takes one to know one

Robby wasn’t big on celebrations.

They had never been something that came natural to him. His family didn’t really do birthdays, especially not since his mother had left. He hated going out. To dinner, to clubs, parties. Drinking made him uneasy. Holidays stressed him out. Hell, he could hardly even bring himself to visit his cousins during Hanukkah.

The fact that Robby had agreed to attending a party—hosting one, actually—was something to celebrate in itself.

He was 26 years old now, and could count the number of parties he’d even thought about going to on one hand. And for those that he did, he’d only agreed to go for one reason—

Jack Abbot.

The bastard was, of course, the reason yet again. In the last few years since Robby had met him, he’d made more stupid decisions than he’d had in his entire life (including high school, which said a lot). Jack was the reason for countless hookups, fuck-ups, and whatever else you could put in front of the word up— including why Robby was currently standing on top of a table using a broken karaoke mic to give a sorry excuse of a speech.

“Okay,” Robby cleared his throat, his voice raspy from a night of yelling and smoking some awful weed. “I don’t know if you guys can hear me over this shitty music, but—“

“Speak up, fruitcake!” some bastard shouted.

“Yeah, thanks,” Robby rolled his eyes. “Thank you all for coming, blah blah blah, it means a lot to me and stuff, because now that I’m going to be a doctor, I’m not gonna have to deal with any of your asses ever again.”

Laughter ensued. Someone whooped.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “If you want to know whose genius idea it was to have this… celebration for earning my MD, you can thank the idiot redhead standing right there by the beer keg.”

Jack gave a wide-toothed grin, waving in the middle of a small circle of first-years gathered around the keg. Their eyes met, and Robby laughed, shaking his head.

“Right. So, speaking of beer, I’m gonna go get some more so I can forget all of the embarrassing shit I’m going to do tonight. Good talk. And, uh— thanks again!” Robby finished, hopping off of the table. Jack took him by the hand, a firm grip, guiding him back to the ground.

“That was beautiful,” Jack chuckled as they shouldered their way to the keg, hands reaching out to give Robby congratulatory thumps on the back.

“Shut up. I don’t know how I always end up doing a damn speech,” Robby leaned over and filled up his cup, downing its contents. “This was a stupid idea.”

“You always say that, and yet, here we are,” a toothy grin spread across Jack’s face. He grabbed Robby’s now empty cup from him, refilling it before he could protest.

Without thinking, Robby took the cup back and poured it down his throat. “Jesus Christ, the hell is this stuff?” He sputtered.

“No fucking idea,” Jack shrugged. “You met Emily yet?”

“Who?”

“Emily,” Jack repeated. For emphasis. For meaning. When Robby gave him the same confused puppy dog look, he tilted his head over to where a circle of girls had gathered near the wall. A blonde in the middle gave a little wave.

“Oh,” Robby went hoarse, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right, right. You’re seriously still going out with her?”

“Well, yeah, I said I’d introduce her to you today, didn’t I?” Jack’s eyebrow went up.

“I know, I just…”

“You don’t think I’m serious about her.”

Robby shook his head, wiping traces of beer from his beard. “No, no, not all, brother. She looks— she seems great.”

When he glanced back at the wall, Emily had broken off from the group and was making her way over to where they stood. She offered a smile at Robby, lip gloss catching in the dancing party lights. She was pretty, that was no doubt. Then again, every girl Jack went out with always seemed to be pretty.

Jack’s hand found her waist with ease, using his other hand to gesture across from him. “Em, this is Robby.”

“Nice speech,” Emily grinned at him. “Jack’s told me all about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Robby suddenly felt all too sober.

“Yeah, he loves to tell me all sorts of stories,” her fingers brushed at Jack’s curls. “Always trying to make me laugh.”

“Nothing too embarrassing, brother. At least, not for me,” Jack added.

“Ah,” Robby swallowed. “Well, don’t worry. His charm wears off eventually.”

“I doubt it,” Emily looked up at Jack, and they both shared a smile. Robby felt his stomach churn in a way that he knew had nothing to do with the beer.

“Excuse me,” he managed to say, handing his cup off to a random hand, backing into someone’s shoulder. “Gotta go, uh, hit the head. Nice meeting you.”

Before he could turn around and regret it, Robby pushed his way through the crowd. He found himself heading down a hallway, hoping that one of the doors at the end would lead to a bathroom.

He turned the knob of a room to his left to see a bedroom. Deciding that he didn’t care, Robby closed the door behind him shut, the sounds of the party outside dampening with a solid click.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, letting out a deep breath. This was his party. It was supposed to be, at least. He should be out there, dancing to awful music, getting hammered, doing all the things that were supposed to be fun.

But they weren’t fun. Robby knew that. All at once, he was reminded why he never bothered to show up to parties, let alone host one. If things were going his way, he’d be in his own bed, probably studying, or at least listening to music that he actually liked.

He’d want to hang out with Jack, actually. Of course he would. But every time Robby offered, there was always a date. A girl. An Emily. And now that Robby could put a name to a face…

He buried his head between his hands and groaned.

It wasn’t as if Jack had never hung out with girls before. Hell, Robby had turned down a guys’ night over a date a few times before himself, although for him, they usually didn’t go so well. But that didn’t explain why he felt so… so…

The door cracked open. He must’ve forgotten to lock it.

Luckily, a familiar head of ginger curls peeked in through the gap, causing Robby to let out a sigh of relief.

“Hey, you okay?”

Robby nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, fine.”

“Then you wanna explain to me why you ran off like that?” The bed sank under Jack’s weight.

A shrug. “Just needed a minute.”

“A minute to what?”

Robby looked at him. “You know I don’t like parties.”

“No shit, but you could have at least been a little more polite to my girlfriend, man,” Jack nudged him with his elbow. Girlfriend. The word carried more weight than it should have.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I just… got overwhelmed. Tell her I wasn’t feeling well.”

Jack nodded. They stared at the space between them, muffled noises from the party filling the silence. Music thumped through the walls, drowning out the beating of Robby’s heart that was going much too fast for his own liking.

“She’s blonde,” Robby found himself saying.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Thought you liked brunettes.”

Jack looked up at him. His eyes glittered, and Robby felt a dangerous feeling flood throughout his chest.

“I do,” Jack said.

A pause.

They closed the space.

The first thing Robby registered was the taste of alcohol, until he realized that was, in fact, the taste of Jack’s lips on his. His brain short-circuited, and all he could do was kiss him back, his hands grabbing at Jack’s shirt, his hair, anything he could reach.

He couldn’t breathe. Everything was so hot. He wasn’t sure whose breath belonged to whom, and— fuck, that was definitely Jack’s tongue. Jack’s hand, reaching under Robby’s shirt. Jack’s voice, a helpless whine against his mouth. And Jack’s knee, rough denim pushing between Robby’s legs.

They broke, faces inches apart, panting. Fuck, fuck, fuck, his mind repeated frantically. What the fuck is happening?

He looked at Jack, who was staring back at him. That just happened. This was really happening.

“I’m—” Robby’s voice caught in his throat. “I’m not gay.”

Jack blinked. “Okay.”

“Seriously, I’m not.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them moved, limbs tangled, shirts riding up their stomachs. Jack’s knee still sat insistently against the pressing weight between Robby’s legs.

“Emily—”

“Don’t worry about her,” Jack cut him off.

Robby’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Jack pushed him until they both fell backwards onto the bed. Robby laid on his back, looking upwards, Jack’s hands on either side of him. He couldn’t help but let out a choked moan as Jack pressed his knee further against his growing hard-on, sending an embarrassing amount of heat down towards his stomach.

They kissed, but this time Robby knew what was happening. He was keenly aware of how his hand found Jack’s waist, squeezing. How Jack’s lips trailed down his jaw, towards his neck, tasting his skin there.

“You’re drunk,” Robby panted, hips trying to find friction.

Jack sucked on a spot on Robby’s neck that had him seeing stars. “So are you.”

Robby tugged on Jack’s hair—earning a deep groan—to lift his head, just enough so that his hands could find the hem of his shirt. Mirroring his actions, Jack peeled off his t-shirt until he was straddling Robby’s lap, both of them bare-chested.

There was a split second of hesitation before they both wrestled with their belts, tossing pairs of jeans off to the ground. Jack leaned down again, both of them eliciting a relieved moan as their cocks found each other, separated only by the fabric barrier of their boxers.

“Fuck,” Jack whispered. Robby hummed in response.

They stayed like that for a while, rocking their hips against each other in a clumsy rhythm. Robby thought he might be able to cum from this alone. Jack guided Robby’s legs to wrap around him, and now they were chest to chest, the sheets tangling beneath them.

Emboldened, Robby reached down, spreading his knees to let his hand snake between their bodies and wrap around both of their cocks. He gave an experimental squeeze, which made Jack let out a sound so delicious that Robby had to resist reaching down and jacking them both off stupidly fast.

Robby’s fingers caught on Jack’s waistband. He looked up, just to be sure, grateful to receive an eager nod from Jack in response. Their boxers slid down their bodies, exposing both of their cocks. Robby’s was longer, twitching visibly as it slid against Jack’s, which was noticeably thicker, a heavy vein running down the shaft that Robby had the sudden urge to run his tongue over.

Jack thrusted his hips, which reminded Robby what he was supposed to be doing. He wrapped his hand around both of their lengths, starting to pump at a steady pace. Precum oozed from the two, giving his palm a smooth, easy grip as the room filled with a wet slap, slap, slap of skin on skin.

“God… shit,” Robby gasped. He wouldn’t be able to last long like this, he could already tell. Not with Jack’s heavy cock throbbing against his own, not with how the sounds of their moans were growing louder and louder by the second.

Jack dropped his head to rest against Robby’s shoulder as pleasure overtook him, his breath hot against Robby’s skin. “Faster, brother, c’mon,” he panted.

Robby obliged without a moment of hesitation, his wrist moving in sloppy blur between their bodies. His thumb rubbed back and forth on Jack’s tip, swiping at the wetness gathered there. Jack groaned, the noise vibrating into the mattress.

He felt heat gathering towards a peak, and he knew Jack was feeling the same. Robby doubled his efforts, pushing himself against Jack, their lengths sliding against each other, tips practically kissing with how much they kept knocking together.

“I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, me too, me too,” Jack grunted, rolling his hips towards where they met.

“Oh God,” all Robby could do was moan and pump and pump and pump, throwing his head back. “Oh God, Jack, Jack—”

“Fuck, yes, Robby!”

“Fuck!”

Pleasure exploded between them in wet strings of cum. Some shot up his chest, coating his beard. He stayed like that, floating, until the feeling of Jack lifting his head from his shoulder brought him back to reality.

He was about to say something (probably incredibly idiotic) before a knock sounded at the door.

“Shit! Did you lock it?” Robby shot up, searching frantically for his clothes.

“I— I think so?”

“You’re not sure?” A pair of jeans flew from the other side of the bed.

“I don’t know!” Wrestling his shirt on, Jack raced towards the door, his hand finding the knob to be, thank God, locked shut.

Robby’s body flooded with relief. He breathed, pulling on his sweater. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Jack nodded, his hand hovering over the doorknob hesitantly. He glanced at Robby, his hair still messy, face flushed.

The bed was still left in a tangle of sheets, mattress dented from where their bodies had been pressed into it. Hell, Robby thought he could see a wet patch glisten in the dim lighting.

“I— I think I’ll go get some more drinks,” Jack said.

Robby nodded slowly. “Yeah,” his voice cracked. “Sure.”

He watched Jack disappear back into the party before he could think of saying anything else. Smoothing down his sweater, Robby inhaled deeply before following suit. Rumors would start to fly if he spent too much time there.

He walked out, closing the door behind him. Oh, great. Someone was already coming down the hall to approach him. A girl, who he realized was, unfortunately, very blonde.

“Have you seen Jack? I can’t find him anywhere,” Emily asked him.

“No, he uh, went to get some drinks, I think,” Robby cleared his throat.

She nodded. “Oh, right,” He saw her frown slightly, glancing up and down at him. “I think you’ve got some froth in your beard or something.”

Robby’s fingers went up, brushing against something wet that he knew was definitely not, in fact, froth. His entire body went hot. “Whoops. Must have— have gotten some in there, huh. Haha. Yeah,” he chuckled, wiping it quickly on the back of his sweater.

“Well, tell me if you see Jack, okay?”

“Of course, yeah. I will.”

Jack has never seen Robby's face look as fucking haggard as it does when he takes Jack aside a few nights later, and breaks the news with as much gentleness as he's still got left in him.

Major traffic accident, car vs pedestrians. Multiple crushing injuries. They'd taken Whitaker to Presby because it was closer to the scene.

Amputation of Whitaker's left leg. Below the knee, Jack hears Robby say, and he knows realistically that it's a good thing. Lucky.

He can't bring himself to say it out loud, and neither can Robby.

---

The decision to take Whitaker under his wing is made without much conscious effort from Jack. It happens like a simple math problem, the outcome consistent and expected.

He goes to visit the kid at Presby, doesn't get offended when he has to introduce himself and then jog the kid's memory about where they've met before.

He lets the kid be numb, then sad, then angry, then sad again. He drives him to the support groups, and lets the kid be bitterly jealous over Jack's control of a vehicle.

"You'll have this again. But in the meantime you get to be pissed about it."

He gets his care transferred over to PTMC, and promises the kid that the ortho and rehab teams won't go spreading rumours or talking about him to his colleagues.

"They're not even my colleagues anymore."

Jack snorts, and tries to hold back another one at the kid's angry, puffed-up kitten scowl.

"Hate to break it to you kid, but those pricks are persistent, and most of them have made a real nice ass groove for themselves in that department. Like it or not, those fuckers will be waiting for you when you get back. Robby's practically salivating."

Jack knows this whole process well enough to know that the uptick of the corner of Dennis' mouth is a win.

He takes the kid to hydrotherapy, and he pulls some strings so that their first session is just the two of them, gently splashing around in the pool. Jack's not a physiotherapist, but he does understand the tightness around Dennis' eyes at the thought of exposing his new body to yet another perfect stranger.

He stands in the water and holds his arms out, waiting patiently for Dennis to be ready. Lets the kid cling to his arms, huffs a quiet laugh at the small sound he makes the instant he's submerged in the warm water.

"Yeah? Takes away some of that aching, huh?"

Dennis nods, quiet in the way that someone is when they're surprised that a promise has been kept. Jack slowly inches backwards in the water, only a couple of inches, stops when Dennis makes a gutteral, unsteady sound.

"I got you, I got you." The kid's fingers are leaving livid white marks on his biceps, but that's not important. "I'm not gonna let you fall. You remember what we talked about before? About what to do if you start to overbalance?"

"I know how to swim. I lost a leg, not my memory."

"Oh yeah?" Jack grins, gently bobs them both a little in the water. "Well if you remember how to swim, and you remember your piss-poor attitude, why don't you stop doing your best bubble impression and take some baby steps for me?"

Dennis scowls, and the indignation and curiosity almost cancels out his hesitation and fear.

"Shut up. What the hell does that even mean?"

Jack is so very glad he asked.

"Your bubble impression?" He shrugs, deliberately looking away from Denns' legs making their first hesitant shuffles. "Floating there looking pretty, but not doing much else."

"Oh, fuck you."

He's there when Dennis gets his first prosthesis, ready to catch him when the inevitable frustration and disappointment set in at the realisation that the freedom of mobility doesn't come without adjustments.

"Dennis. Look at me." The kid's face is blotchy and red, and he's been studiously avoiding Jack's eyes ever since they got back.

"It's okay to be frustrated. I know it hurts. It's a completely new piece of equipment being attached to a part of your body that never expected to have this attached. There's new pressure, new sensations, and it's all happening to new, sensitive skin, and muscle and bone that are still adjusting. Give yourself some grace, kid."

"I'm - I'm lucky to have this." Dennis spits out. That word again, the tricky sticking point that even Jack never quite got to grips with. "I shouldn't be complaining. There are people far worse off than me."

Jack hums, handing Dennis the antibac wipes and offering no further guidance on cleaning.

"Sure. There are definitely people who are worse off." He sees Dennis' head jerk upwards, finally gets that eye contact he'd been chasing.

"But I'm not talking to them, I'm talking to you. Other people have it worse, and you've still been dealt a shitty hand right now. Both things can be true. You're lucky to have access to the prosthesis and the rehab teams. This -" he gently pats the prosthetic limb like it has its own nerves "-is going to be the thing that gives you your freedom and mobility back. But right now, it's new and it hurts, and it'll take adjustment. Both things can be true."

He shows Dennis his own prosthesis, his own stump, and how the two work together. He was surprised at how intimate and vulnerable it felt, letting Dennis see him remove his leg and care for his stump at the end of a long shift. He was interested by his own tenderness at the process, as he'd long thought he was over any feelings of particular vulnerability where observation was concerned.

But he shared all the small things he'd learned over the years with Dennis. All the little things that nobody without a prosthesis could possibly be expected to know, despite their qualifications, because they were the kind of things you only learnt by living it. He softened when he saw Dennis' face set in such concentration as he told him about tips for dealing with hot weather, felt something in him ache a little tenderly at the expression on the kid's face when Jack talked openly about the need for hygiene and the reality of 12-hour shifts and sweat and residual limb care.

He was there the first time he saw it in Dennis' face; the realisation that different did not negate okay. He was there when the kid met with Robby (and really, it was supposed to be a meeting with administration first, but Jack wasn't stupid) to discuss returning for the rest of his rotation.

He was definitely there when the kid started to look at him with something dangerously close to admiration and worship and - if Robby was to be believed - little tiny hearts in his eyes.

"He's too fucking young for me."

"He's twenty six."

"Too. Fucking. Young. He's all caught up with looking at me as his saviour right now."

"Pretty sure he's seen you at your least glamourous. I don't know if you think you've been some kind of perfect, Florence Nightingale figure with endless pools of patience and grace, but let me tell you that you've been cranky, difficult, downright fucking belligerent, and I've heard you tell the worst fucking jokes in your reportoire. The kid still laughs at them and gives you cow eyes."

"He's still too-"

"Both things can be true."

"I fucking hate you."

Fucked out grunts, and whines spill out of him where he’s bent forward, back arched and arms braced against the half tiled wall. And when Jack starts hammering into him, slapping against his ass, Dennis barely chokes back a yelp.

They both freeze, waiting to see if someone heard. Before Jack slams back into him, muttering that Den is gonna get them found out. Enjoying the way that has Dennis clenching down around him with another pathetic whimper.

But he doesn’t actually want to get caught. He can’t imagine the HR nightmare that would be.

So Jack shoves his dog tags between the kids teeth. Rumbling hot and low in his ear that if Dennis drops them, or makes any more noise, he doesn’t get to cum until Jack decides he deserves it. Maybe some time next week.

Den get’s real quiet after that. And when he does cum, with Jack going soft inside him, and his thick hand reached around, working hard to get him off. Dennis squeezes his eyes shut, clenching down every muscle to keep from crying out.

Biting down so hard on the tags that he chips his front tooth.