amuse-bouche

Frank shifted as he sat up, for the first time that week feeling rested. Robby’s bed was leagues better than his own in a shitty two room apartment across town, and that alone was worth any lingering stickiness in his chest from what they were doing.

He heard a noise next to him as he swung his legs over the side, Robby’s voice deliciously rough from sleep and last night’s escapades. “Heading out?”

“Yeah. Taking the kids to the park later, wanna shower before I do.”

He scooped up his jeans from the ground to pull those on first, boxer briefs thankfully already on from Robby’s hands and a syrupy redress last night, hopping a little to get them uncrumpled and up to his hips.

There wasn’t a need to look up to know Robby was watching him, probably admiring or regretting the small marks littering Frank’s chest, waist, hips. When Robby showered later he wouldn’t have much of his own proof beyond scratches that would inevitably burn.

“Where the hell did you put my shirt?” Frank glanced over anyway, heart jumping into his throat and plummeting back to his stomach at the sick kind of adoration resting in those brown eyes.

“Uhm, I think it’s by the door. With my shorts.” Robby tacked on the end, raising his eyebrows some at the reminder of how eager Frank had been to get his mouth on him.

“.. Right.” Instead of confronting any of that, he just felt his ears heat a little, ducking around the bed to confirm.

Alright. Shirt and pants acquired. Shoes and jacket were downstairs by the door. He just needed his..

There. End of the bed, near where his jeans had been tossed off. Finally.

Frank sat on the edge of the bed to roll them on, listening to Robby’s breathing underscored by the occasional cheer from the TV. A random competition baking show had been running ever since he’d woken up, Robby’s arm around him, and stayed still instead of bolting.

God, this was bad.

There was nothing to say. This wasn’t a casual fuck, it never could be with them, but it was also barred from anything more solid than that. It felt liminal, stuck in a liquid state deep enough to drown in and without enough substance to hold.

It was all theory. Maybe this. Could be that. Perhaps one day, but definitely not next week. It was the most maddening drag alongside a truck he’d ever gotten, and Frank would have it no other way if the other options didn’t have Robby.

If they didn’t have Robby, watching him get dressed with his big eyes holding a thousand unsaid things that would remain locked. If it didn’t let him kiss Robby as a desperate apology, didn’t let Robby kiss him back in a half-hearted acceptance, and let both of them not say a thing about it.

Frank would take this standoffish middle ground of bullet holes and splintered doors if he got to weather it with Robby. Like a shitty western shootout, where neither of them had the heart to draw first anymore.

“Okay.” He stood, checking his pocket for his phone. Wallet and keys were in his jacket, so he was fine. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“Mm?” Robby blinked over at him before nodding, one hand behind his head in a delicious display of bicep. “Oh, yeah. Probably be staying late, too, pretty sure there’s a convention in town. Expect dehydration and heat exhaustion.”

Of course he’d talk shop. He didn’t expect anything less, standing up and dusting off imaginary filth. “Not my weekend with the kids, I’ll be there. You know me.”

Robby’s mouth did a weird half quirk, both a smile at the joke and a frown at the reminder, before just huffing and turning over. “You know the door code. Lock up on your way out.”

It was a clean dismissal. Frank loathed how it cut, and hoped his blood stained the carpet on his walk out.

Something quiet and guilty inside him wanted a kiss send off. Make Robby recognize what the fuck they were doing, but he didn’t want that either. It was easier this way.

Easier to just say goodbye.

Frank did let himself glance back before he walked through the door, and felt the space between his shoulders burn after he turned and walked away, a habit not old enough yet to not hurt.

He wished he had the wherewithal to stop himself from repeated mistakes, but therapy could only do so much, and he’d allow himself one vice, beautifully painful as it was.

Robby. Like staring into the sun.