"Man, I can't wait until we're old," Jack says.
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 cafĂŠ 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."
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