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Throughout his adult life, Dennis had always been strangely comfortable with the idea of death.
Growing up on a farm kinda did that to you naturally. He learned early how to take care of animals, even when they didn’t make it.
Death came in all shapes and sizes out there. He got familiar with it. But it certainly didn’t start that way though.
When he was a kid, death scared the absolute hell out of him. Seven-year-old Dennis couldn’t wrap his head around it. He questioned; “What do you mean someone’s just… gone? No walking, no talking, no breathing?”
He used to lie awake and wonder, Where do they go? Do they still think? Or just… nothing? Mortality kinda clung to his brain like a shadow.
Whenever he followed his family to church, wakes, and funerals, he kept quiet and watched everything. He wasn’t a chatty kid, never had been but he observed people real well.
His mom cried at every funeral. It didn't matter if she barely knew the person. She’d get so choked up she could barely say a word, eyes all red and glassy.
Dennis would just stand next to her, gently tugging at her sleeve, questioning if she’s alright even though he already knew the answer.
His dad, meanwhile, was the complete opposite. Stoic to the point of being stone. Even when his own mother passed, he didn’t shed a single tear. Not one.
Dennis remembered watching him, waitingfor something, anything, to crack through.
Instead, his father just got angry. Snapped at his wife for crying too hard.
“Christ, woman, get a grip. People die,” he muttered once, jaw tight. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but would it hurt him to be compassionate? But then, his father wasn’t the most gentle man.
Dennis had stood there, small hands buried in his pockets, staring at the ground. He didn’t really get it back then, but he remembered thinking that grief must look different on everyone. Some people sobbed. Some people yelled.
And some people, like him, just watched quietly and tried to make sense of it all.
Dennis questioned it sometimes, how his father could be so damn heartless. So void of empathy toward anyone who reacted to death with actual feelings. It bothered him in a quiet way, the kind that sat heavy in his chest.
He’d catch himself thinking, If someone in our family dies… how would I even react?
His mind spiraled from there.
What if a friend died?
Maybe someone he’d known all through school… or even that one kid he only ever said hi to in passing.
Would he cry? Would he choke on sobs the way his mom always did?
Or would he snap and get pissed like his dad? So full of anger at death itself for taking someone away so damn fast?
And then his thoughts went darker.
What if a lover died? Someone he actually loved?
The idea made his stomach knot. Would he break down? Would he scream first, then cry later? Or would the grief just sit there like a stone he couldn’t swallow?
He never found any clean answers. The questions didn’t show up often anyway… not until he got into medical school.
Not until death stopped being a distant idea and became something he met in hallways, exam rooms, and early-morning pages. Something close enough to touch.
Being in med school, learning how to stop death, delay it, bargain with it… Dennis couldn’t escape those questions anymore.
They followed him through lectures, labs, and late-night studying. And once he stepped into the real thing, the so-called battlefield, the Emergency Department itself, he got a front-row seat to the whole messy process.
He saw it all. The first one. The quiet ones. The sudden ones. The ones everyone fought tooth and nail to pull back.
Some days he walked out of the room with shaky hands he hid in his pockets. Other days he just stood there, staring at the floor tiles, breathing slowly until his head cleared. He thought he would learn how to deal with it better through experience and time, but he didn't.
And as time went on, the personal questions he used to wrestle with started to fade.
Not gone but softened, pushed to a corner of his mind.
He got too busy living. Busy struggling through exams, pulling long shifts, growing up, meeting people, losing some, keeping a few.
Life started feeling like someone flipping cards in front of him. It became fast and blurry, one moment after another. He barely had time to sit still, let alone think deeply about how he’d react if death ever came knocking on someone he loved.
But the thought stayed somewhere in him, quiet, waiting for a moment to return.
And then death sneaks up on him.
It didn’t take his angry father. It didn’t take his wailing mother.
It took his lover. His damn lifeline.
One evening they were together, brushing teeth side by side, arguing lightly about whose turn it was to do laundry… and by the next morning, Robby was just gone. Still. Quiet. Passed.
Dennis panicked, of course he did.
His whole body went ice-cold and hot at the same time. But muscle memory kicked in. He grabbed his phone, dialed the ambulance, and slipped straight into the role he knew best.
He had done this before. He had brought people back. Not at home, not barefoot on cold tiles, but in the ER, under bright lights with a whole team behind him. But still, he couldn’t waste time.
He tried. And tried again. Hands steady, breath shaky, voice low and controlled as he spoke to the dispatcher.
“Patient unresponsive,” he said evenly, forcing his tone flat, calm. Exactly the way Robby had taught him.
Funny, in the most messed-up way, that he was using Robby’s own teachings on Robby.
But whatever grip death had… it wasn’t letting go.
Dennis couldn’t pry him back this time. Couldn’t bargain, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything except keep going until the paramedics rushed in and took over.
He followed them to the ambulance, moving like someone else was steering his body. The lights blurred. The siren didn’t sound real. And those old questions about death, questions he’d buried for years, crept back up and wrapped around him like a cold shadow.
He’s dead. What do you feel?
Dennis blinked at the thought, hollow.
He felt… indifferent. Not uncaring. Just stuck somewhere between shock and disbelief, like his mind couldn’t catch up to reality.
This couldn’t be it… right?
But maybe it already was. It was happening right in front of him. He saw it. He knew the signs. He knew the stillness.
So yeah. It had happened.
When they arrived at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, familiar faces crowded the entrance. Some looked serious, some worried, a few already crying. The air felt thick, too quiet for an emergency bay.
Dennis climbed out of the ambulance and was immediately pulled into arms, people hugging him, steadying him, trying to offer comfort he wasn’t sure how to hold.
Through the blur of bodies, he saw Abbot pushing his way forward, jaw tight, eyes sharp with something like disbelief and grief mixed together.
They tried too, Dennis thought numbly. Everyone did.
Maybe it was just Robby’s time. Maybe. He kept repeating that to himself like it’d help him swallow it. Something about just another man leaving their mortal coil.
Sitting alone beside Robby’s bed later, the room was quiet except for machines that weren’t even connected anymore, Dennis just stared at him. Robby looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
“Is he in this room?” Dennis thought to himself, elbows on his knees. “Is his soul watching me… watching him?” He had held onto beliefs that souls linger moments after death, and if Robby was indeed lingering around him right now… Dennis would give everything to see him.
Though, nothing feels real at that moment.
His eyes were blank, tired, almost glassy from exhaustion rather than tears. His thoughts felt like they were drifting in and out, soft and foggy.
And then the question surfaced again, uninvited:
How do you feel?
He didn’t know.
And at the same time, a single thought kept echoing in the background, quiet but sharp:
Their bedroom is going to be so fucking empty. Their home. The Pitt.
And he couldn’t let himself think about that for too long, or the autopilot would break.
The hours after Robby’s death moved strangely. As if time kept slipping around him.
He handled the declaration of death, standing beside a colleague who kept glancing at him with soft, worried eyes. He made the official calls. He talked to Robby’s family.
He discussed the autopsy—yes, he wanted one, even if it twisted his stomach into knots. He needed to know it wasn’t something he missed, something he should’ve caught.
Then came the arrangements for the burial. Quick. Respectful. A process Dennis only half understood before today. Now he was knee-deep in it. Coordinating it, making sure everything was done, answering more questions, signing more documents.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t freak out. Didn’t break down.
He just… witnessed. Step by step. Like he owed Robby that much.
It felt like days had passed, even though it had barely been one. Time folded in weird ways. Everything looked slightly foggy at the edges, like he was walking through it instead of living it.
When he finally arrived at the cemetery, the air was cold enough to sting. People gathered in small clusters, whispering, eyes flicking toward him with that heavy sympathy that made his skin crawl. The right people were there along with him. He recognizes each of their faces, grateful for their presence deep down.
Right before he stepped onto the cemetery grounds, something slammed into him, an emotional rush so strong his breath hitched. Memories. Sharp. Sudden.
Them fighting.
Wait.
They fought? When?
Dennis froze on the path, one foot forward, the other stuck.
Images flashed in his mind. Raised voices, angry tones, Dennis storming into the guestroom, Robby pacing the hallway with his hands in his hair. It felt real. Too real.
But then another memory slapped right over it. Robby sleeping next to him, peaceful, warm, curled into him like always.
So which was it?
Dennis blinked rapidly, heart thumping too fast.
They were fine. Weren’t they? They went to bed together. Robby kissed his forehead goodnight. That happened.
Didn’t it?
His hand lifted to his temple, pressing hard like he could shove clarity back into his skull.
We didn’t fight. Right?
But I remember yelling. I remember—
He sucked in a shaky breath, chest tight.
Something wasn’t adding up. Something didn’t feel real.
The cemetery blurred for a second, like the whole scene glitched.
And Dennis stood there, stuck between two conflicting memories, unable to tell which one belonged to him and which one didn’t.
A memory slammed into Dennis so hard it took over his vision.
“Well what the fuck do you want me to do about it? Clearly it’s not something that can be done.”
Robby’s voice was sharp, annoyed, dismissive.
Dennis felt the anger brush right up against his heart. Robby was always like this… always ready to shove things under the rug, always so damn pessimistic. They’d fought about stuff that could be fixed, things Dennis knew were solvable.
And it still amazed him, someone Robby’s age, someone so experienced, how stubborn he was about getting help where he clearly needed it.
“Of course it can,” Dennis snapped back, arms crossed tight across his chest so he wouldn’t flail them around like Robby was doing in the corner. “You just don’t want to. Maybe if you take a long hard look in the mirror, you’d be able to diagnose it yourself.”
He kept his voice controlled, but there was an edge in it. He wasn’t angry enough to start pacing or throwing shit around the living room, but he was angry enough to stand his ground.
Robby shot him a sharp look. One of those condescending expressions he wore sometimes when teaching, except now it was aimed straight at Dennis.
That look made something in Dennis tighten, like his spine locked in place.
“You know what? What the fuck do you know?” Robby jabbed.
Dennis froze.
That—What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
That felt like a hit. A low one.
His brows pulled together in disbelief, hurt flickering before he shoved his hands into his pockets, grounding himself. “Are you mocking me?” he asked, voice slightly quieter but no less pointed.
Was Robby seriously questioning his competence? His experience? After all these years?
This was new. And it stung.
Dating someone who had authority over you was always risky, Dennis knew that from day one. But he thought Robby respected him more than this.
Robby must’ve realized he’d crossed a line, because his expression changed, brows pinching, lips parting like he was trying to take the words back. “No, I mean—Dennis, I didn’t—”
But Dennis already felt insulted. Deeply.
His ego, his pride, his heart. They all took the blow.
He stepped back, lips pressed tight. “I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said, tone flat with finality. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He didn’t stay long enough to see Robby move after him. He just walked straight to the guest room, locked the door, and crawled into the cold sheets.
He stayed there for three days, nursing the bruised heart. He still went to work like normal, even offered to cover more shifts. They still talked in the house and in the ER. But Dennis wasn’t affectionate. He felt like he was on autopilot.
The air between them was different, hell, everyone felt it. Coworkers exchanged looks behind their masks and with their visible expressions. Dana even asked him upright if Robby did something to him.
They all knew Robby fucked up, and Dennis was giving him the silent treatment.
But Dennis didn’t care about what the others thought.
He was too busy wondering if this relationship was going to survive. Because if this was Robby’s reaction to being asked to seek help, this defensive, belittling bite… then what would happen when something more serious came up?
Years together, and Dennis was still a kid in Robby’s eyes.
Just some inexperienced doctor with a pacifier in his mouth, apparently.
And that thought stung worse than the fight itself.
They never talked about the fight.
It just hung there between them. Thin, stretched, waiting. A conversation suspended in the air, always almost happening.
Things were still tense, and Robby kept trying to bridge the gap. But Dennis was stubborn. Every time Robby reached out, Dennis felt that familiar irritation, like Robby was trying to sweep the whole thing under the rug again.
So he gave the same treatment back, ignoring the issue and swept it under the rug by staying in the guest room so he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever’s happening outside of it.
Though he had to admit it, Robby was making an effort. He didn’t want any of them going to bed angry.
On that first night they slept separately, Robby even knocked on the guest room door and quietly asked, “Dennis, I’m sorry. Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Dennis just stared at the door and whispered, “Not tonight,” and didn’t open it.
The next morning, they went to work together. They still kissed goodbye, just a quick brush of lips, no heat, just… professionalism. Distance.
A silent agreement: not here, not now. We’ll deal with it at home.
After the first night sleeping in the guest room, Dennis let Robby kiss his cheek goodnight, soft and careful, before closing the guest room door again. And they repeated the cycle.
There was barely any time to talk. Work was pure chaos, swallowing every moment they had. Every day got heavier, noisier, busier. By the time Dennis got home after covering more hours, he was too exhausted to even argue properly.
So Dennis kept burying himself in work, even when Dr. Abbot warned him he could go home.
Then, right when Dennis was already worn down from a long shift, his body finally gave out. Fever. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him home and off work.
And still, Dennis remembered the feud. The bitterness that coated his tongue every morning when they parted at the start of their shift. He remembered how wrong it all felt. How unresolved.
He thought, apologies are due.
He needed to find Robby. He needed to say sorry.
Because Robby wasn’t dead. Robby was at work.
Dennis was the one sick at home.
They didn’t chat last night, didn’t go to bed like normal. They’d gone to bed distant. Not fine. Not cuddled up. It made absolutely no sense that Robby would die next to him in bed.
It doesn’t make sense at all.
How do you feel, Dennis?
He felt awake.
Awake in the wrong place.
This is a dream, he realized.
A fever dream.
A messed-up figment of his imagination. His sick brain stitching nightmares together with real fears. None of this could be real. Not the ambulance. Not the cemetery. Not the grief.
You’re sick, he told himself. You’re just sick.
Your brain is making up nonsense.
So wake up then, Dennis.
The voice echoed in the dark space of his mind—blank, quiet, colorless.
And then he felt it: a twitch. His toes. A small movement, real and grounding. Then another. His limbs tingled, awareness slowly returning to his physical body.
Dennis realized he was lying down. In bed. Feverish. Heavy with sweat. Not standing in a cemetery, not following a body, not breaking apart in some foggy hospital hallway.
His foot twitched again, then he stretched, cracking his toes one by one, trying to jolt himself fully awake.
He felt the sheets beneath him, too warm, slightly damp. The familiar texture of their blanket. The coolness of the pillow under his cheek.
And then he turned his head, eyes squinting, face flushed with heat and confusion—
Waking up to actual reality.
A fever. A dream.
And Robby is still very much alive somewhere out there.
His heart thudded hard in his chest, the ghost of grief still lingering like smoke from a fire that never actually burned.
Dennis’s eyes cracked open, lids heavy, lashes stiff with dried tears. For a second, he didn’t even recognize the ceiling above him. He scrubs a hand across his face, feeling the rough streaks on his cheeks, the crusted corners of his eyes.
His skin still burns with fever. Sticky, hot, uncomfortable. He’s definitely not better yet.
But the dark guest room around him makes his chest tighten.
What if he’s wrong?
What if the dream wasn’t a dream?
The thought shoots panic straight through him.
He pushes the blanket off, stumbling out of bed, legs wobbly as he rushes into their bedroom. Empty. Completely empty. But everything looks… normal. Nothing disturbed. Nothing out of place. Robby’s pillow fluffed. His mug on the nightstand. His stupid socks in the corner where he always forgets them.
Dennis’s stomach flips.
He sprints back to the guest room, snatches his phone off the floor, and stares hard at the date and time, even blinks a few times, making sure his feverish eyes aren’t messing with him.
Robby would still be at the Pitt. Less than an hour left on his shift. Abbot should be on his way already too.
This should reassure him, but it doesn’t. His chest is pounding, breath shallow, mind screaming. He feels like he’s standing between two versions of reality and can’t tell which one is real.
Did Robby die in this one or not?
The question shoves him toward panic.
Moving fast, hands shaking, Dennis grabs a coat from the rack. It smells like coffee and cologne and antiseptic, and that alone nearly floors him. He shrugs it on, barely managing the sleeves, and bolts for the door.
Robby walked to work this morning.
So Dennis does the same.
He rushes out of the building and into the cold air. It slaps his face, biting straight through the fever heat clinging to his skin. His breath catches in his throat but it clears his head, too. Shocks him awake. Drags him back into the present.
The nightmare fog lifts just a little.
He slows down, breath hitching, heart finally starting to settle.
It was just a dream.
A bad one. A fever dream. Nothing more.
He stops at the corner, pulling in a shaky breath as he spots a tiny coffee shop with its lights warm against the darkening evening.
He steps inside, the bell chiming overhead. Warm air, the smell of baked goods, the quiet hum of the espresso machine. Seems like everything was normal. Real.
He orders a coffee with a trembling voice and wraps both hands around the hot cup, letting the warmth anchor him back to reality.
Robby’s alive. Robby’s at work. Dennis just had a nightmare.
Now that the real world is weighing down on him, the heat of his exhales grounding him with each breath he took, it’s a reminder how ridiculous the dream truly was.
It’s just a ridiculous nightmare.
He repeats it in his head like a mantra, trying to steady the ground beneath him.
He took a minute to breathe, letting the heat from the coffee seep into his fingers. The first few sips practically slapped him awake again. The fog in his head cleared just enough for him to stop shaking.
God, he almost sprinted all the way to the Pitt like a madman, barging in to demand if his boyfriend was dead or just… you know, doing his actual job. He’s not even wearing a damn mask.
Ah, screw it. He’ll pick it out at the nurse station later.
He rubs a hand down his face, half–laughing at himself, half–mortified. It was just a dream. No need to go full dramatic-widow mode at 6 p.m.
He sits there a moment longer, stewing, staring into his cup like it’s gonna give him more reality check. Then it hits him. Why is he even sitting here? Robby’s literally a few blocks away.
He could just… go to him. See him. Hear him. Make sure he’s breathing and scowling and being his usual cranky self.
So Dennis gets up, still shaky but at least thinking straight. And because he feels stupidly grateful for being alive in this version of the universe, he orders two dozen donuts and assorted sugary crap for the night shift. Might as well be generous while he’s on an existential high.
He gets to PTMC right as Abbot pulls into the lot. The man looks him over once, eyebrows raised like he’s trying to diagnose whatever weird vibe Dennis is giving off.
“Date night with Robby?” Abbot asks, one corner of his mouth pulling up. Then his expression shifted to a frown, eyes narrowing as he got a close look at Dennis. “You’re still sick.”
Dennis snorts and waves him off. “Nah. Just picking him up. And dropping these off.” He nods at the boxes he’s carrying. “It’s just fatigue and headache, I’m not contagious.”
“Whatever Whitaker, as long as you haven’t touched these babies.” Abbot grins, already grabbing half the load like he’s afraid Dennis will change his mind. They walk in together, the hallway buzzing with end-of-shift exhaustion.
Dana looks up first, smiling when she spots him. “Oh? What a surprise,” she says, nudging Robby with her elbow. “Picking up cranky loverboy here?”
Robby gives a tired, crooked smile. The kind that melts ten pounds of dread right off Dennis’s chest. Dennis chuckles, tapping the stack of boxes in Abbot’s hands.
“Yeah. Brought you guys a little treat. Share it around before Abbot eats half of it.”
“Thank you, Dennis,” Robby says, eyes soft in a way he probably thinks no one notices. He jerks his head toward the staff lounge. “C’mon.”
He’s already moving, giving Dennis that subtle little gesture that means I want a second with you. And Dennis follows, his chest loosening for the first time since he woke up drenched in fever sweat, convinced he’d buried the man he loves.
Robby’s alive. Here. Real. And Dennis lets himself breathe.
Robby tilted Dennis’s chin up with both hands, brows pulled tight. “Hey. What’s the matter? Something happened?”
Dennis forced a smile, the kind that didn’t even try to reach his eyes. “No, no. I’m fine. Nothing medical. I was just… on a walk and thought I’d bring you guys some treats.”
His voice wobbled, but he leaned into Robby’s palms anyway, soaking up the warmth like he’d been cold for days.
He’s here, Dennis thought. He’s actually here. Not six feet under. Not gone.
The realization punched straight through him, and suddenly his eyes stung.
Oh, hell no. Not now.
He jerked back, scrubbing at his face. “Shit—sorry. I don’t know why I’m—” His voice cracked. “I thought I was over it. What the hell.”
But maybe he wasn’t over anything. Maybe the dream just opened the floodgates. Or maybe the fight… the distance… the way he’d been sick and alone, maybe all of that finally caught up.
Robby didn’t let him run far. He stepped in again, arms circling Dennis’s waist, gently turning him around. “Hey, hey. Look at me.” He cupped Dennis’s face, thumbs brushing away the tears Dennis couldn’t hide fast enough. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Dennis’s lips trembled before he even opened his mouth.
“I… I had a really bad dream about you.” He inhaled shakily, trying to get his lungs to work. “I was scared you wouldn’t be there when I woke up.” His fingers clung to Robby’s wrist, like that alone could anchor him.
Being this close calmed him and messed him up at the same time. Robby’s rough, familiar hands kept caressing his cheeks. He smelled like antiseptic and warm skin, tired but steady. His brows were still pinched in worry, all of it aimed at Dennis.
God. He should’ve stopped sulking nights ago. Should’ve just swallowed his pride and crawled back into their bed.
He missed Robby so damn much it hurt.
“Oh, baby…” Robby leaned in and kissed him, soft but full of apology. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.”
Dennis let out a tiny, pathetic whine when Robby pulled back, chasing the kiss like he’d been starving for it. Which he had been. He hadn’t let himself take any of Robby’s affection all week, and now it hit him all at once.
How much he missed it, how stupid he’d been.
Robby looked into his eyes, warm and gentle, like he was trying to wrap Dennis up just with his gaze. And Dennis looked right back, the same feeling pressing tight in his chest.
“I’m sorry too,” he whispered.
Sorry for sulking. Sorry for shutting you out. Sorry for the cold nights, the distance, the silence. Sorry for being scared in all the wrong ways.
Robby’s breath catches, but Dennis hears it. Feels it, even, in the way Robby’s thumbs still against his cheeks for a second.
Then Robby dips forward again, pressing their foreheads together. “Hey,” he whispers, soft but firm, like he’s grounding both of them. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize like you’re the only one who messed up.”
Dennis shuts his eyes, because the closeness is overwhelming in the best way. Robby’s hands are warm on his jaw and neck, enveloping him in a familiar way. And Dennis leans into them like he’s starved for touch—because he is.
He was denying himself the one thing he actually craved: Robby’s presence.
Robby continues, voice low, careful. “We’ve both had a rough week. We were both stubborn. I disrespected you that night, and I regret that. I let you walk around hurt. I’m sorry too.”
Dennis opens his eyes slowly. Robby’s looking at him like he’s something fragile but important, something you don’t drop, even if your arms are tired.
Dennis’s voice comes out small. “…I dreamt I lost you.”
Robby’s expression softens, and he pulls Dennis into his chest, wrapping him in a hug that’s tight, unhesitating. Dennis’s fingers immediately grip the back of Robby’s jacket, bunching the fabric like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I’m right here,” Robby murmurs into his hair. “I’m right here, baby. Not going anywhere.”
Dennis breathes in the warmth, the sweat from a long shift, the faint trace of hand sanitizer, the smell of Robby that he’s been avoiding for days even though it’s his favorite damn thing.
His voice cracks. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna fight like that again.”
Robby rubs slow circles on his back, grounding him. “Then we won’t,” he promises simply. “We’ll talk it out. No more shutting each other out. No more going to bed separately and angry. Okay?”
Dennis nods into his chest, a soft, shaky “Okay.”
Robby pulls back enough to cup Dennis’s face again, caressing his cold cheeks. “Let me take you home,” he says. “Let me take care of you. We can talk about everything when you’re not burning up.”
Dennis swallows, nods again, and this time, when Robby leans in to kiss him slowly and warmly, Dennis meets him halfway.
He kisses him like he’s making up for all the nights he didn’t. Like he wants to memorize the feeling again. Like he’s finally letting himself come home.
And Robby kisses him back with all the softness Dennis has been craving for days, his hands holding him steady, like he’s making a silent promise with every brush of their mouths.
Robby wiped the last of Dennis’s tears with his thumbs and pressed a kiss to each cheek, his beard lightly scratching the corner of Dennis’s mouth. “Want me to call off tomorrow? Stay with you? Your fever’s still up. Still have a headache?” He brushed the back of his hand over Dennis’s forehead like he didn’t trust the thermometer in his own brain.
Dennis sniffed, embarrassed. “Mmh… sorry. I literally ran down here. Didn’t even think about clothes.” He glanced down at himself. Shirt crooked, sweatpants half on, socks not matching. He honestly looked like he escaped the apartment mid-robbery. “And yeah, bit of dizziness but it’s clear now. I just need a bit more rest.”
Robby huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. Here take mine.” He shrugged out of his blue jacket and draped it around Dennis’s shoulders. “This one’s thicker.” Then he kissed Dennis’s temples, warm and gentle. “Let’s get you food, meds. Tomorrow we’re staying in.”
After Robby finished hand-offs with Abbot, Dennis waved goodbye to the Pitt crew, promising he’d be back the day after tomorrow; “Once Dr. Robby’s done babying me.”
“Don’t stress him out more, brother!” Abbot called, waving a donut like a warning sign.
Robby just rolled his eyes and tugged Dennis close as they stepped outside. The night air bit at Dennis’s skin, sharp and cold, and he immediately yanked the hood up and burrowed deeper into Robby’s jacket.
Robby slipped an arm around Dennis’s waist and kept him tucked tight the whole walk home. Dennis soaked up every second of it, clinging a little more than usual.
The moment they stepped inside the apartment, Dennis didn’t even wait. He grabbed Robby by the front of his shirt and kissed him, hot and needy.
“Whoa,” He chuckles deeply, caught off guard at the sudden attack of kisses.
“Sorry,” he muttered against his lips, going in for another. “I missed you, Michael.”
Robby didn’t hesitate. He kissed back just as hard, pulling Dennis flush against him, hands sliding to his waist. He sounded just as desperate. “I know, baby. I missed you like crazy too.” He mouthed along Dennis’s neck, and Dennis let out a soft whine that made Robby’s breath stutter. “I’ve been a jerk at work. I’m a mess.”
“Mich—” Dennis started, but Robby stole the words with another kiss.
Dennis broke the kiss with a shaky breath and rolled his hips against Robby’s thigh, looking up at him with a slow blink that basically translated to please.
Robby’s eyes flicked down, then back up to Dennis’s face. “Baby… seriously?” He sounded half exasperated, half turned on. A minute ago Dennis was crying, and now he was grinding on him. Michael Robinavitch could not catch a single break.
“Fuck,” Robby muttered.
Dennis just laughed softly and kissed him again. Robby groaned, scooped Dennis up like he weighed nothing, and carried him straight to the bedroom.
And yes, they ended up having sex even though Dennis was still feverish but Robby was there for every second of it. Attentive. Gentle. Present. The kind of care that said I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.
By the time they returned to their shifts at the Pitt, both of them looked refreshed, calmer, and way more connected. The crew visibly relaxed when they saw Robby and Dennis being touchy again. Normal, affectionate, annoyingly cute.
Order restored.
But it also made Dennis wonder why the whole “mortality of your loved ones” thing decided to pop back into his life out of nowhere. Why now? Why this week? Why Robby?
He guessed it was the stress from their fight. The overworking. Maybe he was the one falling into an existential spiral instead of Robby for once.
Or maybe… maybe some part of him wished he’d been the one gone in the dream instead. So he wouldn’t have to sit with the idea of losing Robby at all. The thought made his stomach twist.
So Dennis kept asking for kisses every chance he got. Little ones, soft ones, “hey look at me” ones. Constant reassurance. Warm hands on his back. Quiet check-ins and lingering touches on the neck. Clean communication at home. All of it. He needed it like air.
Because honestly? After watching Robby die on him in a stupid dream, it felt like the least Robby could do.
- fin -