he can in the thick covers.

"You have it, which means either you or your doctor thought you needed it," Jack says. "Let's open it."

"Jack, the first night you're spending here isn't a night where I'd like to wrestle with a CPAP for the first time."

"You don't have any kind of doctor's note telling you how to use it? What kind of doctor sends you home with just a machine?" He shuffles to the edge of the bed, pressing a palm down for balance as he draws his wheelchair toward himself.

"Hey," Robby says; he grabs Jack's bicep weakly. The other continues, undeterred. "I'm my own doctor."

"So you thought you needed one?"

"Yeah, for when I'm in my seventies. Machines are only getting worse in quality. Microwaves, stoves; washing machines break if you even look at them wrong. It's an investment. I'll have the best CPAP in the nursing home. They'll all be fawning over me–"

"Christ." He maneuvers himself back onto the wheelchair's seat, unlocking the wheels with a grunt. The bags under his eyes have darkened since the last time Robby looked into his face; a few hours must have passed. Jack grouses, "Come on. 'm not letting you suffocate during our first night together."

"No, Jack," he weakly protests.

"Yes, Jack." Jack pulls away his warm, warm covers. He grumbles to himself as he gets onto his feet. His now bare legs freeze so quickly he surprises himself.

Still barely awake, he follows behind as Jack navigates back through the house and uses himself as a battering ram to open the door to the garage. Robby leans over his head and holds it open. The room appears quite barren on first glance. His motorcycle only takes up about a third of the floor space, but industrial shelves infest the wall opposite it like a vine. Dusty boxes upon dusty boxes upon cleaners upon tools upon plastic totes containing he can't even remember litter them.

"This is where all of my miscellaneous supplies go to die," Robby announces.

With a smirk, Jack searches them with his eyes. He points out the CPAP machine with a small "ah-ha!", and Robby obediently takes it down.

He ends up sitting on the garage's concrete floor, blowing into his hands to keep them warm. Styrofoam is scattered around Jack's wheelchair. The hair on his arms has lifted in a desperate attempt to save some heat. He has a pair of readers hanging off his nose. Leaning down as far as his back will allow him to, he reads the directions and points at different parts of the machine to orient himself. It looks simple. Dial, screen, headpiece, tubes.

"Look at this facehugger," Jack says, holding up the mask. "No wonder you don't want to use it."

Robby doesn't reply. He subconsciously rubs at his nose when he thinks about putting it on.

He looks at it, then at Robby, and back again. He hums, "Well, it looks easy to operate. Just put it on and press a few buttons."

"You know it won't start working for a few weeks, right?"

"I know how a CPAP works." He drills the words into Robby's head, brows raised, "If you don't start, it's never goin' to start working."

Robby looks away, almost defensively. "I'll just lie on my side," he says.

"Robby," Jack says. "Is it a pride thing?"

"The CPAP?"

He nods. "Yeah. You think you're gonna look like an old man or something? First, it's CPAP, then it's bifocals, then it's nipple-high kakhis..."

"It's not that."

"It's not?"

Robby suggests, "Is this about me snoring?"

"I don' know. Is this about your pride?" he shoots back. Then, he repeats, "If you don't start, it's never goin' to start working, Mike. Just put it on for one night, yeah? One night?"

He squeezes the bones in his knees, says, "Can we go back to bed?"

Jack sighs in defeat. He drops the mask back into the box and wrestles the machine inside, too, a little rough, frustrated. "This is why you never opened it in the first place."

"Hey," Robby grouses.

"Let's just go back to sleep." Jack pushes himself around him with harsh thrusts of his arms. He grunts as he works over the lip beneath the garage door.

Again, Robby follows. He says, "You're upset. Why're you upset?"

"Don't worry about it. I'm tired."

When they return to the bed, lying on either side, back-to-back, Robby hugs himself to battle the childish feeling that he's in trouble. Jack's shoulders are tense. He thinks Jack might bite his head off if he were to accidentally roll onto his back and begin to snore again. He strangles the tiny warm feeling he gets from that.

Jack shifts his head to look at him and murmurs, "For the record, I don't think you'd look like an old man."

Robby sighs. He keeps his gaze forward. Bundles his hands near his face. "It's hard to accept my age at this age."

"Well, I'm right behind you. Literally and metaphorically," Jack says. "Only getting older."

"I know. Sorry."

"I didn't know you apologized so much."

He tilts slightly, changing his mind again about his hands, draping an arm over his stomach; he tells the other, "The only confidence I have is stored in the ED. I borrow it when I walk in and put it back in my locker when I walk out."

Jack's eyes glint against the TV's glow. He says, "Should work on that."

Laverne and Shirley are bickering about something on their couch. Laverne waves a handbook around, pointing at it, gesturing to her counterpart; she seems to give up and storms off stage right into the kitchen.

"Probably," Robby says.

Jack's gaze lingers on him, and he mashes his jawbone into his shoulder to more effectively watch him back.

"You were the star of the show earlier, making dinner. Preening, prancing. Was that not confidence?"

"I get insecure when I'm tired," he says as a joke, but the tone doesn't carry from his head to his mouth. The other's eyebrows pop; he wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

Jack doesn't seem to know how to reply.

"You know," Robby hums, with a lilt, "The CPAP instructions say you should try it on a few times during the day to get used to it. Sleep could get worse if you put it on night one."

"Robby." He scowls.

"I don't want to put you through that."

"I'd have to anyway if this becomes a habit." Jack gestures between the two of them.

Robby flattens his mouth into a line, and Jack does too, making it look a little spiteful. He coos, "Look at us. Already bickering like a married couple."

"You just won't accept that I'm right."

"Yes, Dear."

"Dick. Go to sleep already." With a little smile, Jack shoves him on the shoulder back onto his side.

Though he is also smiling, he struggles to swallow down a knot of anxiety. Jack is still tense. He can feel it. His weight hasn't settled fully into the mattress yet. It takes longer than before to fall back under the current. Robby feeds an arm beneath his pillow and hugs it in a vague sense. There is somebody to hold right behind him. He could turn around. He doesn't.

This time, it takes longer to dream. Vague images of an old apartment flash against his eyes before he finds himself hiking up an endless flight of stairs. One of the steps crumbles as he plants his foot on it. He yelps and rushes to the next landing. His ankle is bleeding. There's a hallway beside him. A small red trail follows him as he walks into it. It looks like the inside of his grandmother's house. He peeks into a section of the wall that's opened like a door; his foot throbs.

At the desk against the farthest wall of his grandmother's bedroom, Jack hunches over a broken watch. Its tiny innards are scattered among his prying tools: cogs, screws, and springs. He holds a beer bottle in front of one eye to look into the gutted calibre.

Robby puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack jerks like a wild animal. His face is red, screwed up in anger.

"I can't fix it," he laments.

"It doesn't look like it needs to be fixed," Robby says. Each minute piece of metal is arranged exactly how it would fit inside the watch, just placed short distances apart. He's never seen the inside of a watch, but he is sure of this. "Put back together, maybe, but not fixed. Nothing's missing."

A small worm wriggles near Jack's pinky, sorted with the prying tools as if it were a tool itself. He grouses, "How're we gonna manage that?"

"I dunno. Start."

His other looks at him like he's said something profound. With a frown, Robby shrugs a shoulder, and can't remember what he said.

Robby wakes when an elbow jabs into his back. He grunts, folding in on himself.

Jack mumbles under his breath – jerks again. He narrowly misses the newborn bruise on Robby's shoulder blade, the side of his hand instead slapping his flank weakly. His face is twisted in fear, or maybe anger.

"Hey," Robby calls. When he plants a palm on the other's shoulder, Jack flinches. He bares his teeth and mutters something again, an instruction. "Hey, Jack. Wake up."

The next time he blinks, Jack is upright. He nearly throws himself off the bed, asleep until he shouts something and opens his eyes. Robby rises with him – grabs his shoulders to still him.

"Hey, hey. Easy," he says.

Jack jerks like a wild animal. He has sand in his eyes. He settles his jaw, dancing his gaze around Robby's expression, who calms himself as much as possible, hoping it will soothe him. Finally, Jack lets go of the breath he caught when he woke, wheezing, strained, "Nightmare."

Robby asks, "What happened?"

He just shakes his head. Shivering, he refuses further, brushing his fingers on his face to shield himself from whatever visions come back to him.

Then, after a moment, he demands, "Pull up your shirt."

"What?"

"Do it, now."

Robby precariously tucks the bedding at his waistband and lifts his tank. Jack paws at his bare stomach, tugging the skin farthest from him into his view. At the worst possible time, Robby's dick twitches, curious at the attention, and he looks up at the ceiling like he's about to pray. He reprimands it in his head. Jack pulls away, visibly calmer.

Then, he turns his back to him, digging his knuckles into the mattress. Sighs. Robby waits a few seconds before shifting toward him.

"Jack?"

"Is this going to work?" Jack asks.

He flinches, mouth opening with no response prepared. Strained, he manages, "What is not going to work?"

"This. Us." He draws an invisible line between them. "Doing normal couple shit. Can't get even one night of sleep, man."

"I–I don't think your nightmare happened because we were sleeping in the same bed, Jack."

"You're not listening." The TV rotates through the ending credits, and Robby can barely see the angry flexing of Jack's shoulders in the barely-there white light. Jack says, "How can we keep going if we can only watch a game and have sex every once in a while?"

He comes to sit at the edge beside his other, replying, "You said you didn't want to have sex."

Jack hits his thigh. "Fuck! Fucking fuck, Michael. This is why it's not working, you're not fucking listening to me. About dinner, about the CPAP, about sex, about anything."

"Jack, this is working."

"What are you talking about?" he scoffs.

Robby reasons, "All evening, it was working. Talking, laughing, eating dinner together, winding down together. We were basically picture-perfect; you're looking at that and saying it's not working?"

He gestures broadly at the bed. "You're looking at the amount of sleep we've gotten tonight and telling me it's working?"

"This isn't about the sleep."

"Don't tell me what this is about." Jack shifts his weight forward as if he were about to stand. He can't. It triggers another nervous fit, where he breathes as though he's grabbing gulps out of the air with his hands.

Robby wants to touch him. Instead, he says, "You don't think I'm nervous about this too?"

"Are you?"

"Of course I am." His hand ghosts Jack's lumbar. "Of course I am, Jack. I just– wanted to try."

"Well, we tried." He rubs his face down.

"Since when does Jack Abbot give up after one shot?"

"Says the guy who gives up before even trying."

Scoffing, Robby says, "I asked you to spend the night–"

"You give up when it matters," he says. He faces Robby, finally, nearly snarling with it. "And I guess I do, too. Sleeping in the same bed is different than drinking beer and exchanging handies. It's– it's a test."

Instead of meeting his gaze, Robby avoids him; he watches the TV. Laverne and Shirley sit on one of their beds, facing away from each other, their arms crossed as they scowl and shoot something snarky back and forth. He says, "Did we fail the test?"

Jack flattens his mouth into a line. He looks so tired, almost sick. Robby has no idea what time it is. He wonders if the other would get upset if he turned to look.

Jack asks him, "Would you ask me back? If we both slept like shit and bickered all night and woke up cranky?"

He surprises himself by saying, "Probably," with a laugh.

It's not the reaction Jack expected. He glances off.

"It sounds like what we normally do, man. You eat all my food, drink my beer – argue with me until I have to corner you so I can look at your leg. I'm a stubborn asshole about things that'll help me and it pisses you off. We bicker. Get cranky. But even when we're pissed off, we stay. I don't think you're going to up and leave after one bad night of sleep. I don't think you believe that, either. You would've gone to the couch by now if you really didn't think it was going to work."

Jack works at a nail, then stops himself as the anxiety slowly gives way. He wobbles his head as if to say, "Touché."

He says, "It's an adjustment period. It doesn't start working until you start. Not only start, but commit."

The other looks at him, deadpan.

"I know," he says, "Mr. Commitment saying this."

"Yeah, man, preaching."

Robby drapes an arm around his shoulders, bringing their flanks together. Jack gives a breath of a laugh, sets his head down. He says reasonably, "If anything, we have all day tomorrow to catch up."

"We do," Robby says. "It's almost like I took tomorrow off on purpose, or something."

"You just guessed we were going to rub wrong on our first night together?"

"There are many ways we could have rubbed." Robby chuckles when Jack grumbles and bumps him with an elbow. He says, "I was banking on being able to spend the night and day with you, or whatever was allowed. I wanted to do what we did this evening. Talk. Eat. Exist around each other. Maybe go grocery shopping together. Hold hands while doing our taxes." That gets a laugh out of him. What he hopes Jack hears is: "I wanted you."

He seems to. He settles deeper into the crook of Robby's neck.

Robby continues, "And I was actually nervous about sleeping together, contrary to popular belief. What if I could only stand you for a few hours?"

Jack scoffs, but Robby can feel the smile growing against his shoulder. "I had the same thought, don't worry."

Sighing, Robby props his cheek atop the other's head. They have slowly begun to wind around each other; Jack's arm loops around his middle.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole," Robby says.

"Sorry for letting this get to me."

He squeezes to communicate his forgiveness. "Have you been thinking about us for a while?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if we were playing a game of commitment chicken." Jack says, "I guess spending the night together got me nervous. 'This is the real test', you know."

"Well, this is one night of hopefully many. Can always make up a bad grade."

Jack 'mmm's in agreement. The scruff on his chin tickles Robby's sensitive neck as he nuzzles subconsciously. Robby glances at the TV. The girls, Laverne and Shirley, hug close, gentle, beloved by each other. As he smiles, Robby pitches down just so and kisses the crown of his beloved's head.

They linger there like they did hours before, when they were waiting for the lasagna to finish baking, when they were drinking beer at the island, when they sat side by side, Robby checking the sore on Jack's leg, when they brushed their teeth together. They sit beside each other, always in the same spots, lingering like they had always been there, and were always going to be.

Waiting until Jack cools all the way, Robby murmurs sweetly, "I'm still not taking out the CPAP."

That shocks a laugh out of Jack, who shoves him away and says, "You're such a dick."

They giggle like children as Robby paws his fighting hands away and tips onto him like a boulder; Jack adjusts Robby's landing as they collapse together onto the bed. Robby slides from on top of him to behind him, and Jack shuffles backward into the spoon until he starts to crush his chest. He doesn't care.

"Okay," Robby hums into the nape of the other's neck, "Let's try this again."

"Let's." He tugs the covers back over them. The heated blanket turned off some hours ago, but Robby doesn't think they're going to need it. The warmth of Jack's body radiates through him, makes him feel truly, bodily warm for the first time he can remember.

The credits roll slowly in the corner of his eye, the barest hint of Laverne & Shirley's closing music tapping his eardrums. He falls asleep smelling the lightest hints of sandalwood soap scrubbed into Jack's skin. The last thing he remembers is Jack finding his hand and threading through his fingers, winding him tighter around him.

Jack doesn't move. Robby doesn't snore. Neither of them dream.

The morning sun crawls up the window. When Robby wakes, still snuggled against his beloved, the first thing he notices is the yellow-toned brightness against his eyelids. His sheets catch the sunlight, painting them in a nearly-gold glow. Jack is mumbling something in his sleep. He doesn't sound afraid this time. Eyes closed, Robby hums a question. Jack doesn't seem to appreciate it. Huffing, Jack turns his head and brings their faces closer, his cheek bumping into Robby's nose. Robby rubs his chest to wake him gently. He kisses where the scruff begins on his cheek.

"Good morning," Jack mumbles. He shifts his hips curiously, and Robby's body responds, tightening a coil in his gut that he didn't even know was there. A smile in his voice, Jack repeats, "Good morning."

"Ignore it," Robby murmurs back, "It'll go away," as he kisses Jack's jaw. His dick twitches defiantly. He feels Jack's mouth forming an 'o', still refusing to open his eyes. He flushes. Jack's mouth captures his own before he can react. When he returns, Robby matches him, giving him one peck, then two. He whispers, "This isn't helping."

"Didn't think you'd ever not want me to kiss you," Jack replies. He grabs Robby's face like a mound of playdough and mashes their lips together.

"Are you alright after last night?" Robby tries to say between kisses. The sensitive warmth in his groin only intensifies as Jack shifts, reaching as best he can to pull one of Robby's thighs underneath himself so he can fit in his lap.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Don't know how long it's been. It's ten to 9:00."

"Oh, shit. I wanted to make you breakfast." Robby is still barely protesting, or at least pretending to, but he takes the hand on Jack's chest and slides it down over his boxers. They surprise each other; Jack is hard too, and Robby's hand is ice-cold. He nearly yelps when Robby maps his sex.

"Still can."

Slowly, they kiss; slowly, Jack wriggles his hips to keep Robby's attention and succeeds-- his dick swells, curious, and in reply, slowly, Robby runs his hand back and forth over Jack's. Their bodies are both murmuring closer.

Jack hums into his mouth, "Okay, let's make decisions. Who's going where?"

Finally, Robby opens his eyes. Jack looks so beautiful. His face is flushed from lying on his side for so long, sleeping deeply, waking up horny. The morning light dances with his eyes, reflecting against select white eyelashes.

"Is your leg okay?" Robby asks.

"Mm-hmm."

They gravitate together like magnets, kissing once, then twice, until finally, Robby parts, turning his back to him. Jack kisses down the nape of his neck; he curls a finger and pulls down Robby's tank top just enough to get at the sensitive plane of his shoulders. Robby shivers as he turns off the TV and shuffles through his bedside table for lube and a condom. A mischievous hand feeds down his boxers and flattens against his pubis mons to force him backward; he groans. Jack tugs at his sex, playing with him more than offering a helping hand. Robby fumbles with peeling a choice condom from the ribbon.

"Don't use your fingers, just go," Robby murmurs as he passes the supplies over his shoulder.

Jack replies, "You don't want me to do that," a little too pridefully. With a grunt, he partially settles on his knees, draping himself over Robby's back and flank as he lies partially twisted, too tired to get on his hands and knees. He pushes Robby's tank up to his ribs and tugs his boxers down in one fell swoop. Overexcited, trying to be helpful, Robby's dick spurts some precum, and Jack chuckles at it.

Jack latches onto his neck; Robby reaches behind himself to grab at anything, and ends up holding the back of his head, pushing them closer as his beloved coats his fingers. He presses one inside him, frighteningly cold against the feverish warmth. Robby supposes that it's payback. He runs a fingerpad back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in small bursts. Robby groans. The seemingly meaningless touches start to build as Jack pumps, roiling in his gut, making him wonder if he's losing his mind.

"Just relax, baby," Jack murmurs in that low register he knows Robby loves.

"Oh, Jack." Robby tries to relax, he really does, but Jack only builds up speed, slipping in a second finger just to catch him unawares. He parts from Jack's head and paws helplessly at his boxers; he pinches at the fabric to draw it down little by little. "Come on, Jack."

Humming, "Okay, okay," Jack grabs his venturing wrists, puts the hand back near Robby's head, slips his boxers off at the same time. The swollen head of his dick taps Robby's hip, and he nearly cums right there just from the anticipation. He rolls on the condom and coats himself generously.

Slowly, Jack presses inside. Robby's body clenches around the intruder, but he forces himself still and welcomes the stretch as Jack introduces himself. He makes a vague gesture that his beloved understands as meaning "more lube". The cool gel makes him shiver. Jack shifts and adjusts until he rests at the hilt and spends some time kissing down the side of Robby's face.

Robby groans when he starts to move. First, it's quick, short bounces, forcing him to adjust, then Jack rocks back the full length of him and returns. His dick is thick and painfully hard; he plants a hand on Robby's back for balance and grunts as he thrusts again, slow on the retreat, followed by a burst forward that makes Robby's eyes roll back.

"Oh," Robby wheezes. "Fuck."

"Making me do cardio right when I wake up," Jack says against his ear, kissing it, kissing his spine when he rears back again.

He replies when he can, "Here's a better idea: make me cum."

"Working on it." Taking it as a challenge, Jack speeds up. Robby stuffs his face into the pillow. They pant in unison, Robby squeezing the head of his dick in time with Jack's passes over his prostate. He can feel the warmth of Jack's face when his cheek grazes his shoulder.

The pleasure begins to boil over -- sooner than he thought. He yelps when Jack pushes his hips into the mattress, forcing a better angle to get at his prostate. "Oh, oh, fuck," he babbles. "Fuck, Jack."

It builds, and builds, and builds, and before he knows it, he's cumming over the sheets. His abdomen tightens, the coil bundling and then releasing in a headrush so intense he has to close his eyes to manage it.

"There we go," Jack coos. He keeps going, even as Robby's grunts start to creep into whimpers and pleas. Thankfully, he follows soon after. Groaning, he flops onto Robby's back as he rides the wave.

Robby turns back to kiss him. He tastes like sweat and lust. They devour each other, pushing, pulling, trying to get closer than they already are.

"We need to shower," Jack mumbles against his mouth. "Wanna see if we'll both fit?"

"If I fall, you'd better put some pants on me before calling an ambulance."

He laughs, so Robby does too. When they part, they both grunt, kissing miscellaneous patches of skin as Robby shuffles toward the wheelchair to get onto his feet. Jack throws the condom away. He takes the hand Robby offers to transfer into the wheelchair.

They're both sore. They leave their clothes in the bedroom. Robby's knees shake as he stands in the cramped shower stall, but still, they kiss. Jack makes for the sandalwood soap he brought, but Robby takes his own, and they create a mixed scent of warm, honey-sweet wood.

Jack massages a glob of vaseline into the sore, and Robby leans into the mirror as he remembers how to floss. He watches his beloved put on a cotton sock before the liner. Nods in approval. Leaves him to clean the prosthesis and gathers the forgotten clothes and dirty sheets into his hamper. He dresses and, again, retrieves the change that Jack brought with him, having only been worn for a few minutes; he tosses the change and a second pair of boxers into Jack's lap just to rough him up a bit. Jack scowls at him. He chuckles.

Trundling into the kitchen, he hears the clunk of Jack testing the fit of his prosthesis on the tile. He takes eggs, tortillas, and salsa out of the fridge. Potato hash from the freezer. He opens his meat-and-cheese drawer and groans.

"There's no way I forgot to buy bacon," he laments to himself, peering into the empty space he reserved specifically for it.

Fluffing his shirt, Jack steps in behind him. His hair is damp, and his cheeks are flushed pink with steam and afterglow. The tips of his ears are sheepishly red. He says, "We'll just go get some. No big deal."

"I wanted to make breakfast burritos and send you off with the leftovers for your night shift."

"This is what I imagine your grandmother sounds like." He pats Robby's back, lingers there as Robby grumbles to himself and closes the drawer.

"Let me put on some pants, and we'll go."

Jack taps him on the ass as he retreats to the bedroom. If he were any more adept, he would have retaliated with a pinch, but Jack dodges out of the way before he can get a chance. He puts away the groceries Robby just got out.

When Robby comes back, fully dressed, Jack tosses him the keys. The moment he opens the door, they both wince at the overbearing sunlight. The bedroom couldn't have been that dark. Jack sneezes once, then, as Robby closes and locks the door behind them, again. He groans in frustration at himself.

"Can we get a third one for good luck?" Robby asks, a little sarcastic.

But Jack replies earnestly, "I'm trying," as he makes a face into the sun's rays. He stays there for a few seconds... and he sneezes a third time. He rubs his nose. "There we go."

With a chuckle, Robby gestures to the car and asks a question with his eyebrows. "Should we drive or walk?"

To which Jack shakes his head. "Walk. It's only a few minutes. Unless I fucked you so good you can't walk."

"Hah!"

Humming, they meet side by side at the top of the patio. As Jack steps in beside him, in the same place he always does, he loops his arm with Robby's. Robby already knows what he's going to say before he says it – rolls his eyes as Jack starts, "One, Two, Three, Four–"

And in unison, "Five, Six, Seven, Eight!"