The weeks that followed Robbie's death were a blur.
Robert remembers delivering a eulogy for Robbie's funeral, then sitting in the very last row for Mecha Man Astral's. He remembers dropping out, talking to social services at some point. And he remembers cleaning the mech, though never touching the dried pen in the storage.
He's not sure in what order everything was, but one thing he knew for sure was that he handled everything well. Maybe a little better than he should have. There was some praise for his maturity towards the whole thing, though some were unsettled by his indifference—they whispered behind his back about it. Oddly enough, the judgment felt better than the pity.
Robert doesn't remember crying.
Not when he first got the news when he got pulled from class. Not before, during, or after the funeral. Not even when cleaning the dried spots of blood from the mech's feet.
Maybe he tried to, on those quiet nights where sleep just wont come, staring at the ceiling after laying with his eyes closed for hours. It's not like he doesn't think about his dad, it's honestly all he thinks about. But it's during these nights alone where he tries to dig deeper, to find something—anything to feel. It never worked. There's no point in reaching for something that wasn't there to begin with.
Open wounds gushed and bled, emotions flowing out in a messy yet steady stream. Granted that the wound is taken care of, they close eventually, leaving behind a scar—a reminder. What was left behind instead was a bruise. It's barely there, a dull ache blooming from somewhere he can't reach. Throughout the years, it never faded like bruises normally do. The ache was a constant thing—same intensity, same sensation. It's just that the constant nature of it that made it easier to get used to. So his body adapted. Habituated to the pain.
It's easy to ignore when you're working. Who cares about some old bruise when you're injured every other day? So that's what he does for the following years. Work. It's what Robbie would've wanted.
One day he's called by Blazer to come to the infirmary, he's needed to confirm someone's identity.
He freezes the moment he opens the door.
Handlebar mustache. Strong nose. Perpetual scowl.
All of a sudden, years later, that old bruise is pressed on. The dull ache hitches, enough to make its presence known after being appointed to forgotten background noise for so long.
He's not lying when he says he's already moved on from it long ago. Or at least—he doesn't know he is. He doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry. In the end, he does neither. He just stands there, feet planted firmly on the ground, wearing the same boots he used to see on his father. Robert takes in the sight.
Robbie lies on the infirmary's bed, brows furrowed even as he's unconscious. It's surreal, the way warm, red, blood flowed under his skin rather than the embalming fluid Robert last saw him with. It doesn't seem like he's brought back from the dead—he looked a little younger than he did when he died, maybe a few years before that. It's as if he'd been plucked from 2005 and placed into the present.
His mouth feels dry, and his palms sweat through his gloves.
His heart's pounding through his ribs. Breaths shallow.
A gentle hand places itself on his shoulder. He flinches. Hard.
"Shit, sorry." Blazer takes her hand back as if he burnt her. "You alright?"
"I'm okay." He rubs a hand on his cheek, messing up his cowl. He breathes in the cold air through his tense throat for a few seconds. "It's just—fuck. That's… that's him, alright."
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