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Whitaker should have expected it, sooner or later, sitting on his best friend's lumpy couch, mindlessly trawling his way through channel after channel. Really, his life up to this point had been entirely uneventful; there was no great romance, no clubs or late night bars, nobody to sweep him off his feet. He preferred it this way, quiet and unassuming. Whitaker scoffed under his breath. He got enough excitement from work.
He felt his mind sway to the sound of nothingness, thinking of Trinity, Dana. Thinking of Robby. He ran his hand along the couch, feeling the seams. Always thinking.
He should have expected the quiet knock to his front door, the ragged breaths hidden under pelting rain.
The door opened at his pull, Whitaker taking one look at the body that stood before him and pausing.
Michael Robbinavitch, hunched over and shuddering, his hoodie wet from the downpour. His hair stuck to his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. The usually grey jeans had soaked into him and turned black. He heaved for breath, shoulders rising up and down sporadically, clutching his left forearm close to his chest. He did not meet Whitaker's eyes.
“Robby?” he said, hushed voice carrying just above the patter of raindrops, suddenly rooted to the ground. Robby heaved in another breath and they stood frozen for a long few seconds. He had no idea what to do- all his training as a doctor had never prepared him for the sheer weight of his attending, his friend, showing up at his door late at night in distress. He had not expected the crushing obligation to “do right” more than in this moment.
He gingerly placed his hand on Robby's still damp bicep, silently urging him to lift his gaze and look at him; one look and Whitaker could figure out what to do. But he didn't.
“Can I come in?” He croaked instead, voice strained from the obvious under use. Whitaker nodded and gently pulled him inside.
They stumbled into the foyer, Robby dripping wet puddles as he stood, shaking. Even like this he was so much taller than Whitaker, but his presence wasn't demanding authority like it usually did- it wasn't even like those soft nights where he would reach out under the covers and pull him in, keeping him close. It was like they were back in Pedes a year ago. Robby shook violently.
Whitaker moved him silently to the couch. Trinity would complain tomorrow, the water making it lumpier than what it usually was, but she was out tonight and he didn't care. Robby sat heavily.
Whitaker slid his hands into the bottom of Robby’s hoodie, feeling the material stick to his wrists. Robby heaved in a breath, hesitating, before nodding with an air of finality. He stripped the hoodie off, struggling for a second to undo the zip, clogged with water. He shrugged it off Robby's left shoulder, then his right. Robby sucked a breath in sharply as it brushed his right forearm and Whitaker paused again, his head spiralling. Why was he here? It wasn't the first time his attending had appeared on his front doorstep, but it had always been with an air of anticipation- this was not the same man that kissed him gently as they went to bed, this was not the same man that pulled him to his chest after a long day. Something was terribly wrong with the Michael Robinavich in front of him. Robby clutched his arm tighter.
“I’m sorry, Dennis,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Whitaker pulled the rest of the hoodie off his shoulders, slipping down past his forearms.
The world seemed to stop suddenly, time jolting to a standstill within his tiny apartment. The walls around him slowly dripped with dread and the floor opened up, threatening to swallow him whole.
Robby’s arm was bloodied, still bleeding lazily, his fingers hovering gingerly over the long red stripe that connected his wrist to his elbow.
Whitaker looked at his arm and then at him, tears mixing with the rain water. Robby's eyes scrunched up. A sense of clarity rushed through him and without a word, Whitaker stood, pulling Robby up with him and dragging him towards the cramped bathroom. He flipped the light switch, the bulb flickering intermittently as he sat Robby on the cheap toilet seat, reluctantly turning away to rummage through the medicine cabinet.
Trinity was diligent about keeping their bathroom stocked with everything a person could ever need to perform minor surgery, always sterile and in perfect condition. Whitaker made a mental note to thank her later. He turned back around and eyed Robby, who had turned to stone before him, eyes transfixed on a random tile on the floor and clutching his arm weakly. In the harsh bathroom light his skin was a sickly shade of white, almost nauseatingly pale. Whitaker laid out what he needed; sutures, alcohol wipes, disinfectants- his bathroom sink was starting to look like the OR. Finally he grabbed a vial of local anesthesia, and laid it out on the sink next to robby. He still did not look up.
Whitaker spent 10 minutes wiping down his arm, muttering small sorry’s everytime Robby inhaled with a hiss, kissing his fingers every so often, hoping to spark that light back into his eyes. He knew it was fruitless.
What he had initially thought was a cut from wrist to elbow was actually just shorter than his forefinger- the rain had made the blood run and look more gruesome than what it actually was. Whitaker still took it slowly, once he knew that Robby wasn't in danger of bleeding out. They were silent as he injected the local anesthetic and they were silent as he stitched Robby's arm up. The only sound that permeated through the space was the quiet patter of raindrops on the roof. The sound of the hole in Whitaker's heart growing.
It was as if an empty space had opened in the pit of his stomach. The stagnant dread that had emerged when he first saw what he thought was an accidental cut had grown nauseatingly now that he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Robby had done this to himself. On purpose. It was almost too much to bear.
There was a kid back home; he had graduated a year above Dennis in high school, well liked, friendly, christian. He killed himself. Whitaker had only heard about it from the mouth of his local priest on the following Sunday. He had only been about 18 at the time. Death was not a fresh concept to him, he had killed animals that were too far gone- a horse with a broken leg, a cow that was diseased- he never took pleasure out of it, but it was something that had to be done. When that boy died, he had assumed, naively, that his mother would weep, his father would gruffly shake his head free of emotions and say a few nice words. Whitaker certainly felt the level of devastation one would feel from losing a friend, especially someone so young, to something so preventable. His family in turn scoffed, turned their heads away and remarked that this boy had sent himself to hell. That he was selfish. It bewildered Dennis in a way that not many things had, it shook his faith - what kind of a God would punish his child for being sad? He never understood.
Robby was sitting in front of him, head low, the small stream of tears that rolled continuously down his cheeks splashing on the tiles below him. Dennis could never turn his head away. He could never scoff. How could you? How could he turn away from the man he was certain he loved, the man that he was certain loved him back and condemn him to hell for needing help? It was as if they were back in Pedes; the hole kept growing, and they kept falling in, time and time again. Whitaker grabbed his hand softly and squeezed. Robby didn't squeeze back.
The silence continued for a while, however long Whitaker didn't know. He had sat on the tiled floor long ago, and his back was starting to twinge, but he didn't care. His hand resting in Robby's was all he needed. Not to think, just to sit.
It was Robby that spoke first, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that they had made.
“I think I need a shower,” he stated quietly.
Whitaker nodded, expecting him to look pointedly at him then at the door, but he didn't. He waited for a few seconds before pushing himself off the tiled floor and undoing Robby's buckled pants. They slipped to the floor in a wet heap, then he peeled the white shirt from him and put that on the floor too. Robby shivered, his eyes glazed over.
Whitaker put the plug into the drain of the bath and let it fill up, steam making the air thick. Robby's boxers came off one leg at a time and Whitaker helped him slowly into the bath.
There was nothing sexual about the situation, nothing that even remotely made Whitaker blush- just a pure act of intimacy, washing someone else, taking care of someone who cannot take care of themselves. Whitaker produced a face cloth from his medicine cabinet and dipped it into the water, testing the temperature- not too hot, but not cold enough that Robby would be shivering. His injured arm laid on the side of the bath. Lathering it with soap, Whitaker began rubbing small circles into his back, the nape of his neck, the expanse of his shoulders.
It didn't help the tense line. If anything it made it worse, Robby was stiff, unresponsive. Whitaker was lost.
They sat there, again in silence, his hand absentmindedly going through the motions of washing his partners’ back before Robby sighed.
“I can’t…” he murmured.
Whitaker paused.
"I don't deserve…”
He trailed off again, watching the swirl of the water.
“Please don't look at me.”
Whitaker took a breath. Then he laid the cloth down on the side of the tub.
“Okay.” He said, simply.
Whitaker turned so his back was pressed against the side of the bathtub, knees bent uncomfortably, feeling Robby shift in the water behind him. The bathroom was again silent, only the quiet drips from the well loved facet penetrating the small bubble of peace that they had created. Robby breathed long and deep, almost sighing every time he exhaled. This time, it was Whitaker who spoke first.
“When I was back home in Nebraska on the farm I always begged my parents for a dog. We had cattle, horses, and field cats, but I was obsessed with the idea of having my own animal, my own thing to take care of.”
“I think I was trying to play god a bit, having my own ‘child’ to take care of… I was 13 when my parents finally relented and got me a beagle. She was older, I think they wanted to teach me something about the value of life at the later stages, because she died a year afterwards. I loved that dog. I never got another one.” He paused.
“I didn’t feel that way again until I had found medicine. I was always set on being a priest- that's what dad wanted for me anyway- but I couldn't really help people, make a difference in their lives the way that I could when I healed them. Spirituality was never what I was good at. I don't think I'd make a very good preacher,” he chuckled.
Robby hummed something behind him, noncommittally.
Dennis continued.
“It took me a while to save up the courage to tell my parents that I wanted to be a doctor - they had my whole life planned out for me. I think they would have married me off to our preacher's daughter if they could have. And when I did tell them they…”
Whitaker shifted, his lower back freezing up a little.
“They didn't take it all that well, threw me out. Told me that if I was to become a doctor then I could do it on my own, told me to burn in hell.” He sighed and picked at the grouted tiles below him. “I only saw them again last year actually. They came to Pittsburgh on some spirit quest, God told them to follow their dreams or something. They invited me out to a restaurant. I don't know why I went but there I was, sat across from them in a stuffy booth as they lectured me about my choices then begged for money for the farm. I didn't have the heart to tell them that I don't make all that much.” He scoffed. “Imagine if I told them I was gay, hah! The looks on their faces would probably kill me.”
“I don’t know why I'm telling you this,” he continued quietly.
The water shifted behind him again. Robby snaked a strong arm around him, clutching his chest and dropping his head onto his shoulder, wet hair soaking his T-shirt.
“You would have made a great preacher,” Robby said, muffled by the fabric, “but you’re a better doctor.”
They were silent again. Whitaker lifted his own arm and placed his hand against Robby’s bicep, knocking his temple against Robby’s wet hair.
“I’m sorry,” Robby said simply. There was more confidence in his voice now.
“I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, thank you” he mumbled. Whitaker turned his head and kissed the crown of Robby's head lightly, just once.
“We don't have to talk about it now. Not tonight,” he whispered into his hair, “but we do need to, okay?”
Robby hummed, and tightened his grip on Whitaker's shirt.
“I don't deserve you.”
Whitaker didn't justify that with a shallow response of ‘yes you do!’, instead tightening his grip in return. There was nothing that Robby didn't deserve, but he didn't see it that way. He couldn't see it that way.
“I didn't know where else to go,” Robby said. “It was a mistake, it was stupid.”
“It was definitely stupid, but that doesn't mean that you're stupid,” Whitaker replied.
“I’m just tired.”
“I know.”
They sat like that, Whitaker's back pressed against the bath, Robby's arm keeping him in place until the water turned cold, until the facet ran out of drips. Until the gentle sound of the rain stopped entirely. They sat. Dennis drew circles with his fingertips onto Robby's cool skin until he felt him shiver, the cold air seeping back into his bones.
“Dennis.”
“Yeah?”
“Take me to bed.”
Whitaker shifted and kissed the hand clutching his shirt.
“Can I look at you?”
“Yeah.”
He turned. Robby’s face was pale but alive, his hair starting to dry at the tips and his shoulders slumped. Dennis stood and helped him out of the bath, sitting him back on the lid of the toilet with a towel wrapped around him. He had another to dry the rest of his hair with.
When Robby was dry, they moved to Whitaker's bedroom, arguably too small for two adult men to be staying in. He didn't really care. The sheets were cold, and Robby shivered again.
“Forgive me.” Robby said as his head hit the pillow, his eyes fluttering closed. Dennis pulled him in, wrapping his arms around his bare back and slotting his chin over his head. He rubbed circles into his shoulder and Robby squeezed him closer.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Michael," he whispered.
The rain had stopped, nothing remaining but the drips that echoed down the drain pipe outside, the quiet sounds of a city that pressed flat against the soundscape of this room where they lay with their legs tangled. There was nothing to be forgiven of, Dennis had decided long ago. His father wouldn't forgive, his God wouldn't either. There was no forgiveness because Robby hadn't done anything to warrant apology. He thought back to his friend in Nebraska, to his dog he had lost many years prior, and kissed the top of Robby’s head. If there was a God, he wouldn't shame this man for feeling the way he did, he wouldn’t shame him for moments of weakness. He nestled into the blankets, sleep pulling him closer to the morning, and Dennis decided that if he did shame, if this God was cruel, then maybe he would be better off worshipping someone else instead.