Your local delusional

The sound of the doorbell's loud, reverberating tone was intensely jarring through Robby's otherwise quiet house. He jolted upright and blinked the deep, bleary sleep from his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest from the sudden shock, but as he looked around and readjusted to the waking world, he slowly calmed down. The grandfather clock kept ticking in the hallway as he stood, discarded the empty beer bottle from his lap onto the floor, and tucked his dick back in his pants. It wasn't the first time he had fallen asleep midway through jerking off drunk on the couch, but it was definitely the first time he had been awoken from it at... Jesus, four-something in the morning? What the hell?

He searched for his phone to check the door camera, but before he could fish it out from between the cushions, the doorbell sounded again, immediately followed by quick, frantic knocking.

Robby gave up on foresight and went to the door, unlocking it, sliding back the deadbolt, and cracking it open with the chain still on, just in case.

He never would have guessed who was standing on his porch, shivering and soaked to the bone from the rain.

"Whitaker?"

"I– I'm sorry, Robby, I–" Whitaker stammered in a strained voice through tears and snot and... Was that blood?

Robby closed the door, undid the chain, and opened it wide. "Get in here. What the hell happened to you?"

Whitaker ducked inside, finally out of the achingly cold wind. "I got in a fight w–with my–... my boyfriend..." he muttered, gingerly wiping away his tears around his injuries.

Robby leaned down to get a better look at his condition. Bruises, busted skin, two black eyes, and blood starting to dry in a stream from under his nostrils down his lips and chin, even making it onto his shirt.

"Fucking hell, were you dating an MMA fighter?" Robby asked, ushering him further inside. "Come here, sit down..."

He led him to the couch and got him down, then kneeling in front of him and taking the flashlight from the pocket of his scrub shirt, which he was still wearing from work the previous day. He flashed the light across both Whitaker's eyes and tucked it away again.

"Pupils equal and reactive. Which means what?" he said.

"No neurological damage," Whitaker answered with an annoyed huff. He coughed. "Are you seriously quizzing me right now?"

Robby couldn't help but smile. "Sorry. Habit."

But Whitaker wasn't amused. He was sad, and scared, and cold. His entire body was shaking like a Chihuahua.

Okay. Priority one: get him dry and warm.

Robby shimmied off his jacket that he was wearing and draped it around Whitaker's shoulders. "You need to get out of those wet clothes. I'll be right back."

He patted Whitaker's leg as he stood, then hurried towards his room, having to pause halfway up the stairs as his kinda drunk/kinda hungover state finally caught up to him, but he powered through and swallowed back a gag or two to rifle through his dresser for something clean.

He came back down and let out a labored sigh as he handed over the sloppily folded stack of whatever he could find. "Here," he said, flopping down on the couch next to Whitaker and taking a beat to catch his breath.

Whitaker took the clothes and just stared at them, then looked back up at Robby.

"What?" Robby asked.

"It reeks in here," Whitaker replied, his chest still kind of twitching with held back sobs.

Robby looked around again, and very suddenly realized how bad he had let it get this time. Countless beer bottles surrounding the overflowing trashcan, half-eaten takeout rotting on the coffee table, the heaping pile of dirty laundry sitting next to the uniform company's bag of clean scrub shirts he never bothered to put away.

He ignored the embarrassed, prickly flush overtaking his skin. "I wasn't expecting company. Back to the matter at hand," he said, changing the subject as quickly as possible. Not only to avoid answering questions about the clear signs of his deteriorating mental health, but also because he had his own list of questions to get through. "Are you dizzy? Have any blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting? Did you lose consciousness at any point?"

"No..." Whitaker answered vaguely as he slowly started to peel off the soaked outer layers.

Robby stood and helped him up. "I'll show you to the bathroom."

The trip up the stairs was slow. If Whitaker was trying to say he wasn't dizzy, he was probably lying.

"Right in here," Robby said as he opened the door to the guest bathroom. "Do you need help?"

"No," Whitaker answered quickly, and he slammed the door right in Robby's face.

Robby didn't take it personally. He stayed right there, listening for any concerning sounds. All he heard was slow movements and a bit more crying. When he heard a wince and a whimper, he knocked lightly.

"Everything okay?"

It was silent for a moment.

Then, meekly, Whitaker said, "I, um... M–Maybe I do need help..."

Robby opened the door and found even more injuries to be worried about now that his hoodie was off. Bruising on his neck and all along the side of his torso. And those were just the ones that looked new. The older ones... Well, Robby didn't want to think about the implications about that just yet.

He rushed over and gently pressed a hand to the big bruise on his side. Whitaker jerked away, but it didn't seem to be rigid or swelling. "Sorry," he said quietly before kneeling by Whitaker's feet to help him take off his shoes. The laces were wet and knotted together. "As soon as you're dressed, I'm taking you to the Pitt. You need a CT. That could still be internal bleeding."

"Please don't," Whitaker whispered.

Robby looked up at him.

"I'm humiliated enough being here," he said, his sad, tearful eyes pleading. "I don't want my coworkers being my doctors. That's, like, the quickest way to lose respect, going in as a patient... I only came to you because it was close. And because..."

"...you already saw me at my lowest," Robby finished for him, tugging the muddy Converse off his feet. "So, if I force you to go in, you'll tell everyone about my breakdown? Perfect use of that blackmail material, hm?"

Whitaker's eyes went wide. "No! God, no, Robby, I would never–"

"I know," Robby chuckled. "I was just messing with you."

Whitaker cracked a tiny smile.

Robby stood again. "Nobody will lose respect for you because you got beat up, Whitaker. If they do, that's because they lack empathy, not because you don't deserve respect." He let that message sit in the air for a moment before delivering the unfortunate news. "I need to help you take your pants off now."

Whitaker's smile dropped and his face went beet red.

Robby gave him a firm look. "You know you can't leave these sopping wet clothes on. I don't need to quiz you on hypothermia, do I?" he said. "If you think you can handle it, I'll just close my eyes and be a crutch."

"Yes, that, please," Whitaker begged, taking Robby's hand to stand up on unsteady feet.

Robby nodded, and he closed his eyes and turned his head away, holding his arm out for Whitaker to hold onto if he needed.

Standing there was pretty awkward, just looking at his eyelids, and occasionally asking if everything was okay. Whitaker gave him an impatient Yes every time he asked, making use of the offered arm a few times.

Robby felt him swaying and stumbling, but he kept his eyes closed until he heard Whitaker say, "I'm dressed."

Robby looked over and saw him standing there in the oversized boxers, droopy sweatpants on one leg and old Tears for Fears shirt hanging around his neck.

"Okay, I meant I'm no longer naked," Whitaker corrected himself.

Robby gave him a pitying coo and very carefully manipulated his limbs —while apologizing to every ow, ouch, and muttered swear word— to get the clothes fully on.

"There you go," Robby said, getting a rag to dampen it and start cleaning up the blood crusted on his skin.

Whitaker leaned against the counter and let him wipe his face, twitching when he went over a particularly sensitive area. He looked past Robby into the mirror hanging on the wall above the sink. "God, I look like shit." He started to cry again.

Robby frowned. "Are you in pain or just upset?"

He couldn't answer.

Robby sighed, rubbing at the stress pain in his neck, and then pulled Whitaker close to his chest, wrapping awkward, lanky arms around the the shorter man's surprisingly broad shoulders.

He let Whitaker sob in his embrace until he had no more tears left to cry.

Whitaker was the first to pull away. He wiped at his nose and sniffled. "Oh, shit, sorry..."

Robby looked down and found some snot on his shirt. He wiped it off without a thought and tossed the dirty rag into the sink to deal with later. "I really should take you in for a CT," he said, looking up at Whitaker's sad little face and giving him a sympathetic smile. "You don't need to be embarrassed, you know? You said you were... fighting with a boyfriend?"

That was clearly an understatement.

"Please don't tell anyone," Whitaker mumbled. "I'll just say I got mugged. I don't... I don't want anyone to know the truth."

Robby nodded slowly. "Got it. My lips are sealed. But..."

Whitaker groaned.

Robby put his hands up in surrender. "Listen, I'm just saying that maybe you should talk to someone," he suggested. "This wasn't a normal couple's argument. Whoever this guy is... He hurt you. Pretty bad. And I'm willing to bet this isn't the first time. Am I right?"

Robby watched Whitaker's face very carefully, but he refused to look up. He refused to react or respond.

It was a good thing Robby already deduced the answer. He kicked himself for not picking up on the signs before it got to this point, though.

He looked at Whitaker again. Still crying. Still shaking. Still terrified. Humiliated. Blaming himself.

Poor kid.

"You didn't do anything to deserve this, Dennis. You know that, don't you?"

"He was so nice at first."

"Most of them are."

"He knows where I live. Where I work. What if he comes back? He said he'd–" He abruptly stopped and shrunk in on himself even more.

"He said he'd what?" Robby asked. He tried to soften his voice as much as humanly possible. "Dennis, you can tell me."

"Kill me. He said he'd kill me..." Whitaker whimpered. "He's closeted. And married. I didn't know he was married. If I knew, I wouldn't have– When I found out, I... He said he'd kill me if I told anyone. He broke my phone. He kicked me. And choked me. He kept telling me to shut up... I..." He gasped for air, a hand wandering up to his bruised throat, like he couldn't breathe. "I thought I was gonna die."

Robby's heart shattered. Of course some abusive shithead would prey on sweet, innocent, would-do-anything-for-anybody, doe-eyed Dennis Whitaker and leave him beaten and bruised and scarred for life.

"Fuck..." Robby sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He checked the clock. It was going on six at that point. He had a thousand things he wanted to say.

A million more questions to ask.

A billion reassurances that probably wouldn't do any good.

He put a hand on Whitaker's bruised cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

Whitaker put his hand on Robby's, keeping it in place. "I'll do the CT. On one condition."

Robby let a small, amused smile reach his lips. "And what would that be?"

"You have to let me come back and help you clean your house," Dennis said, blinking away his tears. "It's a fucking mess."

Robby laughed and nodded. "Sure, kid. Why not?" he said, helping Whitaker to his feet again. "After I medically clear you, you can help me clean my house. Not a second before. Got it?"

i catch myself looking at it when i get stuck, like it’s supposed to tell me what comes next. it reminds me of us when things felt clear. when everyone knew their place and we didn’t have to think so hard about it.

there’s a picture of el here too, next to the typewriter. i don’t really know how to write about her yet. some days i try and it doesn’t come out right, so i stop. but she’s here. i think she always will be.

everyone’s doing okay, in case you were wondering. lucas and max still the same in that way where they don’t talk about it much but somehow always end up on the same side of things. dustin keeps sending these long messages about whatever he’s obsessed with now, like distance doesn’t exist if he talks fast enough. sometimes it almost works.

sometimes i think about how we all fit back then. like it was obvious. i don’t know when it stopped feeling that simple.

its just - 

howkins, it’s not the same without you.

it’s not the same.

after everything finally stopped, i thought it would feel clearer. like there’d be this moment where it all settled into place. mostly it just feels quieter. and in the quiet, i keep realizing things i should’ve noticed earlier.

what you said — about liking someone and knowing they weren’t like you , i didn’t understand it all at once. but i did hear you. maybe not as fast as you needed. maybe slower than i should have. but i heard you.

i’m sorry i didn’t see it sooner. not because it changes what we are, which  it doesn’t but because you shouldn’t have had to carry that by yourself when i was right there.

i don’t think i ever told you how much i admire you. not for getting through things or being strong in some big way. just for being you and still choosing to care. still choosing to stay soft. that’s not easy. it never was.

you once said you’d never join another party. i know what you meant. but wherever you end up, wherever you find that place that actually feels right — you don’t stop being part of this. you’re part of how i think. part of how i tell stories. part of how i learned what friendship is supposed to look like.

i hope you’re happy will. i hope you’re really happy, you have every right to be. 

but if you ever feel lost again —

we’ll figure it out. we always do.

crazy together.

april fools

jesus christ can you imagine 🚬