The World is Wide

Eventually he slowed and then they were just leaning against one another, holding the other up. Jack's hand played idly with the strings on Robby's hoodie. Robby needed to retreat before he did something foolish.

He stood up, more than a little unsteady from the alcohol, and stretched his back. "I'm gonna go to bed. You want the guest room?"

"No," Jack whined, catching his fingers in the pocket on Robby's cargos.

"You’re going to be uncomfortable on the couch."

"I'm comfortable with you." And oh, did he wish that were true. Jack would not be comfortable if he knew the depth of his desire.

There was something terrible in Robby's chest: something that would ruin everything if it ever came to light. Jack was a perfect friend, a kindness that Robby didn’t deserve. A kindness he was in the process of betraying.

See, Robby wanted. It thumped in his chest like a heartbeat: he wanted, he wanted, he wanted. He was a ravening creature, desperate and starving and feral. It was like a line in a book he loved as a child: "I would eat you up, I love you so." And just like in the story, Robby's heart roars it's terrible roar and gnashes it's terrible teeth because he can't be trusted- every day he betrays Jack with his terrible want. A desire so large it could scarcely fit inside his chest.

He could not be trusted with this one good thing; he would destroy it beyond repair.

"If you really want to sleep on the couch, you need to remove your leg." Robby coaxed. Truly, it needed to be removed and then the skin needed to be cleaned, but that was beyond both of their capabilities right now.

"C'mon," Jack whined. "Can’t you do it?"

His trust in Robby was heartbreaking- how was he supposed to say no? What would he say: I can't be trusted to touch your skin because I'm in love with you and you're not in love with me?

"You don't want that," Robby murmured, running a hand through Jack’s curls, giving into his desires just this once because he actually was very drunk. Hopefully Jack wouldn't remember. "You hate when people touch your leg."

"You’re not people," Jack slurred. "You’re Robby."

And again, his heart was shattering into a million pieces, but he couldn’t find it in himself to argue any more. There was one fundamental fact, way down deep in the core of him, the one good thing about him: he would do anything for Jack.

Carefully, he sat down on the floor, sliding Jack's pant leg up. He released the pressure valve, removed the sock and liner and set it to the side. He rubbed the skin gently, just as he had watched Jack do a million times. But then Jack sighed and Robby ripped his hands away, crashing back to earth. Too much, he was too much.

"Why'd you stop?" Jack whined. "You can touch me."

"You’re drunk," Robby sighed, carefully leveraging himself up.

Jack slumped over on the couch like a puppet with it's strings cut and Robby repositioned him so that he would be more comfortable. His head on a throw pillow, his foot on the cushions. He gets another pillow to prop up his residual limb. Jack sighed again.

"You’re so good to me."

"I'm really not," Robby said, and as if to prove his point, he gave into his baser instincts once more and stroked his curls.

"I love you," Jack said sleepily, catching Robby's arm. He kissed the sensitive turn of Robby's elbow, making his whole body shudder.

"I love you too." And Robby was sad, so fucking sad because he knew that Jack didn't mean it the way he did.

To Jack, Robby was a brother, a best friend, a confidant. A comrade in arms. To Robby, Jack was his whole world. His light in the darkness, the true love of his life. He would never love anyone the way he loved Jack.

"Hey, sexy," Jack says as he picked up the phone.

Robby sputters out a laugh in that way he does sometimes. It always makes Jack grin.

"Pretty sure that's sexual harassment," Robby says and Jack smiles into the stew he's making.

"We're not at work," Jack points out, sliding the sliced carrots into the crock-pot.

"I'm not sure that's how that works."

"What are you gonna to do, report me?" He's grinning now, not even bothering to keep cooking. Just leans back on the counter and takes a relieved inhale.

"This sounds like the start to a bad porno," Robby laughs, and Jack can hear a car drive by in the distance.

"Guess there's only one way to find out and that's by coming back." They haven't fucked before, but it's always seemed inevitable- the ultimate terminal of their relationship. Eventually they will fall together and never fall back apart. "Where are you?"

"Oklahoma. There's this giant concrete whale in a little pond. Old Route 66 attraction. It's got a baseball hat on."

"Sounds cute." He's happy that Robby's on Route 66. The farther away he is from Head-Smashed-In, the happier Jack will be.

"It's kind of creepy actually- It's got one eye half-closed so it kind of looks like it's leering at you." A pause. "I'm inside of it right now."

"And what are your thoughts in the belly of the whale, Jonah? You regret giving God the run-around yet?"

"Not yet." A pause. "I like it. No one else is here, it's peaceful."

"Sounds nice. I wish I was there." He would go see as many dumb tourist attractions as Robby wanted as long as he knew he was safe.

"I'll bring you a t-shirt." And Jack likes the sound of that. Robby returning to bring him souvenirs from the trip means that Robby is returning. The anxiety in his chest eases a little.

"Get me a magnet, too."

"Demanding," Robby tsks. "Do you even put magnets on your fridge?"

"I will if they're from you." He'd take as much useless shit as Robby would give him as long as it means he's here. "What's next?"

"Museum of Osteology. Probably more Route 66 after that."

"Nerd. You haven’t seen enough bones in your life?" Jack scoffs.

"These are animal bones," Robby explains. Jack doesn’t point out that humans are animals too. "They have a blue whale skeleton."

"I see how it is. You emerge from the belly of the beast and want to see it's corpse hung from the ceiling. Didn't know you were so heartless." Robby laughs again and Jack grins in triumph. "A whale skeleton does sound cool. Get me something from there, too."

"Bossy and greedy, a real winning combination."

"What can I say, I'm a catch." Jack pauses. "I miss you."

"I miss you too. I think this would be more fun with you." It hits Jack square in the chest. Robby, normally so evasive, actually being honest for once. And then: "I mean- really, who's supposed to take my picture with this cement masterpiece?"

"You want me to fly out there to be your camera man?" It's a real offer; Jack would do it, in a heartbeat. He has the time off banked.

"No need for all that. But maybe one day we take a road trip together. They sell these National Park passports."

"Do they now? Sounds like something we need to invest in." A road trip together sounds good. His breath is coming easier than it has since the minute Robby rode off.

"We can argue about what stickers to put in it."

"Oh, there are stickers now? Sounds very official."

"It's how the book's set up." Robby explains. "You get the stamp from the park and there's space for a sticker above it."

"More things for you to buy," Jack points out. "But let's do it. I have very intense sticker preferences, you know."

"You have very intense preferences about everything. You'll probably come back as a ghost to argue about the way we threw your funeral."

"You just want me to haunt you, I can feel it. Can't be without me for a minute, you just gotta drag me back from the dead."

There's a pause. "You've done that for me before. Just trying to return the favor." And then, in typical Robby fashion, he decides to bail when things get a little too close to the truth. "I'm gonna go, I want to get to Oklahoma City before dark."

Jack doesn't mind, he's just happy to have been called at all. "Okay, Jonah. Give the whale a kiss for me before you go." It's utterly unconscious, the way he says the next part. "I love you."

"Love you too." And then Robby's gone. And Jack thinks. Well, at least there's that, sorted. The words are out there now, and miracle of miracles, Robby said them back.

How long until I kill myself?

It's the question that haunts every relationship he has, not even just the romantic ones. How long will this last? How long until I push you away? How long until you hate me? How long until you leave me? How long until you see the fundamental badness inside of myself that I cannot fix no matter how much I try?

And then there's Jack.

Robby has gotten really fucking good at expediting the end of his relationships, of making the other person leave just so that the unbearable uncertainty ends. The person is gone, the worst is over. The waiting is the hardest part because he knows that no matter what, they will leave and he will be alone. That is a fact without question. He will always be left. If he hurries the ending along then he has some control over it.

But Jack is tricky. None of Robby's standard methods work with him. He pushes, Jack pushes back. He yells, Jack doesn't quaver. He's an absolute fucking bitch and Jack just looks at him with an arched eyebrow like he's asking "Are you done?" to a tantruming toddler. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.

He tries. He tries and tries and tries and he cannot make Jack leave; he cannot make Jack stop caring about him. It's terrifying because there is something fundamentally wrong with Robby, way down deep in the core of him. No one can withstand it. He's trying to do Jack a favor- trying to cut him loose so he can find someone, something else to make him happy because that happiness sure as shit can't be found within Robby.

He doesn't understand why Jack just won't go. Why he doesn't see that Robby is a millstone tied around his ankle, set to drag him to the bottom.

Robby destroys people, he eats up all the good intentions and kind words and leaves nothing but the bones in his wake. Look at his mother- Robby's desperation for her love led to her suicide. He suffocated her, smothering and selfish and endlessly needy for a woman already at the end of her rope. He doesn't want that to happen to Jack.

Jack has to live because the world needs him; he is fundamentally, unshakably good. He has so much to offer and such a wonderful future ahead of him. If he just left Robby, he could have that future. So why won't he leave?

When he has exhausted his bag of tricks and even invented several new ones and Jack still shows no sign of leaving, Robby takes the nuclear route. He'll leave instead. He'll get on his motorcycle and drive off some far, beautiful cliffside and that will be that. For once- just once- he'll flip the script of who's left and who's leaving. It will be better that way. He's really doing everyone a favor, you know. This is a mercy. Maybe the last bit of mercy remaining in his chest.

(At home, Jack makes a list. He catalogs their relationship, of everything Robby has ever given him. The physical: the med school pictures, lovingly framed. The jacket he wears every winter. The spare house key Robby copied when Jack lost his own set. The paint he bought for Jack's porch because Jack forgot his wallet. The books, the records, the ultra-tacky magnets Robby loved to get at flea markets and force Jack to put on his fridge, despite the fact that neither of them had been to Aruba or Morocco or St Petersburg, Florida. Jack's fridge was covered in glittery bits of kitsch because Robby thought it was funny and Jack put every one of them up. 20 years of birthday sticky-notes because Robby always forgot to buy him a card. A receipt for the take-out Robby bought last week.

He is looking for proof.

He makes a list of the emotional: love, support, connection. Happiness, contentment, a hand held out to coax him on the right side of the rooftop railing. He writes down Robby's funniest jokes, as best as he can remember. Writes down all of Jack's favorite memories. Writes down all of the worst memories. Fear and anxiety and hopelessness and loneliness, right now. Even those are a gift. Even the current fear is one of the best parts of Robby, because if he fears losing him, it means he had him in the first place. And that means something. The pain that lives in his chest, aching and sore and ever-present, is the proof that he had Robby, once.

He backs up all of his photos and videos, makes sure he has one of Robby laughing. He wishes he had one of the way Robby's brow furrowed when concentrating or the stupid way he yawned or the little rumbling half-snores he let out while dead asleep. If Robby comes back, he'll take videos of all of it, just in case.

He doesn't want to forget Robby in the way he's started to forget his wife. He hasn't forgotten any of the big things with her, but the little things. The corner of her mouth did a funny thing when she scowled at him, but it's hazy now. Did it quirk up or down? He can't remember. He can't remember the exact timbre of her voice when she was mad. He never thought to record the bad moments and now he has nothing to remind him. He is so, so afraid.

He stares at the little cactus on a spring, a magnet for Sedona, Arizona, watching it wave back and forth and back and forth on the fridge. How long until he gets the news? How long until he forgets?

Is it worth it to keep living if he forgets? Memory is a tether; he fears that once he forgets the thin spot on the back of Robby's head that there will be nothing holding him here.

He stopped and pointed a finger at him. "You're going to get help. You're going to talk to a therapist. You're going to take medication if you have to. You're going to do whatever it takes. Because I'm not losing you."

He took a deep breath.

He tried to keep his mind in the present, but the flashes kept seeping through like a suture that just wouldn't hold back a bleed.

—---

Blood soaked camo, the familiar tear of BDUs as he cut through the fabric to access the man's leg, trying to pick the shards of shattered headlight out of the tibialis anterior only to see they were crushed through the tibia itself.

“I’m sorry, sir, we're going to have to amputate. Your husband’s leg just has too much damage for an ortho to reconstruct.”

Watching the man’s face crumble as he clung to his unconscious husband's hand.

—----

Jack squeezed his eyes shut instead of leaning forward again. Watching a devoted husband breaking down over his partner's medical emergency used to be an average Tuesday. But that was before.

Before Robby went off on his suicide ride and came back a week later even more hollow than he left. Before he spent the summer on Jack’s couch, drinking himself stupid and being there every time Jack came home from a shift. Before breakfast at five in the afternoon became a team sport. Before he got used to someone waking him up from his night terrors with a comforting hand and the sympathetic eyes of a damn basset hound. Before Robby managed to be just the right combination of broken and sarcastic that Jack apparently had no choice but to fall for him.

Flexing his fingers against the cold railing behind him, he grounded himself in the sharp sting of the metal against his palms.

“I hate to sound like my grandmother, but you're going to catch your death out here.”

Fuck. Of all the people to find him, it had to be the one man he'd been taking great pains to avoid.

“Not now, Robby.”

“Yeah, I could definitely come back a little later once the frosbite sets in. Give you two nice forearm stumps to match your leg. Maybe freeze off a few toes if you really wanna do the thing right..”

“Real funny, Robinavitch.”

“You okay? The vet?”

“Not even a vet yet. He's still active duty. Was. Was here on weekend leave. Survived two tours in Kandahar then a drunk driver mows him down crossing east ninth and now he's gonna spend the rest of his life an amputee. You know what the odds of that are? Like a heroin user sharing needles for 60 years only to die from a rusty nail going through his bedroom slippers.”

“That was specific.”

“Well, I get poetic when I'm pissed.”

“You sure do. That's not why you're pissed though.”

“Oh yeah? Why am I pissed?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm out here. You were off before he even came in. You've been off for weeks. I keep thinking you're gonna get over it, then it goes further in the other direction.”

“Don't know what you're talking about, Robby.”

“Like hell you don't,” then his voice softens after a deep, exasperated breath. “Listen, you don't have to tell me, but I wanted you to know you had someone to talk to if you needed an ear.”

Jack lets out a sigh and peers down at the street below him one more time. His fingers are already going numb. A few more minutes and they might just slip. The fall would probably kill him. He straightens up, but keeps the thought in reserve for if the other leap he's about to make goes wrong.

“It was the husband,” he says softly.

“What about him?

“He reminded me of someone.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Let's see, tall, pale, bearded. He was kind and good hearted, but stubborn and dramatic as hell, too smart for his own good, think he was even a doctor.”

“He wasn’t a doctor, he was a phlebotomist.”

“Potato, potAHto.”

“And this bugs you why?”

“Maybe I'm upset because the world has two of you?”

“Jack.” It was his name but the tone said cut it out.

“It bothered me…” he scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. “He loves that man so much. You could see it in every line in his face.”

Jack lets out a heavy breath.

“Jack.” This time it was soft. Confused. Almost scared. “What's going on?”

“I need you off my couch.” He says roughly. There's a long pause.

“Okay. That's fair. Three months is more than generous. Can I ask why?”

To hell with it.

“Because if I come home to your stupid face one more damn time I'm gonna do something stupid like kiss it and I'd really like to exit this hellish year with our friendship intact.”

He heard the intake of breath even over the sound of the rain.

“Jack, turn around.” Michael’s voice was shaky but deeper than he'd ever heard it.

“If you're gonna punch me you should let me climb over the railing first so it's not homicide.”

“I'm not gonna punch you, you idiot, I'm gonna kiss you. I've waited months.”

Jack turns around.

The only thing that pops out of Robby's mouth is a guffawed, "What?"

"I mean it. Really, I mean it." He adjusts his hands on his stomach, nudging just that much closer from where they lie together in bed. It had been only a dozen or so minutes since they retired, their breath still fresh with toothpaste. Jack has a little bit of it stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Robby wrinkles his nose and knocks his reading glasses slightly out of place.

"Am I not old enough for you already, Jack?" he asks.

"Well, I mean, in the future. Twenty-- thirty years down the line. We're going to have to share a walker. I'll probably have the most expensive hearing aids money can buy. You'll have big honkin' glasses on your face all the time. It'll be great."

"Sounds Sisyphusian." Robby taps the corner of his Kindle to the next page, half-reading, half-listening. He croons, "Oh, I can't wait for the joys of crippling arthritis."

"I'm serious, man." Jack rolls onto his side; he stares up at his husband with a hopeful twinkle in his eye. It makes him look like a puppy.

"So am I. I-I mean," he chuckles, "I really don't think there's much to look forward to."

"Just imagine it," Jack says, making a bracing gesture. "Us. You and me, waking up early, all rickety, taking it easy as we get dressed, going to a little café down the road for breakfast. We order steak and eggs and corned-beef hash, the old-fashioned shit. Me, I get my eggs over easy, and you, because you're a damned freak of nature, you get yours over hard--"

"Jack."

He puts a finger up. "Or, <i>or</i>, you get blueberry pie."

"Is this something your grandparents did?" Robby says.

It rolls off his tongue, "I don' know, I never knew 'em."

"Oh."

Jack shrugs one shoulder. He gets himself back on track, says, "Just think. Wearing old, old flannels. My jeans have wear in the shape of my wallet and my phone in my pockets. You have a pair of holey boxers that you won't get rid of. You know, the life of people who're so comfortable that their biggest conflict is if they're having whipped cream or ice cream on their cobbler after dinner."

Endeared, Robby leans over and coos, "And after dessert, you'll make sweet love to my old, saggy, wrinkly ass."

He says with pure affection, "You already have a wrinkly ass."

"Augh!" Shaking his head, he slaps his Kindle down, which makes Jack laugh so hard his crows' feet branch infinitely further 'round his cheeks and brows. Jack crumbles into the bedding; takes Robby's arm and roughs him up, kisses his shoulder when he returns, a light humor fighting through the offense curdling his expression.

"You're not going to entertain it for even a second?" Jack whines.

"As far as I'm concerned, we're already old enough that we start to look cute instead of plain old unattractive." Robby shrugs, accidentally knocking Jack's chin off his shoulder.

"You are, at least."

Robby purses his lips. He tries very hard not to entertain his husband's mischievous snicker. He says, "I don't like to dwell on my age. Or how close I am to old age. Just thirty years away feels like it might as well be next week."

"But the time isn't the point, Mike." He sounds exasperated.

"In order to get there, the time has to pass."

He tips his head like a bird. "Can't you just think about that snapshot of us? Together? Thirty years down the line, still doing alright?"

"Well, we'd really only be doing what we're doing right now. I mean, what'll really change?" Robby closes the cover of his Kindle and takes his glasses off to look into his husband's eyes without any barriers. "We wore matching pajamas to bed, for Christ's sake."

"These're your pants, actually," Jack says, tugging at said pajama pants under the covers. "Looked comfy."

"See?" Robby says, "Why do I have to imagine you dozens of years down the line when I know you'll just keep stealing my clothes and ordering your eggs over easy like a fucking deviant?"

"Over easy is the standard serving of eggs!"

"Over easy eggs are undercooked eggs and I don't want to risk my delicate gut biome," he says indignantly.

Jack rolls his eyes so hard he throws his head back with it. Robby chortles.

Still, he returns, "I don't really see the point."

"I guess."

He lets Jack use his bicep as a pillow, eventually snaking his hand around his back.

"It's--," Jack says, "It's a nice thought. Growing old with you. That's all I meant."

"It is," Robby agrees. "I just want to think about it without the 'most certainly balding and flabby and missing teeth' part of aging."

"Well, think about gumming down some cobbler instead."

His face creases in a quick bout of laughter, as if shouting, "Ha!" He adds, "I wonder if I'll still like my coffee black then."

"I'm not convinced you like it plain black now."

Robby relents, "Maybe tea."

"I can see that. Black tea?" Jack glances up as if he's just made a very clever joke.

"A fair compromise." He deflates into his husband's side, just a little, as he's been doing the entire conversation; their bodies snuggle up just a little closer. "You think you'll settle into a wheelchair permanently?"

Jack snrks and shakes his head. "I could probably formally apply for a disability parking card so we can get the best spot for bingo night."

"I would never play bingo."

"Everyone caves eventually," he says solemnly.

Robby's humor blooms pink across his cheeks; he's smiling so hard his mouth hurts. "This is kinda fun."

"See? Getting old ain't all bad," Jack reasons.

He adds, "But, you know, it's just doing everything we're doing now with slight adjustments."

"That's security and comfort," he says, "And you right by my side; that's everything I need post-retirement."

Robby wants to snark something back but finds himself too flattered to even try. Instead, he rubs the arm he's captured to rough him up, kisses his head.

"Then I guess I can't wait either," he murmurs.

The victor, Jack chuckle-hums gumptiously and snuggles closer, setting Robby's glasses aside for him. Robby feels like he's being eaten; he gets dragged beneath his husband's embrace until an arm and leg are thrown over his torso and Jack seizes his entire pec to rest his head on. Jack's curls, sweet-smelling from shampoo, brush his stubble -- it tickles a little. The tiny smear of toothpaste rubs off onto his sleep shirt. The weight of his thigh compresses something in Robby's hip and makes it complain, but he'd rather die than make him move. It's his favorite way to sleep, melting onto him like ice cream.

Robby really did want to finish that book tonight, but some things take priority. As it does every night. And probably will, for the next thirty years.

In the crisp silence, Robby whispers, barely air, "Were you hinting that you want cobbler?"

After a moment, Jack whispers back, "Maybe."

"Peach or blueberry?"

"Uhmm... what about Apple?"

"Ooh." He nods into Jack's hair. "Sounds good."

making the people go wild through the gift of being really good at your job...and being really handsome