That Which We Are

Robby had spent far too long in formal education for him to feel comfortable at the thought of blowing off an assignment, even a bullshit one. But he could, he supposed. See if he could goad his therapist into giving him the first D of his academic career. Michael needs to apply himself more. Or walk away from the whole damn thing. Nothing stopping him. He was a grown man; there were no legal obligations on him to climb the steps to his therapist's office once a week. But then he thought about the expression on Jack's face—on Dana's, Duke's, Caleb's—if they found out that he'd walked away from therapist number three, and how they'd look sad, or worse, proven right, and he thought well, fuck it. He'd keep going. Spite had gotten him through worse before.

But the thing was, Robby thought, once he was back in his quiet apartment, making himself a sandwich, the thing was that he didn't have the first clue how to do this. He'd bought a new pair of hiking boots just last month, and he wore those to work anyway. Jack had given him a year's membership to the Frick for his birthday, and had gone with him, long-suffering, to an exhibition of photos of working life in early twentieth century Pittsburgh. Robby couldn't think of anything else he might want and didn't have. He had a roof over his head and enough to eat; he was a three-block walk from a public library branch; he had more TV channels than he ever watched. He was luckier than a hell of a lot of people. He was doing fine.

And then the next morning at the farmer's market, Robby stumbled across a new vendor. He'd gone there for vegetables and cheese, but found himself stopping in front of a stall selling handmade blankets and throws. Robby nodded along to what the weaver had to say about wool and cashmere and double-weave construction, but it was the softness of one of the throws beneath his hand that had him handing over his credit card.

"Lambswool," the weaver said with a smile as they wrapped up the throw in layers of tissue paper. "So durable. It'll last you for years."

"Good to know," Robby said, and didn't say that he hadn't picked this one because of its durability, but instead because of its spectrum of colours: like rich ochre earth that had been carved away to show veins of burnished copper and old gold. He'd picked it simply because he wanted it.

He carried home the vegetables, and the cheese, and the throw, and part of him was appalled at his audacity in spending three hundred dollars on a blanket, but mostly he was glad that he had it. He draped it over the back of his sofa, and admired the picture that it made—the bright wool against the dark leather—but by the time Jack let himself in some hours later, Robby was lying on the sofa with it wrapped tightly around him.

"Going for the burrito look today?" Jack asked as he set a six-pack and a pizza box down on the coffee table.

"Fuck off," Robby said, and the one down side of being swathed in the blanket was how much more difficult it was to flip Jack off like this.

"One thing I always appreciate about you is your commitment to hospitality, brother," Jack said. "Now move over."

Robby sighed as if he was the one being put on; as if he hadn't been the one to suggest, diffident, that maybe Jack could come over to watch the game. He heaved himself upright, slouched against one corner of the sectional, and worked his arms out of the blanket so that he could accept the beer and the slice of pizza that Jack handed to him. If Jack noticed that the blanket was new, he didn't mention it. He turned on the TV and ate his own food and told Robby a meandering story about the cousin of a buddy of his who'd gone to Pymatuning State Park last weekend and… well, Robby lost the thread of the story. It was easier to just drink his beer and listen to the rise and fall of Jack's voice and be swathed in warmth and not let himself think about much of anything.

It was easier. It was nice.

At Robby's next session, his therapist asked him how the exercise had gone.

"I bought a blanket," Robby said, which was an answer but also didn't feel like much of a one, so he picked at a fingernail and added, "I shared it with someone," and he hated it when he said something that had his therapist scribbling in their notebook. He could already anticipate the next question—and how is that unnecessary or impractical?—and so he went on, "And it was just because I liked it."

"Buying the blanket, or sharing it?"

Robby hated questions.

The next weekend it rained and Jack brought over Thai food, but he found Robby in the same spot on the couch, swathed once again in the blanket. "This is getting to be a habit, huh," Jack said.

"Does twice make a habit?" Robby groused.

"Well, let's see," Jack said, and slid in between Robby and the back of the sofa. Last time, Robby had shaken out some of the extra folds of the blanket over a dozing Jack; this time, Jack slid an arm around Robby's waist; and either way, it seemed, Robby felt warmer than he had any right to.

After a moment, Robby said, muffled, "Am I going to need a bigger couch?"

Jack shifted against him and said, "You mean, is this going to be a thing?"

Wrapped in the blanket, Robby shrugged. "Maybe?"

"It's something I'd look into, yeah," Jack said, and his lips brushed against the nape of Robby's neck, just above the blanket's edge.