one must imagine sisyphus happy

it  is  the  end  of  the  day  that  is  his  favorite,  however.  in  dress  pants  and  crisp,  starched  white  buttoned  shirt  and  tie,  jack  plants  himself  on  a  rolling  chair  at  the  hotel  desk,  before  a  webcam;  the  linking  sound  of  the  video  chat  the  background  symphony  to  his  dinner  ━  which  is  a  hearty  ribeye.  ❝  michael,  ❞  the  gray  haired  man  greets  his  partner  from  one  side  of  the  screen;  one  side  of  the  country.  ❝  i  told  you  i'd  meet  you  for  dinner,  man!  ❞  smile's  much  bigger  now. 

he sets it all up for dinner. actually bothers to make some pasta, takes his laptop into the kitchen. he quite can't help the lovesick expression that settles on his features when jack pops up on the screen. ❝  hey, honey.  ❞ something loosens in his chest to see jack beaming like this– in his element. ( and it doesn't hurt that he's dressed up and eating good. ) ❝  yeah, you did. that'll teach me to doubt you, huh?  ❞ if it's a little flirtatious, sue him. for a moment, though, robby just looks at him– happy to take him in, even if it's through a screen, even if it's a little laggy. ❝  how's it going over there?  ❞

sad boy dr. michael ‘robby’ robinavitch

NOAH WYLE bts season 1 The Pitt x

she exhales a laugh, one that ghosts across the crown of his head as she leans down, brushing her lips against his hairline. 'careful,' she murmurs, voice rich and low, 'you keep saying things like that and i may believe you,' but she already does. that’s the problem. that’s the whole terrifying, beautiful problem. her hand drifts from his temple to the edge of his jaw, thumb gliding along the curve of it; a study of him and his anatomy, of the man who shows her his softness like a secret, who kisses her like a promise, who lets her be quiet and doesn’t ask her to explain the ache behind her eyes. her gaze lingers on his mouth, just long enough for the silence to nearly take over. 'and what would we do with centuries, mon cœur?' she asks softly 'would you grow tired of me? or would we learn how to truly live, with all that time?' her fingers slide into his hair again.

his breath always comes a little harder, a little deeper, when she touches him like this– the gentleness of it jars him, a little. but even more frightening is the way it makes him feel. like he's coming alive and apart beneath her touch. like he'll never be able to live without it again. but he won't have to. he knows he won't have to. five decades of a lifetime and he's never trusted anyone to stay quite like this. 'dunno,' he murmurs in reply, 'just this, maybe.' the possibility of forever– improbably real– doesn't seem so daunting with lavender eyes fixed so sweetly on his. 'for a few hundred years at least, i'd say.' hands, roughened from years of work lift to clasp one of hers, preternaturally soft, and press it over his heart. 'we'd learn how to live. there isn't a world where i get tired of you, gen.'

his advice lands heavily in the middle of her chest, a certain abashed heat radiating there & tinting her cheeks a shade of pink. she knew what burnout was. she knew that even she was susceptible to it. but she didn't know any other way to be. not confidently, anyway. it isn't that she doesn't want to stop; she doesn't know how. the hand that isn't currently out of commission balls into an anxious fist at her side, her thumb running over her knuckles. " if i shouldn't be sorry, neither should you. " she begins with a nervous laugh, subtle & breathy. " i don't think . . . i know that balance ── balance is important. it just doesn't seem fair, you know? " and suddenly . . . maybe she doesn't know. it takes a few seconds, long seconds, before she has the words that have only ever floated around her mind when things got quiet. " you know, if i can . . . and someone else can't. putting yourself first is ── i don't need to be first. "

the words 'it just doesn't seem fair' settle over him with an uncomfortable familiarity. an odd feeling– one he's not particularly fond of– to hear his own quietly held belief so plainly put. he breathes the words in without quite knowing how to respond, sighs when comes up empty. "no," he says, "it doesn't." & if robby was willing to be more introspective, he might realize this is his version of therapy. if he can't tell himself how to protect his own well-being, let him tell someone else. the forceps & needle driver click softly when he puts them down. he won't duck into mel's vision like he might with whitaker or mohan, but he fixes his gaze on her– direct, intentional– so that if she chooses to look, she'll see that he really means it– & maybe catch a glimpse of the vulnerable place the advice comes from. "so maybe you don't put yourself first. maybe you don't even put yourself second or third. but you can't come last." too many years of that, & you'll end up like him.

#WILL3ND a private & highly selective multi-fandom multi-muse ft. frank langdon from hbo's the pitt. read full carrd before following / ©.

Noah Wyle looking like a fucking snacc x