Viva la Pluto

Jack has tried everything after his wife’s death—bars, clubs, men, women—and still can’t get hard. Hiring a sex worker for the “boyfriend experience” is his last resort. Robby is soft, ordinary, kind. And somehow, that’s exactly what Jack needs.

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Jack Abbot/Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Jack Abbot Needs a Hug (The Pitt), Bottom Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Top Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Sex Work, Jack Abbot Cries During Sex, Erectile Dysfunction, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Making Out, Tender Sex, Soft Smut, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Condoms, Prostitution

It had been two months since Jack had hired Robby for the first time, and back then, he had foolishly thought he was fixed. Silly of him. He’d gone out to a bar a few days later, ended up being taken home by a gorgeous woman, and found himself completely incapable of getting even a little bit hard. The humiliation had been paralyzing.

their stethoscopes entangle while making out

It isn't his fault that he arrives at Robby's after work only to find Katie- the current girlfriend of the seven week period- making pancakes and it isn't his fault that the first thing out of Jack’s mouth is "But there’s no lemon in the house." He's tired and his leg is killing him and there is no lemon in the house. Jack knows the contents of Robby's fridge better than his own at this point.

"Lemon?" Katie asks, looking confused and glancing between them. Jack supposes that maybe she didn't know that he came over after work if Robby had the day off.

"Yeah, lemon. Robby likes his pancakes with butter and lemon juice like an insane person." Jack points out. Surely she should know this by now. It's week five.

"I like it without, too!" Robby tries to insist, but Jack already is pulling up a delivery app so one can be obtained.

"No, you don't." It's a statement because he doesn't.

He's seen Robby turn down pancakes more than once if a restaurant doesn't have lemons. Jack’s seen him ask for some for his pancakes at hotel buffets and not even nice hotel buffets. The lovely people of the Holiday Inn Express in Dallas are still probably perplexed by the man who brought his own lemon juice on vacation, but Jack likes to be prepared and does not like listening to Robby whine while eating rubbery scrambled eggs two hours before Jack is set to give a presentation.

"Robby ate them with syrup last week." Katie insists and Jack actually laughs.

"She's got jokes!" Jack says, not realizing yet that he's stepped in it because he's tired and his leg hurts and he's not even sure why she's here- Robby never schedules his girlfriends to be here during Jack's mornings. Those are supposed to be dedicated bro-times.

He pays extra for an expedited delivery and tucks his phone back in his pocket, satisfied now that it's on it's way. When he looks up, he finds that Katie is looking dejected by the stove and Robby is glaring at him. The penny drops.

"You ate syrup?" Jack asks, much in the same way one would say 'you ate battery acid?'

"I eat syrup." Robby tries to save it, but it's utterly unconvincing. "The pancakes were really good, I swear." Somehow, that manages to sound even less convincing, which Jack has to marvel at.

He needs to prioritize a tactical exit.

"I'm gonna shower. My crutches still by your bed?" Katie's eyes are wide, her mouth open in shock, and Robby's turning a horrible puce color. A tactical exit is out the window, all that's left is a rapid, inglorious retreat. "I'll find them myself. 10 minutes until lemon."

The most wounded part of Robby having a little heart to heart with the most wounded part of Jack. 

Alternatively, I truly think that reading ‘The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse’ would be a healing experience for Robby (though, potentially, healing in the way debriding an infected wound is healing).

What started with “coin is the noise a french duck makes” quickly evolved into “Geralt acting like the goose in the game”. And so, behold….

it’s a beautiful day, and he’s a horrible, horrible witcher.

(drawing like this is super nice, but smoothing the edges takes FOREVER)

(poor Jaskier)

The door clicked shut with a soft thud, sealing off the worst of the noise. Still, the bass from the downstairs speakers thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating right up into the soles of Robby’s beat up converse.

Jack had shoved past the crowd, grabbed Robby by the elbow, and essentially dragged him up the stairs without a single word of explanation. Robby had only followed because Jack looked genuinely pissed, but regret was setting in fast. They were standing in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and a random frat house bedroom was the absolute last place Robby wanted to be under any circumstances. The room smelled faintly of stale beer and cheap air fresher, and the floor was so littered with trash it looked like a raccoon had set up residence.

“What’s going on with you, man?”

Robby forced his eyes away from a suspicious pile of dirty laundry in the corner and looked at Jack. His roommate was flushed, sweaty, a few stray auburn curls sticking to his forehead.

“What? You dragged me in here.” Robby tugged at his t-shirt. The cotton had glued itself to his back and ribs from the heat downstairs. Honestly, he was a little grateful for the quiet break, even if the atmosphere in the room felt suddenly suffused with tension.

“Because something is going on with you.” Jack sounded genuinely upset, his forehead creased. Robby had never been more confused in his life. “What happened downstairs with Maddy?”

Oh.

“Nothing happened.”

“Exactly. You’ve been making puppy eyes at the girl for weeks, she finally gives you a shot, and you completely bolt. What was that about?”

@cantchooseafav just for you

Request: Hanahaki Disease

(Fantastical medical practices)

Robby has always loved Jack.

They met in the dust and blood of war. Jack was dragging a wounded man into the MSF clinic where Robby was stationed.

Jack, bloodied and mud-covered, barking orders to his men.

Robby half asleep, shouting that soldiers weren't welcome here.

Their eyes met over the open chest cavity of a dying soldier and without a single word they got to work.

Robby knows he fell in love in the bloody red dawn, sharing a cigarette with a man wearing a wedding ring and laughing at his twisted humor.

He loved him when all they had were emails that grew further and further apart.

He loved him when he showed up on Robby's doorstep, short a leg with a wife trying to keep her husband from killing himself.

He loved him when Lizzie died and Jack fell so deep into darkness Robby didn't think he'd come back.

He's loved Jack with every molecule in his being, every inch of his heart.

And he's loved him for so long and so deeply that he doesn't remember a version of him before Jack.

Which is why, when Jack admits to going on a few dates, one night years after Lizzie died, Robby isn't surprised to feel the beginning effects of The Broken Heart disease.

First it was GERD. He treated it as any person would until eventually the seeds started.

A few stuck in his tonsils, on the back of his tongue, lodging in his sinuses.

He knows the survival rates of Hanahaki Disease. Has treated several cases in his medical career.

He knows about the string of surgical options, suppression medication and, of course, admitting your feelings.

He knows the choice is his: tell Jack the truth, accept his rejection that'll lessen the symptoms until he succumbs to a more humane death, or, keep it to himself and slowly suffocate.

Still, he keeps it to himself.

Dana knows, of course. She's always known.

She's who holds him upright when vines start crawling up his throat and spew forth. She helps him pull them out, helps him throw up crumbled leaves and petals after Jack relays details of his latest date.

She's there when his doctor gives him his final timeline. Holding his hand, lips pressed thin while they talk about possible surgical options.

"I think you should tell him." she whispers as Robby chokes up forget-me-not blooms.

"Robby, he deserves to know." her voice trembles while his chest rattles around Dicentra petals.

"I can't." Mucus-thick yellow hyacinth sticks in his throat.

One night Jack is talking to a doctor from the fifth floor. He's new, Robby doesn't even know his name, but Jack is laughing and touching his chest.

The man whispers something to him before handing him a piece of paper and winking.

Robby didn't even know Jack liked men and this new knowledge seems to be the final straw.

He spends all night feeling his stomach grow larger, becoming engorged as flowers effloresce inside him.

The pain is so intense, sharp and all consuming.

He throws up hunks of striped carnations for days afterwards. Stuffing bloodied, broken blooms in his pockets at work. Spending every spare moment pulling growth after growth from his throat.

Each new stem growing larger, wider, thicker.

When white rose petals clog his airway, he knows this is it.

Dana isn't happy to learn he's put in for a sabbatical. He doesn’t try to lie to her about it being him getting space from Jack. Dana isn’t stupid and they both know what will happen when he’s alone with no one to assist him.

Doesn’t stop her trying to get him to confess every shift, tries to force him to admit himself. Argues with him to wear oxygen, use an inhaler, take the suppression pills.

He won’t.

He can't.

Robby is dying and he refuses to make it anyone's problem but his own.

Hiding from being sick is no longer an option either. He can't eat, can't sleep, can hardly breathe with flowers overrunning his body. Yet another reason why he needs to leave as soon as possible.

He feels them in his lungs now, sharp thorns digging into his tracheal branches, creepers tickling behind his teeth. His pants are becoming looser, his shirts hanging off his frame like he was in med school again surviving on coffee and ramen noodles.

Others are noticing it, some brave enough to comment while some choose to whisper rumors through the halls of PTMC. He ignores it.

He's good at that.

Six days before he's ready to leave, Jack confronts him, slamming his locker closed in his face. His hazel eyes burning with anger, nostrils flaring as he stares Robby down.

"When were you going to tell me you're taking three months off? Going on some suicidal sabbatical?" He crosses his arms, veins protruding.

Robby stifles a cough. "Suicidal Sabbatical? I wouldn't say taking my bike to Canada is suicidal. A little weird, but not-"

"Shut the fuck up." Jack steps closer, chest bumping with Robby. It rocks him backwards. A sharp intake of breath dragging flowers up his throat, smothering him. He tries to fight it, shove it back down. It's impossible. His eyes water, nose running, bile burns his throat, coating his tongue.

A cough rattles his chest, several thorned stems get stuck in his mouth. He keeps coughing, hand coming up to shove Jack away as he doubles over.

"Rob-"

"Get– Dana-" He can't breathe, each new petal cloying, thickens, more and more coming up as buds stretch his throat. Blood trickles from his mouth, slicking the way for each new bloom. Robby shoves his fingers inside trying to help dislodge them.

"Robby, fuck-" Jack shouts for help, sliding next to him, resting a hand on his back before thunking with the heel of his palm. Three swift upward strokes that dislodge new buds, climbing ivy piercing his sinuses.

His vision swims, body lurching with each gagging cough. Blood and mucus coat his fingers, trailing down his wrists in splintered rivulets. Where Jack touches him he feels thorns under his skin, growing out through his pores. He keeps trying to shove him away but Jack won't budge.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Someone else has joined them, helping keep Robby upright as another rolls a wheelchair behind him.

Robby doesn't think oxygen exists for him, no longer is he a human man aching for the love of another but a wilting field of sorrowful flowers begging for water and sun. Jack touching him hurts, aches, but where his hands grip his neck and bicep are the only places he feels no pain.

Tiny tendrils wrap around Jack's fingers. "Mikey." His voice shakes. "I've got you. I'm right here."

Robby wants to tell him it's okay, that it's not his fault, but when he opens his mouth another roll of buds leaves him.

Something deep inside him unfurls, winding around his ribs, cradling his heart. He feels fit to burst, no longer able to keep his eyes open or hold himself upright. The last thing he sees before consciousness slips away is Jack leaning over him, his mouth moving rapidly while smacking his cheek.

Robby needs Jack to know he doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t blame anyone and having Jack be the last thing he sees before it's all over is more than he could ask for.

A weak trickle of tears burns his cheeks as he says goodbye with stretched-thin lips.

—

When Jack was a kid he learned the story of The Broken Heart disease. He heard all the tales about unrequited love stealing the breath from young lovers' breasts. He’d watched movies where one confession, spoken just in time, stopped the bleeding roses cold.

During med school he saw a few cases up close and personal. Saw the unromanticized version of the disease, how it riddles a person's body. Kills them from the inside out — vines piercing through skin, shoots growing out of mouths, crawling ivy tangling into someone's hair.

He's witnessed a few cases where the love is reciprocated, watched an end-stage case reverse once the feeling was returned. During his surgery rotation he assisted with a few derootings, helping clip stems from withered lungs and held heart seeds in a tin pan.

In the army he witnessed a few fellow soldiers who fell in love despite DADT or with locals — long-distance paramours — succumb to the disease. Held them in his arms as they coughed up bushels of flowers and felt their last breaths leave them.

He used to have nightmares of it happening to him — but when he met Lizzie his fears lessened, faded away into nonsensical worries. He had the love of his life, held her in his arms, kissed her at night.

When he met Robby though, looking into chocolate eyes over the dying body of a dying fellow medic, he imagined the bitter-sweet taste in the back of his mouth.

Michael Robinavitch was everything Jack could have ever wanted if it weren’t for Lizzie. Gorgeous, funny, too smart for his own good, a smile that made people stop and stare. He saw how those in Robby’s life gravitated towards him. Saw those lucky enough to entertain Robby’s attention giggle and flush. No one stayed, never quite keeping his interest and Robby always said none of them felt right.

That he wasn’t sure anyone would love him the way Jack loves Lizzie.

Jack couldn’t imagine anyone not loving Robby, but the man never seemed to be bothered by his lack of a stable relationship.

Jack never imagined bleeding flowers staining Robby’s lips.

"We can remove the stems," Walsh tells him, her mouth quirked tight, "but that'll just prolong the decline."

Jack wrings his hands. "How, uh, how long-"

"With intubation? A few hours, but-" Walsh turns ink-dark eyes from Robby's prone form to Jack. "The stems are growing through the tubing. We'll have to keep removing it, clearing his lungs and replacing it, and that trauma alone will destroy any viable tissue. If he'd let us do the surgery months ago-"

Jack rears back. "Wait, you've known this for months?"

Walsh raises her brow, "Yes. He started treatments last year."

His head spins. "Forest and I talked him into suppression medication but he refused stem removal and I’m certain he stopped his treatment. I thought for sure Dana would convince him to tell the person but-" She shrugs, turning back to watch Dana brush Robby’s hair from his forehead. She's talking to him, lips quivering.

"Do you know who it is?"

The surgeon's shoulders tighten, her gaze flashing to him quick before looking away again. "You should talk to Dana. I'm going to check his scans, see what we can do while he's being prepped."

Jack almost grabs her, shakes her until she tells him who is doing this to his best friend.

Instead he rejoins Dana.

"And Whitaker busted a whole bag of O negative blood." Tears gloss her eyes. Her smile is brittle when she glances up at him, "What did she say?"

"Can give him a few hours at most." Robby's skin is turning green, thorns growing through his skin. When Jack's fingers brush his forearms, tendrils attach to him, sticky and sweet smelling.

His stomach roils. "Dana, I have to ask-"

"If you have to ask, you're just as stupid as he is." Her voice is sharp.

Jack lurches back, runners snapping when he pulls his hand away. "It can't be. Robby would have — I would have known if-"

Dana throws her hands out, "No you wouldn't, because the two of you are the same shade of idiot. He loves you. You love him. Whatever bullshit you keep telling yourself is the reason why this is happening."

She wipes her cheeks angrily, "Tell him." She stands, "Or lose him. Pick one."

Her footsteps are harsh as she walks away, leaving him with his mouth slack, staring at Robby's frail frame. He's skinny, scary skinny. Jack's noticed it more and more and tried desperately to talk to Robby about it. Each time his friend waved him off, brushed it aside like him withering away was another minor inconvenience.

He loves you.

Jack drops into the chair Dana was occupying, reaching to grab Robby's hand. Immediately vines slither over his fingers, spreading to wrap around his wrist.

"You idiot," he murmurs, "You stupid, moronic, stubborn fucking idiot. A year? A whole year and you didn't think that maybe, just maybe, I would want to know? I'm your best friend, I'm your goddamn emergency contact and — and what? You thought you could ride off into the sunset, turn into a damn plant, and I wouldn't care!" He tightens his grip, roses form in stubby buds.

Jack shakes his head, tears prickling the corner of his eyes, his throat closing with fear, "When Lizzie was sick she told me once that she wasn't worried about me. I laughed, telling her she must think so little of me if she thought I'd be okay after she was gone. She scoffed at me, said, 'Robby will take care of you,' and she was right. You did take care of me, hell, Brother, you're still taking care of me. Even after Adamson you took care of me, Pittfest, my worst shifts, you were always there." his voice cracks, a sob breaking inside his ribs, "and where the hell was I?"

Three pink roses unfurl along his knuckles, "I was trying to act like I wasn't in love with you. I was dating people in some vain attempt to move on from both you and Lizzie. I — shit, Mikey, I watched you with Rebecca, Chase, Owen, Heather — Noelle. I thought that if I could just meet someone who made me stop thinking about you that I'd be okay, but I'm not. I never have been, because —" The roses darken, growing thicker, "because I love you, Mike. I've loved you since you shouted at me to get out of your fucking clinic. I've loved you since you tried to play tennis with me when Lizzie was sick and broke your ankle. I loved you when you stayed after I said horrible things to get you to leave. I've loved you every day, every month, every year that I've known you. I love you, Robby, and if these flowers mean anything, you love me too. And I'm not letting you die before I get to call you stupid to your face for thinking I wouldn't love you back."

He's crying, rolling, searing tears, spilling onto his arm, soaking into the sheet beneath him. He cries so hard he can't breathe, wonders if this is how Robby felt. A lead-like force dropping hollow in his gut.

"Please, Mikey," he pleads, "Please."

Jack cries until he's sleep-heavy then crawls into Robby's bed, shifting vines and wires around until he can drag Robby's head onto his chest.

"I love you."

He holds him close, pressing kisses to his hair, peppering his temples with all the ways Jack has loved him. Whispering things he wants for their future, keeping his eyes shut tight for fear Robby's chest will stop moving.

Any second he's waiting for the beeping to flat line, scared when he'll have to call Code Blue and be ripped away from his best friend.

"I love you," he murmurs, "I love you." He softly rocks them, "I love you."

"-Abbot." Someone touches his arm.

Jack jerks back, tugging Robby with him, his teeth bared to yell at whoever is interrupting them.

It's Walsh. Her dark brows in her hairline, she's looking at the screen instead of him.

"Emery?"

"His blood pressure is rising." She drops her gaze to Robby's skin. "oxygen is leveling." Her thumb traces the bones in his wrist. "Pigment is receding. Abbot, the progression is halting. We need to get him to surgery now."

Jack flounders, jumping from the monitor to Walsh to Robby, trying to process what he's hearing, "What-"

"Your confession," She matches his gaze, eyes wide open. "It worked."

Using both her hands, she gives Jack a great shove, almost knocking him off the bed, "Get off. We need to get him to surgery, move."

"But-"

She hits the alarm and the whole room bursts into chaos.

—

Robby thought dying would be quieter.

"Come on, Mikey," Someone is patting his cheek. "Open your eyes, Brother."

He tries to wave the rude person away but his hand won't work.

The person keeps patting his cheek. "Come on, up and at 'em."

Robby frowns, "Ja—" He tries to say but pure pain ricochets around his throat.

"Hey, no, don't talk." Jack soothes him, "Just open your eyes."

He does, slow, it's blurry at first, his lids feel heavy and gritty. He blinks then tries again, it's a little clearer so he does it once more until he can see Jack hovering over him.

"Ja—" More pain. He whimpers, recoiling.

"I said no talking." A calloused hand catches his cheek, thumb rubbing over his nose. "Just look at me."

Jack looks tired, his hair is a mess, a little greasy like he hasn't showered in a while. He has dark smudges under his eyes, his wrinkles are deep, scruff dusting his jawline.

"There you are." He smiles.

It's beautiful.

"You can't talk because they finished your second vocal surgery yesterday. Your vitals are stable, scans look clean. You started breathing on your own a week ago. Do you want to know what surgeries you've had? Blink twice for yes, once for no."

Robby blinks twice.

"Emergency airway clearance was the first. Debulking. ENT had to do two rounds of sinus clearance. You had a flare-up after your first debulking so they had to do another one. Your throat was the last to fix, your vocal box was pretty impaired. No doubt you're going to need further treatment. Speech therapy, physical therapy, dermatology, pulmonary rehab. Got a whole roster for you."

Guilt digs deep in Robby's chest. Jack looks so exhausted. How long has he been here? What happened-

"I—" He reels, snaps his chin out of Jack's hold then convulses as stitches tug in several places.

"What did I say about talking?" Jack warns, "Stop hurting yourself. Yes, you're still alive." Jack tilts him in his direction.

"Mike," his face softens, an endearing smile ticking his lips, "I know what you're thinking and we'll talk later, I promise, but for now," He kisses him, a soft, barely-there touch of lips.

Warm tendrils of light spread through Robby's body, a sense of relief floods his system as a breath of fresh air coats his lungs. Robby jerks forward, pressing their mouths closer. He wasn't aware of the pain until it was gone, his mind clearing for the first time in a year. Jack smiles into the kiss, deepening it, slotting their mouths together.

Robby can't move as well as he'd like. He wants to tangle his fingers in Jack's hair, wants to roll him into his arms and hold on forever. Instead he kisses back, pushing every ounce of love and want he can possess into the press of their mouths.

He moans when Jack licks his bottom lip, opening up to let him inside. Jack tastes like butter, coffee and weed; Robby thinks it should be gross but it's Jack. It makes him crave more. A moan shudders his throat. Slow ripples of pain cause him to gasp.

Jack pulls back, eyes roaming his face, worry creasing his brow.

Robby doesn't want that, no, he wants Jack kissing him again. He frowns, pouting his lips in Jack's direction. He tries to lift his arm and this time it kind of works. It's heavy like dragging a weight through water but he manages to drop it on his stomach.

Jack witnesses it, narrows his eyes then, breaks into an ear-splitting grin, "I was going to tell you I love you too."