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Robby has no idea what the fuck he is doing here. This shit isn't for him. And yet, there he is, waiting in a simple, quiet room, more stressed out than he was when he took the MCAT. He feels like a man who has headed to war knowing he will be made prisoner and tortured. And they say this whole thing is supposed to be relaxing. Well, Robby sincerely doubts it.
He woke this morning after having tossed and turned all night, anxious about what was to come, about this appointment. He had showered, barely eaten breakfast and donned the carefully selected clothes. The ones he had chosen after having listened to Jack’s advice - Jack, who somehow had done this willingly multiple times - telling him to pick things he wouldn’t mind getting a little oily. So that’s what Robby did.
But now he feels self-conscious. He knows his clothes are clean, without holes, without even a thread out of place, but it’s clothing he doesn’t mind getting dirty, clothing he could wear to do yard work or clean or… not clothing he would wear to meet someone new, to go to a doctor’s appointment or even to go have a drink with friends he doesn’t really have. But before he can think about it further, the door opens and a man barely younger than Jack appears in the doorframe.
“Mr. Robinavitch?”
“I- Y-yes?” Ugh, why is he so flustered? He groans internally. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch.” He extends a hand, trying to reassert some semblance of control over the situation.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Patrick. Can I call you Michael?” Patrick asks as he shakes his hand.
“I- Yes.” Robby briefly wonders why he didn’t introduce himself as Robby. It’s what he tends to do these days. What he has done for more than thirty years. But it’s too late to take it back now. And it’s not ‘Fruitcake’.
“Good, you can come in, I’ll let you sit on the chair on your left and remove your shoes.”
Robby does as he is told. He gingerly enters the small room, looking around, throwing shifty glances left and right. There is no flourish, no outrageous theme, no offensive attack on his senses. It’s simple, clean, minimalist. His nostrils aren’t under threat of unleashing a coughing fit because of incense smoke, his eyes aren’t watering at the contact of essential oils being dispersed in the air; he appreciates it.
He sits on the sturdy wooden chair, there is a stool next to it and a little shelf further to his left. In another corner, there is a small sink, and next to it a wooden square table with squeeze and pump bottles full of oil, and hand towels. Next to it, he can see a cupboard, but he can’t discern its contents, it’s closed. On the opposite wall, a bench where Patrick is currently sitting. And, finally, in front of him is a massage table - wooden too - its leather cushioning has been covered by a simple cotton sheet and is ostensibly waiting for someone to take their place on it. That someone is him, Robby realizes. And once again, he wonders what the fuck he is doing here.
If Jack hadn’t insisted and promised he trusted that guy with his entire body, Robby would have never agreed to it. Actually, Robby tried very hard not to agree to it. He had demonstrated every single trick in his book, but so had Jack. They had stood at a standstill until Jack had played the last ace up his sleeve. He had agreed to take an entire week of his over accumulated time-off if Robby booked a two-hour massage with his guy. Robby had tried bargaining it down to one hour, but Jack had not faltered. His stubborn Yankl. The only one on this Earth who stands a chance at outwilling him. A blessing and a curse. A blessing because they would never have gotten together if not for Jack’s unwavering perseverance. A curse because of the thorn in his side he turned into the second they got together, never relenting when it came to making sure Robby would care for himself as he did for others.
This was how Robby had found himself watching Jack book a full seven days of paid time off, and how, in turns, Jack had stared at Robby as he had booked a full two-hour massage with Patrick. No take-back. Not if they didn’t want to trigger world war III in their living room.
Robby grumbles as he unlaces and removes his shoes to reveal perfectly nice socks: no holes, no agonizing patches, no discoloration. He still discreetly checks to make sure, as a voice at the back of his mind wonders if he could win over Jack on a technicality if he walked out right this minute. But Patrick has him in his claws.
“This is your first time, right?”
Robby hates how he startles. “Yes, it is.” He mutters. And his last. He is never doing this again.
He sits awkwardly on the chair, in his inappropriate clothes and his socks, his shoes neatly tucked away underneath him. He is twisting his fingers. His palms are getting sweatier and sweatier. He is aware it’s making him look nervous, but he can’t help it.
“Is there something I could do, Michael, to help you feel less anxious right now?”
Robby can appreciate the lack of platitudes. No ‘it’s ok to be anxious’, ‘just relax’, ‘take a deep breath, it will be fine’. No. He is efficient, to the point. There is a problem, can he provide a solution?
“I’m fine.” He still says, stubborn, determined not to admit to his failings, not in front of a stranger.
“So this is a no?” Patrick presses.
Robby groans as he realizes the guy might be able to give his Yankl a run for his money.
“This is a ‘how about you don’t treat me like a child?’” He mutters, wondering if it could be worth it to get kicked out.
But Patrick only chuckles. “Unfortunately for you, I tend to treat children as I would adults, at least when I talk to them. So, is there something I can do to make this less stressful?”
Robby does not say yes. He does not nod. He does not relent. But he stills asks: “What’s going to happen?” The words are thrown hastily, as if he did not truly care for the answer. But he does. He was too proud to ask Jack about it and then he had a collection of stress dreams about it, and now all he wants is to escape.
“First, I’ll leave the room to let you undress down to your underwear, you’ll be able to put your clothes on the stool or on the chair, and any belongings or jewelry on the little shelf next to you. I will ask you to put your phone on silent or do not disturb-”
Robby cuts him off. “It might still ring. I have it set so that if the hospital calls it will bypass it.”
“I understand emergencies, it’s alright.” Patrick reassures him, and Robby hates that he is so understanding, before continuing. “Then you can lay down on the table, with your back facing the ceiling. At this point, I’ll come back and we will start.” He finishes.
Robby grunts in acknowledgement. He is not looking forward to being nearly naked in front of a stranger, but what can he do about it? Short of leaving right then, right there? Nothing. He huffs. He hates Jack. He does. He really does. As much as he loves him. But right now, he wishes he had taken his chances and gone back home. But he hates breaking his word, and there is a part of him that knows that Jack’s week off is as much a compromise as it is a gift for Robby, a blessing. If Robby can behave and survive those two hours, he gets Jack to himself for an entire week, minus his own shifts.
“Any concerns? Anything you want me to know about before we start?” Patrick asks him.
Yes, about a billion. But he voices none of them. In fact, he tries one last attempt at getting out of this. “I’m hairy. Very hairy.” He stresses. It’s not a lie. He is. It’s the slavic genes, probably. He doesn’t mind it, in fact, this is one of the very few things he likes about himself, but he knows it has disgusted some people in the past.
“I can always use more oil if necessary. It’s not an issue.” Patrick doesn’t even flinch.
Robby sighs. He tried. “Then no. Nothing.” He lies.
“Any tension or aches you would like me to focus on?”
What is this? An interrogation?
“No, I’m fine.” He reiterates. It’s his worst lie since he entered the room, and Robby knows Patrick knows. He is not fooled. But he doesn’t call him out on it.
“Then we will figure it out as we go.” Patrick concludes, getting up and leaving him to it.
Robby sighs, relieved to be getting some respite. He stands and wavers. He knows Jack wouldn’t knowingly send him somewhere unsafe. He knows that. And yet, his hands still shake as he removes his t-shirt and drops his joggings, carefully folding both to place them on the little stool. Soon, his socks join them and he is fully naked save for his boxer briefs and his Magen David.
It feels weird removing it - he so very rarely does - so that he can reverently place it on the shelf, but he doesn’t want to get it oily. It was his grandmother’s. He had hesitated leaving it home, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave it behind. It goes with him everywhere he does.
Then, Robby truly does feel naked. The cotton of his boxer briefs his last rempart against Patrick and this nonsense. He feels the urge to call Jack, but he is sleeping and he can’t wake up his Yankl. No matter the horrors he puts Robby through. So he sets his phone on ‘do not disturb’ and reminds himself that Jack would never knowingly send him to a transphobe.
But that’s just the thing. Maybe Jack simply doesn’t know. How would he? He isn’t trans. Sure, there is no Trump sticker, no confederate flag waving outside, no double S hidden somewhere, no other sign or dogwhistle that could alert Robby to danger. But there is nothing that could point towards safety either.
And he didn’t pack. He refuses to. He is fine just the way he is. He doesn’t need to perform for others. He never has, and he certainly won’t start now when he is already pushing fifty. So this is make or break. At least Patrick doesn’t strike him as the kind of guy who will resort to violence. Maybe at most Robby will get kicked out. This is fine. He has gone through it in the past. Nothing he won’t have seen before.
He soldiers on and heaves himself up on the table. He is glad he doesn’t have to lay on his back, not yet at least, but he can feel this torture coming in his near future. He tries to arrange his limbs, but it’s awkward. He aligns his nose and mouth with the hole in the headrest and tries to stay put. At least the table is big enough to accommodate his long limbs and it doesn’t feel like he is about to fall off.
But he feels vulnerable, with his skin exposed and all his imperfections on display, ready to be judged by someone he doesn’t even know. He is glad there is no mirror in the room, at least. He would have hated that even more.
He tenses when he hears Patrick come back into the room. Despite himself, he is ready to bolt. He knows he promised Jack, but he is not putting up with abuse. Not anymore. He has had enough of it in his time. And surely Jack would prioritize his safety over their formal agreement.
He flinches when he hears the soft click of the cupboard opening and, before he knows it, Patrick is slipping a semi-circular cushion under his ankles and laying a soft cotton sheet over his body, adjusting it until only his back is uncovered.
Ok, Robby can appreciate that, actually. He suddenly feels a lot less exposed and his fight or flight response slowly decreases. It’s not gone, but it’s only lurking under the surface now.
“I’m using neutral oil.” Patrick tells him. “If it’s too cold, let me know.”
Robby knows he won’t but he nods all the same.
Suddenly, Patrick’s firm and oily hands are on his back. Robby tenses, bracing himself for whatever is to come. He has heard some of the nurses talk. And Walsh. He’s heard them complain about feeling bruised after a massage, and how it hurts, but it’s worth it in the end. Robby doesn’t know that he feels the same way. His body hurts him enough already. He doesn’t need to add to it.
He tries to find solace in the fact that he has never seen Jack coming home from one of those bruised and battered or complaining. If anything, he is usually all pliant and sleepy and cuddly. Something for which Robby unfortunately needs to give credit to the massages. And Dana is always rolling her eyes when she is within earshots of those comments. So maybe she hasn’t experienced this either. But he knows she has definitely been massaged because she swore by them after her second pregnancy.
Just when he is about to circle back to freaking out about it, Patrick’s hands start moving. And there is definitely pressure there, but it’s all smooth and broad and- Oh. That was a tingle that went straight from his spine to the back of his head. Fuck. He might have to enjoy it despite himself. But it’s not over yet. In fact, it has just begun. There is still plenty of time for it to go south.
But Patrick continues, unaware of the turmoil inside Robby’s head, and he keeps gliding over his skin and muscles, applying just enough pressure to release tensions and pressing a little more precisely on specific areas that have Robby feeling like a cat whose owner has just found the right fucking spot when scratching their ears.
Patrick’s ministrations are precise, efficient, his hands and fingers run along the lines of his body like poetry lines. Robby is about to forget just how much he is supposed to hate this when Patrick suddenly has a hand on his shoulder and another around his shoulderblade and then he is instructing him to slowly breathe in and out while he continues to work on him.
Robby can’t prevent the soft sound of surprise that escapes him when he feels something he hasn’t felt in over a solid decade. He tentatively shifts his arm and, yes, it’s unmistakable. His shoulderblades have been fused to his back since the early 2000s, he is fairly certain of it. And now they’re moving of their own volition. He wants to turn on his side and confront Patrick, to demand to know how he did this. But it would mean exposing the softer parts of him, and he is not about to do that. So he silently rages over it, petulantly grumbling in his head while marveling at this novel sensation.
Patrick then moves to his arms and shoulders, repositioning the sheet to cover Robby, once again only exposing the part he is working on. Robby is thinking about Jack, about how he sometimes gets self-conscious and how hard he can be on himself for it. He likes to imagine him on this table, being granted reprieve from those thoughts. Robby never misses an opportunity to tell his Yankl just how much he loves him - stump and scars definitely included. But he knows all too well how it feels to see the imperfect parts of yourself and recoil. And he now knows how nice it can feel to be granted some semblance of modesty without having to ask for it, a pause in the unrelenting self-hatred.
Patrick gently massages each of his hands, pressing on his palms, very gently pulling on his fingers and rubbing the tip of them. Robby knows his hands are rough despite being the only parts of himself he frequently takes care of. They’re tools. They allow him to practice medicine, to treat patients, to save them sometimes. He disinfects them and moisturizes them in an endless cycle, each step undoing the other.
Patrick gently ends this part of the massage by giving the back of his hands a soft press. It almost feels like a prayer. Please take care of those hands that have the ability to do good. It settles him in a way he can’t quite explain and it annoys him. Until he remembers and it hits him. ‘You’re a good man, Mishka, never forget that. You’ll always have the ability to do good, even when it’s hard.’ He feels pressure behind his closed eyes and a lump in his throat. For a second, it’s as if his bubbe is with him in the room, gently pressing his hands, and then she is gone again. He holds onto the memory and tucks it away in a chamber of his heart.
Patrick has moved on to his legs and Robby is trying to come back to the present. He is helped in this task when a sudden jolt of electricity travels through his leg and he winces in pain.
Patrick stops. “Everything alright, Michael?”
“Sciatica.” Robby utters, like a shameful diagnosis, like a personal failure.
“Do you want me to stretch you?” Patrick asks.
Robby hesitates. He is fairly certain he can get away with refusing. This can’t count as part of the massage, and he isn’t sure he should trust some random guy with his sciatica nerve.
“I don’t think-”
But before he can finish, Patrick speaks again. “Sorry, force of habit. I should have prefaced this by telling you that I was a licensed physical therapist before switching to massages full time.”
“Oh.” He is going to kill Yankl. How could he forget to tell him this? Or maybe he doesn’t know? He better not know.
“Yes, my last job was with the VA. Many people were very sad to see me go, and now they make up most of my clientele.” He chuckles.
Yankl is dead. Robby has already planned his death and his funeral. He’s had a good run but it ends there. They will find another attending for the hospital. He won't find another husband, but that's a problem for another day.
“You don’t say.” He mutters. “I- Yes, you can have a go at it.”
Unfazed, Patrick stops the massage for a few moments to stretch Robby and it really is nice. He knows he should be going to PT, Jack has hounded him countless times about it, but only now does it really clicks that he should be going to PT. It’s too bad Yankl is already dead, he would have gloated over it.
Patrick finishes working on his legs, digging into his calves, boosting his venous return and draining the perpetual slight water retention there. It takes everything Robby has not to moan in relief. Somehow, Patrick can sense it.
“Often on your feet, I take it?”
“Always on my feet.” Robby admits. “I’m an ER physician.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He shouldn’t have. He is letting his guard drop. He doesn’t know that it’s a good idea.
“A very physically and mentally demanding job.” Patrick states. “It does explain the state of you.” Robby is ready to bristle, to take offense, but Patrick doesn’t let him the time to do so. “Usually, I would offer some insight as to where most tensions are located and which areas seem to be aching more than others, to let people pay particular attention to those outside of the massage, but I’m afraid that, when it comes to you, the broad answer is ‘all of you’.”
Robby snorts derisively. “No shit.”
“The cobbler always wears the worst shoes, as they say.”
“Physician, heal thyself.” Robby mutters in a whisper. He knows this is what Patrick is thinking, this is what everyone is thinking, Jack first and foremost. Doctors make the worst patients, yada yada yada. He has heard it all. But what can he say? He learned to heal others, not to take care of himself. It wasn’t a class they gave in med school.
Patrick gently pulls on his toes, just like he did his fingers, and it’s surprising but not unpleasant. Robby is certainly glad he thought about clipping his nails this morning before he showered.
“I’ll let you turn over.” Patrick softly instructs him, repositioning the sheet over his feet.
This is the moment Robby has been dreading. He doesn’t want to turn over. He was doing good laying on his stomach. He wants the massage to stop now, before it can turn ugly, before it can turn into another experience he will wish to forget. Alas, there is still one hour on the clock.
He very carefully turns on his side and then again until he is laying flat on his back. He has made sure not to disturb the cotton sheet so that he is still fully covered. He keeps his eyes closed, he doesn’t want to see the rest of the massage. If he can’t see it, it will be easier to file it away, to pretend it didn’t happen and forget about it.
Patrick slides the cushion further up until it rests under his knees to help his back, and, mercifully, starts working on his legs again.
His arms are next. So far, they’ve stayed into safe territory. The sheet only moves very briefly, uncovering one limb at a time and allowing Robby’s most shameful secrets to remain protected. But he understands this reprieve is coming to an end when he feels Patrick shifting and his hands brushing his collarbones as he grabs the edges of the sheet to uncover his torso.
Robby keeps his eyes tightly shut as a gust of air whooshes over him. He shivers and waits. He waits for a comment, for a huff, for a tut of the tongue, for a shake of the head, as all of his flaws lay on display, to be criticized, judged, mocked. But it never comes.
Robby doesn’t understand. Patrick must be seeing it. Unless he has suddenly turned blind, he cannot be missing the sight of Robby: the fat of his stomach, his stretchmarks - plentiful and glaring, the rough and stretched scars of his top surgery which have been beaten into submission over the decades, the weird indentation of his left nipple where part of the graft didn’t take, the angry zigzag of his appendicitis scar which is almost as old as he is, the healthy amount of hair covering it all, and another scar hiding amongst this sea of hair, the one running parallel to his mons pubis. Robby knows this is not a nice view. It glares at him every day in the mirror of their bathroom. It doesn’t matter what Jack can tell him. His Yankl is too full of foolish love to be able to be trusted on that matter.
But Patrick does not even hesitate as he pours more oil into his hands and starts gliding over this new expanse of Robby. He doesn’t ask questions either. He takes Robby as he is and gets to work. Just like Robby does in his ER with his patients.
He expertly presses and digs into his flesh in movements that have been repeated so many times they’ve become instinctive. He glosses over scars without a shadow of a hesitation, kneads the fat of his stomach as if it was muscle and not a perpetual source of self-consciousness for Robby. And then it happens.
His fingers go further down, below his navel, where the elastic band of his boxer briefs doesn’t quite cover one of the most traumatic events of Robby’s life. Patrick must know what it is. He can’t ignore it. He was a licensed physical therapist.
The scar from his c-section. The memento Robby must carry with him until he dies and which will continue to glare, bright and painful, until his body is finally returned to the earth. The memory of the child they lost etched into his skin for all of his eternity.
Robby waits for Patrick to stop, to state that this is a step too far, to ask for him to stand up, gather his things and leave. But the fingers deftly pass over it, and the rest of the palm follows suit in a broad, gentle motion.
Robby can’t help it. He starts silently crying, covering his mouth with his fingers. Patrick is ready to offer some words of comfort, but Robby senses it and stops him before he can, and, miraculously, Patrick listens and gently continues the massage, giving Robby privacy for this sudden burst of grief while somehow never leaving the room, never stopping touching him. Robby can’t explain it, but he prefers it that way. He is being allowed to exist, all of him, in a space that stands outside of judgment, of expectations. Despite himself, he feels grateful.
When he is done, Patrick carefully replaces the sheet over his torso and moves to his neck and shoulders, and finally his face, brushing away the salt his tears left behind.
But Patrick isn’t fully done. Robby can hear him at the sink now as he washes his hand and then seems to be wetting fabric, probably one of the hand towels.
The contact of the warm and wet hand towel against his feet is a surprise. He knows it is to remove the oil from his skin before he can put his socks and shoes back on, but the gesture feels oddly intimate. The cloth wipes the front of his feet, his toes, and then his soles which signals the end of the massage. Against all odds, Robby survived his two hours.
“I’ll let you get up in your own time and get dressed again.” Patrick tells him, his voice soft. “Can I make you a cup of tea in the meantime?”
Robby shakes his head. “No, thank you.” It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it, but he wants to go back home. His soul his yearning for his Yankl. He needs to be close to him.
“Alright, I’ll be back in a moment.”
Patrick leaves the room and Robby sits up, his knees drawn up to his chest. He feels full and hollow at the same time. Very slowly, he removes the cotton sheet covering him. And, when he is ready, he swings his legs to the side but he doesn’t drop down from the table just yet. His rough hand finds the dip between his stomach and his pubic bone. It lays there for a moment. If he focuses long enough, he can still feel the echoes of what it was like to shelter life within him.
He stops his thoughts before he can remember how it felt to have this life ripped apart from him. He knows this is the moment he lost his trust in G-d. The moment he started resenting G-d. Maybe if his grandmother had still been alive she would have found the words. She would have shown him a way not to get lost in his grief. But she was gone. And Robby never managed to reconcile himself with G-d.
He gets up. His feet touch the ground and he goes to the chair to get dressed. He still carefully hooks his Magen David back around his neck without a second thought. It was his grandmother’s and it isn’t because he is on bad terms with G-d that he fully stopped believing. It’s not as easy as that. He moves on to his clothes and, soon, he is lacing up his shoes again.
Patrick reappears as if on cue. Robby pays him what he owes him and is ready to leave when Patrick asks him a question.
“Do you regret coming?” It’s sincere. He does want to know.
The Robby from two hours ago would have said yes in a heartbeat. The Robby he is now takes a few careful seconds to think before he answers.
“No.” This is all he can give him, but Patrick doesn’t seem to mind.
They part and Robby heads home.
Soon, he is crossing the threshold of their apartment. He is careful not to make any noise, Jack is still asleep. So he downs two full glasses of water, showers as quietly as he can, puts his clothes in the laundry basket and pads to their bedroom, only wearing a clean pair of boxer briefs.
He lifts the comforter and slots himself against his husband who barely stirs. He kisses his shoulder and gently lifts his arm so that he can take refuge under it. He feels safe here, with only his hair barely sticking out from under the comforter. The harsh world outside can wait a little longer until he joins it again. He closes his eyes and soon drifts to sleep.
Jack wakes up to Robby in their bed. He smells of the shower gel they share and of the nice shampoo Robby uses because of his sensitive scalp. He hums the air in appreciation and can’t resist nuzzling into him before he sits his head back onto his pillow and watches his husband sleep.
Sometimes, when Jack watches Robby, he sees a battered soldier who has dedicated his lifelong battle to public health. He has fought, lost, succeeded, failed, achieved, yelled, sobbed, cheered, laughed, cried again and again on an endless cycle. His body is a testament to his neverending combat, to his refusal to cede, to his faith in medicine, to his fragile hopes. Robby believes in universal healthcare and mourns its absence every day of his life. He mourns every single soul lost to money and greed, to corporations and profits. In truth, he mourns all the people he has lost or seen dying, but the clearly preventable deaths hurt the most. But he does not mourn out of duty or obligation. He simply cannot help it. His heart is too big and it sparks feelings within him that are often too big to be contained. And his brain never lets him forget any of this, and neither does his body.
For Robby might be a physician, but he has somehow not yet mastered the intricate art of taking care of himself. So to see Robby as he is now, relaxed and deep asleep, hair tousled from having dried haphazardly as he slept, muscles slack and wrinkles devoid of tension… it is a beautiful sight to behold. Jack thinks it was worth fighting him over it, and worth abandoning his job for a week.
Robby’s nose scrunches adorably as he starts stirring. His eyelids flutter open and his eyes fall onto Jack who is smiling at him.
“Yankl…” His voice is rough from sleep, his brain not quite fully awake.
Jack bends forward and softly kisses him. And then promptly sports a shit-eating grin on his face. “I think I should give Patrick a big hefty tip the next time I see him. He’s got you looking like a pristine clump of playdough. A miracle worker.”
Robby groans and grabs his own pillow to shove it in Jack’s face.
“Can’t you wait for your man to wake up before gloating?” He complains.
Jack doesn’t lose the grin, if anything, it grows bigger. “No, it’s too much fun. And I was right, though. You needed it, it definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent helped, and I’m sure you had a nice time in the end.”
“Oy gevalt! He will never let it go.” Robby sighs dramatically, as if deeply affected and exasperated with Jack.
Jack flicks his hand across Robby’s chest. “I can’t help wanting you to take care of yourself or wanting to take care of you myself. And it's hardly something to cry over. You should feel grateful to have such a great husband.”
“Yes, such a great husband, who somehow forgot to mention ‘his guy’ was a former licensed physical therapist who worked for the VA.” He sasses.
But Jack misses the sarcasm or chooses to fully ignore it, Robby cannot tell. “Oh yeah, Patrick is super experienced with stubborn bastards like yourself.”
“Like me? Like me?!” Robby sits up in bed, offended.
“Well, you and me.” Jack amends, dismissing him. “But come on, tell me it was awful. Tell me you didn’t enjoy it one bit, and it was torture every second of it, and it didn’t even help.” He challenges him.
Robby pauses. A lot of it was stressful, and felt like torture, at least in the beginning, but he would be lying if he agreed to everything Jack has just said. And he can’t lie to Yankl. He does his best not to. Couples who base their relationship on lies don’t last long and he intends for their relationship to last until one of them keels over and beyond.
“I did hate it at first. I just wanted to leave. But maybe I liked it in the end.”
“Just maybe?” Jack pushes.
Robby shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Yankl. I don’t have the straightforward answer you would like me to give you.”
Jack pauses. He has noticed the serious undercurrent to Robby’s words. He stashes the two pillows behind him, against the headboard and repositions himself as he drags Robby against him. “I don’t need a straightforward answer. I just need to know it was ok.” He softly kisses his lips.
That, he can give him. “It was ok.” It’s the truth.
“You think you might go again?”
Robby shrugs. “I would have seen weirder things.”
Jack nods, satisfied. He hikes a hand to Robby’s hair and rubs his scalp just the way he likes it. “You did good. I’m glad you went, and I’m proud of you for sticking with it.”
Robby feels warm under the praise. He makes himself at home against Jack’s chest and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, letting the air leave his body and settle his bones into the mattress.
“I really thought it would be awful.” He admits. “And maybe if it had been someone else, it would have been. But I was ready to endure it. I’m only glad I didn’t have to.”
Jack squeezes him. “To endure it?”
Robby nods. “There are too many things wrong with me.” He states, matter-of-factly. “I know it’s not an easy sight to accept. So to spend two hours having to handle it, to work on it… I knew it could be too much to ask.”
Jack is somewhat glad Robby can’t see his face in his position, because he is appalled and angry. He is angry at all the people who made Robby believe such things, and appalled that Robby still believes them.
He scoots to face Robby and cradles his face as tenderly as he can. “This is bullshit. You’re beautiful, you’re perfect the way you are. Anyone should feel lucky to be touching you, to have you let them touch you.”
Robby shakes his head. He doesn’t want to fight, but he can’t help how he feels. And beautiful isn’t how he feels, not most days, not maybe ever. Except sometimes, on the rare occasions when he can bring himself to believe Jack, when he can somehow see himself through his Yankl’s eyes. “Not beautiful. But it’s ok. Not everyone can be beautiful.”
Jack doesn’t say anything for a second, and Robby thinks he is finally agreeing with him, finally seeing the truth.
“Everybody is beautiful, Mishka. Everybody.” Jack lets out in a pained whisper.
Jack can’t know it, because she died before they ever met, but it’s not the first time Robby is hearing this. His bubbe kept telling him the exact same thing. And it’s harder to disagree with the two people in his life that he has loved most in his entire existence, than just the one.
“It’s difficult for me to believe that.” He murmurs, ashamed.
“I know.” Jack soothes him. “I know. And yet, it’s the truth. Everything that’s alive is beautiful. Because it glows with the wonder of life.” He deeply believes what he says.
And Robby agrees with the sentiment. He agrees with this statement for every living thing that’s not him. “I wish I could see myself through your eyes, Yankl.”
“Then let me remind you how I see you. Because I love every single part of you. And the parts I treasure the most are the parts you dislike the most.” He kisses his lips again. “There is an entire history written on your body, and that’s the most wonderful thing.” He whispers, his hands brushing down Robby’s torso. “I love seeing those scars, they remind me of how resilient you are.” He traces over his top surgery scars. “I love your stretchmarks, they’re a testament to how much of a force of nature you are.” He kisses them. “I love the fat in your stomach.” He lays a protective hand over it. “It keeps you warm, helps you be strong, it’s the proof you are not starving, that you do not have to fight for your food, do not have to go without.” Jack knows of the hard days Robby has known during med school, after his grandmother’s passing, and the difficult times they’ve experienced while he was growing up. “I love the scar of your appendicitis, it’s a constant reminder that this is one less thing I have to worry about.” It makes Robby smile. “And I will fight anyone who even suggests you should shave or wax.” That makes Robby chuckle. “I’m serious.” Jack pouts. “I love my Bigfoot of a husband.” He bends down and makes it his mission to pepper Robby’s chest and stomach with kisses. He follows the lines of his scars and drops kisses as if they were stitches. He places his hands on his love handles and appreciates Robby’s presence under his fingers. He smoothes down his hair, and, very gently, very slowly, he lowers himself until he can kiss Robby’s last scar, the only one he didn’t mention but loves all the same. “And I love what once was and can never be again. Because it still came from you.”
They had to remove his uterus. There was no saving it, even after they had failed to save their infant. They lost their only child and will never get another chance.
“Do you miss him?” Robby asks, in a whisper, desperate to know that he isn’t alone, that Jack is carrying this too.
“Always.” Jack murmurs, kissing the scar one more time.
“I cried for him today, Yankl. I can’t remember the last time it happened.” His lips are trembling again.
Him. Ezriel. It would have been his name if he had lived. But he didn’t. It’s another memory tucked in one of the chambers of his heart. One he can’t bring himself to forget. Can’t even bring himself to want to forget. But he doesn’t think he has to. It belongs to him. No one is allowed to take it away from him. To take away the memory of the promise his son had been.
Jack is kissing his lips again. They’re wet from the tears they’re both crying. It hurts. It still hurts so badly after all those years. But they’re together. As long as they’re together, they’ll see another day, they’ll withstand all the aches, all the pain, all the hurt, everything.
“I love you.” Jack whispers on his lips. “I love all of you.”
Robby closes his eyes and hugs Jack as tightly as he can. “I love you too, Yankl, with all my might.”
It has to be enough. It has to. Their love is their mortar. So long as it lives, they cannot be separated. And it lives. It definitely does.