ART TRADES & COMMS OPEN!

Robert isn’t much of a ‘night out’ guy, preferring a stay-in date, but they made an effort to meet in the middle. At first, Robert sleeping over was an occasional thing, always a last minute decision dictated by post-sex exhaustion and Robert’s insatiable desire, bordering on embarrassing levels of need, for snuggling. Chad didn’t mind the cuddling. In fact, he might’ve even said he likes sharing his big bed with a perpetually chilly boyfriend.

The morning after Robert’s first sleep over he moved like someone had yanked all his limbs out of socket in the middle of the night. He spent no less than five minutes stiffly moving to sit on the edge of the bed, then he cracked and popped every single joint on his puny normie body. Wrists, elbows, his sternum. He flexed his shoulders and pushed on them, held them in place while doing slow, controlled movements until they snapped. He spent a couple minutes rubbing his knees and flexing his feet against the floor while his ankles crackled. He massaged his metacarpals, pressed his thumbs around his palms and up along his fingers. Eventually, he bent his back until his spine went off like Bruno stepping on a ream of bubble wrap.

The first time, Chad didn’t think much of it. They’d been fairly rowdy the night before. It wasn’t until Robert spent a few more nights at Chad’s loft that he realized it was routine. And for whatever reason, Robert always kept his back to Chad for this methodical morning ritual of joint popping and muscle stretching. He’d talk about plans for the day and flirt with a dry rasp and eventually he’d get up and Chad would make breakfast.

The next thing Chad noticed came about when he offered Robert a drawer in his dresser and a spot on the shelves in the bathroom. It only made sense for Robert to keep some things at Chad’s place. He was there a lot and Chad wanted him there even more.

Chad’s loft, while only one room, is spacious. Chad keeps it well furnished, even has a nice collection of plants and artwork, the best of which is on his fridge and signed in the scrawl of a seven-year-old who knows her way around a 128 count box of Crayola.

 It has concrete floors, brick covered beams, big picture windows, vaulted ceilings with skylights, and a kitchen that isn’t a cramped nightmare. His sectional is comfortably plush with deep seats and good back support. The bed is an Alaskan king with high quality linen sheets. He has afghans his sister crocheted for him and a big television and a coffee table with floor cushions for casual eating. There are plush, decorative rugs all over, a nice breakfast bar, and of course, Chad’s massive glass shower and accompanying soaker tub.

Meanwhile Robert lives in a glorified roach motel that he deep cleans on a regular basis because he’s apparently neurotic about that kind of thing. Meticulous. Also the mattress on the floor thing is extra depressing. Chad has standards.

It wasn’t hard to talk Robert into staying over more. One night a week on average became almost all of them. And among the things Robert brought to keep at Chad’s place is a little white bottle with blue liquid-gel capsules in it. A generic brand of ibuprofen. It’s a big fucking bottle, too.

Robert pops them around the clock on their off days. Swallows them down with his Lexapro and coffee every morning. Once brought to his attention, Chad couldn’t stop noticing the sheer insanity of how many Robert takes and how often. Not just at the loft, but at work, too.

He asked for Courtney’s help, just to confirm his suspicions. His stupid bitch boyfriend has a bottle in his desk and another one in his suit and one in his fucking locker…

And then there’s this little kicker: At first, Chad didn’t take it to be evidence, but with the context he now has after two months of dating, he realized it’s not because Robert’s got emotional hangups. Sure, Robert definitely has those, but they’re not why he goes out of his way to avoid fucking in missionary position.

So here Chad is, on their two month anniversary, knowing what the problem is, and pissed that Robert won’t even admit he has it.

The fact that Robert suffers chronic pain makes sense. It isn’t even surprising. What Chad struggles to wrap his head around is why Robert also seems determined to treat said pain so damn carelessly. It’s time for an intervention. They have plans tonight. Staying in. Chad’s making dinner. He’s promised to wine and dine Robert and romance him properly since they beat out the team’s betting pool on how quickly they’d break up.

They had the day off, giving Chad plenty of time to get the loft ready for his boyfriend’s arrival, sometime around five. Chad expects flowers, because Robert’s kind of a traditionalist when it comes to romantic gestures. He has a vase picked out and set aside already. The smell of incense and warm cooking spices has permeated every inch of the loft, and they’ll enjoy their meal at the coffee table, snuggled up like Robert seems to obsessively crave. But first comes Intervention.

Robert comes through the door just before five as Chad’s finishing up the last touches on his master plan. Behind the brickwork partition that hides the tub and shower, Chad’s gone all out. Epsom salts, lavender, and chamomile in the water, floating rose petals for the aesthetic. Candles a safe distance away, lighting the area, and massage oil on the step. Plush robes and towels for after, and a pair of slippers to keep the chill of concrete floors away. He’s playing some 90s R&B because it’s a piece of nostalgia they share. It’s perfect.

“Over here!” Chad calls out when he hears Robert shuffle past to set things down in the kitchen.

“Over there? You still getting dolled up for date night?” Robert’s footfalls are so quiet, but his voice carries in the cavernous loft. Chad is as dolled up as he needs to be, which is to say, he’s already naked. When Robert rounds the partition and sees this, the reaction is precisely as anticipated. His gaze is shameless and Chad feels a warm flutter of satisfaction. He props a hand on his hip, straightening his spine a bit, tilting his chin up, proud and preening under the attention. Yeah. That’s right, Bob-Bob. Take it all in and really think about how lucky you are.

“Dessert before dinner?” Robert asks in that tone—the one that makes Chad’s temperature creep up a couple degrees. It’s low, a hint of vocal fry and breath, this sort of—smoky lounge singer vibe that’s deep, masculine, subtle in its desire.

“We’re celebrating aren’t we?” Chad huffs, like it should be obvious. Robert nods and steps closer, fingertips hovering at Chad’s hip, not touching yet, just teasing at it. His warm, brown eyes are all over Chad, slow, roving down every inch and then up again. His fingertips brush over the angle of Chad’s hip. Instant goosebumps. That little touch shouldn’t be so salacious, and yet, Chad sucks in a breath like an excitable virgin.

Hang on—they—No. There was a different point to this. Chad’s supposed to be the one seducing, here, not the other way around.

“Then I should get into celebration attire. Gimme a second,” Robert smiles and squeezes Chad’s hip. He steps away and reaches for his little bag of personal care items on the shelves and Chad realizes exactly what he’s going for.

“I swear to god Robert if you are turning your back on me for that damn bottle of ibuprofen, I will drown you in the tub,” Chad reaches out and snatches Robert’s forearm and then stops himself. Don’t yank. A wide, startled gaze is what Robert offers him when he turns back around.

“I… Don’t know how to respond to that,” Robert says. Chad exhales roughly, loosens his grasp, and then slides it down Roberts arm to take his hand instead.

“Then just listen to me.” Chad’s trying to be gentle. A tall order when he’s this annoyed, but all things considered, he’d like to point out he’s doing a pretty good job.

“Alright,” Robert shifts a little closer, turning into Chad’s space more intimately while squeezing his fingers and looking up with that concerned divot between his cocked brows. “I’m listening.”

Chad rehearsed what he wanted to say in his head. Getting all the right words together in English can be taxing when he’s trying to convey something important. Now that they’re here, those words feel further away and what comes out is a lot more vulnerable.

“You never tell me you’re hurting and I wish you would. Especially when it’s so fucking obvious like do you think I’m stupid or something? That I wouldn’t notice? You’re going to get ulcers or fucking kidney failure or something and then I’ll be looking at you in a hospital bed again and I’m not into that.”

It all comes out in a rush, the crux of Chad’s frustrations. It only occurs to him now that this hurts his feelings. In his head, the realization sounds childish, but fuck if he can change how he feels about anything. If he had a choice in that, why the hell would he be with this self-destructive twink?

Robert isn’t saying anything.

Fuck.

Chad’s back is tight, neck tense, breath short. He can’t keep looking. He stares past Robert at the shelves.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to it. Being uh. Around people. Like this. I haven’t had any kind of steady relationship in over a decade, and the people I dated in college probably stretch the upper limit of what counts as steady.” Robert’s hands always feel cool. His touch is firm but not forceful against Chad’s face, thumb scraping through Chad’s stubble in an affectionate back and forth motion. “C’mon, look at me, Chad. You wanna do this, then don’t back down. I’m not gonna get mad at you for expressing concerns. Or your feelings.”

Chad takes in the tense frown wearing lines into Robert’s face. He looks at all those freckles and the richness of the different shades of brown in his eyes as they reflect candlelight. He sighs and squeezes Robert’s hand, covers the one on his face with his own.

“I don’t like this silent suffering thing you do. I thought maybe you’d notice that I like taking care of you and—and maybe open up. Ask for a massage instead of clinging to me like a fucking koala because your muscles are sore and your bones hurt. Or just saying you don’t like missionary because it’s physically uncomfortable. Or taking a fucking rest day instead of trying to keep up with me. But clearly, you’re so fucking broken, I have to figure it out and do it for you.”

Robert laughs. He laughs because he gets Chad’s brand of self-expression and how he goes about conveying he cares. It’s a quiet laugh. Warm. A good one. Chad glances toward the bath.

“I wanted to show you how to slow down and actually do something nice for yourself to help your pain instead of popping more ibuprofen than an entire women’s volleyball roster takes annually. Seriously are you a masochist or do you hate your doctor?”

“I am a masochist, but I don’t hate my doctor. I just like to make sure he’s really earning his paycheck.”

“Oh my fucking god, take off your clothes and get in the shower,” Chad rolls his eyes and shoves Robert (gently) toward the glass enclosure. He turns on the tap and then helps with the slow process of Robert undressing. He’s stiff after a long day on public transit and walking all over Torrance. Redness in his feet and hands, little bruises here and there from bumping things… This isn’t unmanageable. Robert just needs someone to show him.

“Rule number one of self-care, don’t fucking marinate in your own filth. Always rinse before a bath,” Chad states as he ushers Robert. Warm water cascades from a rainfall showerhead, and Chad takes the lead. He pampers Robert with a thorough scrub down with a tonka, vanilla, and lilac body scrub to clean and exfoliate away dirt and grime and dead skin. He keeps his hands warmer than the shower by just a few degrees, uses them to run the contours of Robert’s body in a light, surface massage as they rinse together.

Robert is putty under his hands. If Chad had known it was this easy to make Robert malleable, he’d have done it weeks ago.

“I don’t really take baths. Not even as a kid. Learned how to shower pretty early on,” Robert says, and the more he talks about his childhood the more Chad thinks maybe Robbie Robertson II doesn’t deserve the kind of loyalty Robert’s shown him. One problem at a time, though. They can address that when they reach six months.

“Well you’re going to start taking baths, because they’re good for you. Lowers the blood pressure, relaxes the muscles. I make a point to take at least one good long soak a month,” Chad directs Robert toward the tub and holds his hand as he steps in. Nice and easy.

Robert’s groan as he sinks down into the water is obscene.

“Yeah I—Think I can see where you’re coming from,” Robert sighs.

“Yeah. I know what the fuck I’m talking about, now scoot over,” Chad slips in after him, settling down with his back against the sloped side, and then reaches out. “Alright, now you can come here.”

Robert is slim, even if he’s not as skinny as he was when he first started with SDN. He fits perfectly between Chad’s thighs, and while the water is warm, Chad is still warmer, making his chest the perfect place for Robert to rest his aching back and fucked up shoulders. It’s satisfying to watch the way Robert sinks and melts, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut as tension he’s been carrying for ages starts to unwind.

“Damn,” he sighs. “Alright, you win. I’m an idiot. This is… Nice.”

“Nice? You’re in a bath full of flower petals, indulging in aromatherapy, with me, naked. Nice. Bitch, this is as close to heaven as you’ll get without my dick inside you.”

As offended as he plays himself off to be, Chad’s chest is over-full, swollen with a kind of smug pride that’s making him giddy.

“Is that an option?” Robert rolls his head to one side to look up at Chad through damp lashes, a crooked little smirk on his face. Chad scoffs.

“You must be joking. After all the work I put in today for your scrawny ass? Cleaning the loft, making you dinner, setting up this bath, not to mention the prep work I’ve already done. A goddamn enema and fresh wax because we’re celebrating. If anyone gets to play pillow princess tonight, it fucking me.”

Robert’s laugh is effervescent. Bright and clear and Chad’s face burns with heat. What a fucking sounds that is. Robert rubs his thigh, squeezes his quad and tilts his head up to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“Message received. You take care of me, and I take care of you. Real… Serious adult relationship stuff,” he murmurs. Chad winds his arm around Robert’s waist and ducks down, tucking his face in the curve of his neck. He breathes in steam and the smell of his damp skin, leaving behind a few kisses. Robert’s whole body is lax in his arms, arching and shifting while he sighs with a reedy note of enthusiasm. He sinks his free hand into Chad’s hair and rubs his scalp, down into the nape of his neck.

“Once a month,” Chad says. He nips Robert’s neck for good measure. “You’re joining me.”

“Once a month?”

“At least.”

“Ahh. Alright. Once a month, at least. You have my word.”