Archive of Our Own

It started with the touching — shoulder grabs, to his neck, to his waist, to his wrists. Dennis knew it had grown past the point of healthy, appropriate interaction. Trinity knew it, too. 

“The very least he could do is fuck you,” she said one night as they walked home, “I mean, I’d be bursting the seams if Garcia was flirting with me during work hours.”

Dennis still found it disturbing that Trinity and Garcia still referred to each other using last names only. It had to be some power play thing he didn’t understand. “Garcia does flirt with you at work.” 

“Yeah, but Garcia lets me hit. Sometimes,” Trinity shrugged, “You know he wants you.” 

“No, I don’t know that actually,” Dennis replied snarkily. 

Trinity sighed, “This is what I’m talking about. You’re all riled up and you take it out on me. He’s affecting our domestic relationship. It’d be less unethical if he just dicked you down in the break room.” 

“Please. Stop talking about me and Dr. Robby and sex,” Dennis groaned, unlocking their front door, “He’s, like, twice my age. He’s my mentor.”

“Dude, if you say he’s like a father to you, I’m going to lose my shit,” Trinity hummed, “But, I would empathize. Mommy issues, Daddy issues….” 

“Goodnight, Trinity.” 

-

Dennis’ next shift was scheduled the following Monday, giving him the entire weekend to mull over Trinity’s theories and Dr. Robby’s touching. 

He came into work on Monday more riled up than before. The issue was, Dennis could not get himself off. He had taken plenty of sex education courses in his time. Nebraska hadn’t had much to offer besides threats of STDs and swears of celibacy, but medical school had opened his eyes to all sorts of possibilities. 

When he’d started testosterone, Dennis had no issues with masturbating. It was, for a while, all he could think about doing. But then there were loan payments to schedule and bills to pay, groceries to buy, medical anomalies to study, and jerking off became the last thing on his mind. Even now, living in stable housing with consistent work, he found his mind drifting off to the familiar stressors. And then, of its own accord, the idea of masturbating became a stressor, an indicator that Whitaker was not doing what he was meant to be doing, not working hard like he ought to be. 

So, when Dennis was assigned a patient with a 11 hour long, Viagra-induced erection on Monday morning, he scampered to find the nearest trusted adult. 

Robby found him first. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Dr. Robby said, halting him in his spot. “Where’re you running off to?”

“I’ve got a case for Dr. Collins,” Whitaker said. He could feel his face flushing. Robby had maintained his hand on his shoulder, and now they were pressed side-to-side. 

“Viagra?” Robby read over Dennis’ shoulder, “I’m sure Mr. Johanns would prefer a male doctor for this one, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I guess, but..”

“Patient satisfaction, Whitaker,” Robby spun him back around to room 19, “Let him keep some dignity.” 

“Right. Well, Mr. Johanns is on Trazodone, which can cause priapism. Plus the Viagra. He’s been using ice packs in the waiting room for almost 3 hours.”

“So?” Robby prompted. 

“So, I’m thinking phenylephrine.”

Robby hummed, “Mixing trazodone and phenylephrine can cause..”

Whitaker huffed, “Increased blood pressure.” Sounded familiar. 

“Which Mr. Johanns already has. We’ll take blood instead. Decrease pressure and discomfort, and monitor for a few hours until detumescence." Robby looked over at Whitaker, "You feeling alright?"

"What? Oh. Yes," Dennis rubbed a hand over his hot face. "Sorry. All good." 

Robby looked unsure, fixing Dennis with a look that meant they would be discussing this later. But, for now, they had a patient to tend to. Robby swung open the curtain.

“Mr. Johanns. Happy to see us?”

-

Whitaker was off for the rest of the day. Dana kept assigning him the easy ones, sensing his distraction. And even then, he had misread a hypochondriac and wasted an hour and a half of his time. McKay spent all of 15 minutes with the man before sending him up to psych. She said it was one of things Whitaker would learn to spot, but he couldn’t help but feel like on any other day, with any other attending, he would have. When Trinity got that news, she shot a pointed look between him and Dr. Robby. 

On hour eight, Whitaker knocked over a, thankfully, unused, IV into his head. At that point, Dr. Robby put a hand to his lower back, an ice pack in Whitaker’s palm, and told him to take twenty minutes. 

“Don’t tell me this is about Viagra man,” Robby said as he walked into the break room, “You’re not getting squeamish on me, are you?”

“No,” Dennis said and sighed. He took the ice pack from his head, “Just an off day. I’m sorry.” 

Robby nodded, “I have off days. Everyone out there,” he gestured to the door, “Has off days. And I don’t like it, but we have to talk them through. Or else…”

Or else, Dennis thought, We end up on the floor of pediatrics. He could tell Robby was thinking the same. 

Robby tilted his head, looking down at Dennis, “You’re right; it wasn’t the priapism. You were off when you came in this morning.”

“Yeah,” Dennis breathed. Robby stared at him, and he realized he was being forced to talk about what had been troubling him, with the very man that was the source of his trouble.

Whitaker had never been a good liar. He’d been good at keeping secrets. Being the youngest of three boys, and being trans in the middle of nowhere Nebraska, and having a crush on your attending did that to a person. He had been good at praying. If he found time for solitude, he could tell the truth unapologetically to his god, without hesitation. Now, face to face with Dr. Robby, he found he felt much the same. 

“It’s you, actually.” 

Instantly, Robby’s face schooled itself into neutrality. 

Dennis swallowed past the sick feeling in his throat, “You’re always touching me, and it makes me feel,” he gesticulated towards his chest. Privately, he swore never to tease Victoria about her crush on Mateo again. “On edge.”

Robby nodded stiffly, “I apologize. That’s unprofessional of me.”

“What? No,” Dennis shook his head, “It’s not—I’m not threatening to call HR on you, Dr. Robby.” He felt flushed down to his collarbones; he needed to spit it out. “I don’t mind it. I like it. I just don’t know where to put those feelings when I’m at work.”

Robby didn’t move for a moment. “What are you telling me, Whitaker?” 

Dennis sighed and looked at his hands, intertwined with one another. “You’re attractive. Maybe you don’t see me in the same way, that’s fine. But I do. It affects my focus for you to be,” Groping me, “All over me, all day.”

The older man stared at Whitaker for a long moment, face flickering through a wealth of emotions. “You’ve been off for weeks.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“So,” Robby trailed off. 

“So, what?” Dennis huffed.

“So, take care of it.” Robby was clearly trying to hold onto a sense of professionalism left in him. He was flushing lightly, Dennis noticed. He seemed awkward, shot off-balance. A wave of confidence flooded through Dennis’ system. Robby wanted this, wanted him. This wasn’t the awkwardness of an attending to a sexually-frustrated student. Robby exhibited the same barely contained restraint Dennis himself had been battling since his first day on the job.

“You mean get off.” 

Robby rubbed his eyes, “Yes. Get off. Come to work with a clear head and save lives.” He said it with such quiet intensity, like delivering a fatal diagnosis, that Dennis should have backed off. But something in Robby’s face had given way to vulnerability. 

Feeling me up in the lobby is what you call a ‘clear head,’ Dennis thought, anger brewing in his lungs. “And what if I can’t?” 

“Can’t what?” 

“If I don’t know how to?” 

Robby laughed, exasperated, “Figure it out.”

“Help me,” Dennis goaded. He was watching Robby closely, saw the way he shook at the suggestion. “This is a teaching hospital, isn’t it?”

Robby’s jaw was wound tight, mouth pursed into a straight, narrow line. If Dennis hadn’t known better, he would’ve said he was furious. Pure, uninhibited arousal coursed through his system. Robby stood up from his chair slowly, pushing it in with both hands as if to steady himself. 

“Get back to work, Whitaker,” Robby said, and left the lounge. 

-

The last hours of Dennis’ shift were some of his worst. Even in moments of prior tragedy, he’d had a clear head, complete focus on the patient at hand. The Pitt saw two more trauma patients. Both had died. There was nothing any of them could have done, nothing really to say during the moments of reflection. Whitaker’s mind was torn between his early conversation, his exhaustion, and the weight of human lives in his hands. 

But, when Dennis’ shift came to end, he always felt born anew. Willing to do whatever it took, if it meant he’d be better off tomorrow. He’d sleep and shower in an abandoned wing of the hospital, he’d steal food off of lunch carts, and he’d find a way to cope with his unfortunate crush alone, if Robby wasn’t going to help him. 

At the lockers, Dennis stood motionless in front of his unpacked bag. Trinity had texted him that she was ‘going out, dont wait up ;).’ It was going to be a long walk home. 

“Whitaker,” Robby said, startling him. He was standing in front of his own locker, face blank. 

“Hello,” Whitaker replied, unsure. 

Robby unlocked his locker, “You did good work today.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dennis said. 

Robby cast a side-long glance at him, then lowered his voice, “I was thinking about what you said.” 

Ditto, Whitaker thought. 

“You really think it would help?” 

Robby sounded almost innocent asking. Dennis turned to face him. 

“You want to help?” It came out surprised. 

Robby didn’t look back at him. He silently, efficiently, packed his backpack. Dennis did the same. He felt dazed, as he watched Robby slide his Airpods into his ears, standing completely still as Dennis finished stuffing his bag. When he was done, Robby gestured to follow. Whitaker obeyed. 

They walked through the park in complete silence. Dennis did not own Airpods (the idea of splurging on them seemed laughable), but even if he did, he wouldn’t have dared to put them in. He was too on edge, too painfully aware of every brush of their knuckles, every fleeting, vibrant idea of what Robby might do to him, once they were alone. 

It was a fifteen minute walk to Robby’s apartment. 

“Go sit on the bed.” Robby said as he went and turned the living room lamps on. 

“Robby.” Dennis said, too keyed up to not ask questions. But, when Robby turned to look at him, eyes dark and direct, his mind emptied. Instead, he shrugged off his backpack and shoes, and turned to the only other door in the room. 

Robby’s bedroom was cozy. In the center, a queen-sized plush mattress was topped with a thick, dark blue duvet. Robby’d made his bed this morning. He’d showered in the en suite bathroom, and the scent of cedar body wash still lingered in the air. Dennis leaned over to turn the bedside lamp on, and the room was cast in a warm glow. He sat at the edge of the bed, and peered around the lit room. Robby had a desk in the corner, the same dark mahogany as the furniture in the living room. On it sat detective novels. Dennis laughed through his nose. 

“Lean back.” Robby said. Dennis jolted, turning to stare at him. Robby came around the side of the bed Dennis was sat on, pulling out a pillow for him to comfortably lean against. As he did, Dennis could smell him. A hot, deep mixture of sweat and cologne. Before Dennis could lean closer, Robby had backed away. He grabbed the desk chair and pulled it to the edge of the bed. 

Dennis must’ve looked confused, because Robby said again, “Lean back.” This time, he did as he was told. He felt odd, lying in Robby’s bed fully clothed, while Robby sat just out of reach observing him. From here, he had almost two feet of height over Dennis’ placid body. Involuntarily, Dennis felt himself begin to tremble. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” Robby said, voice low and comforting, “I’m just going to show how you should be touching yourself.”

Dennis nodded. He felt like protesting, wanting to feel Robby’s hands on him. But he found himself too turned on to do anything but agree. This had been what he’d asked for, even if it didn’t feel like exactly what he needed. 

“Slide your shirt off.”

Awkwardly, he shoved his hoodie off his shoulders, then his undershirt with it, and placed them at the end of the bed. He felt slow, body humming with desire and need for immediate touch. 

“Good. Lay back.” 

“When do I–”

Robby held up a hand, almost lazily, and Dennis fell silent. 

“Start with your stomach. Put your hands flat against your belly button.” 

Robby nodded, “Now, your pectorals. Do you still have sensitivity in your nipples?”

Dennis flushed at the question, but nodded. Robby hummed. 

“Get one of your fingers wet.”

Dennis hesitated, before slowly sticking the tip of his index finger in his mouth and dragging it against his tongue. A long strand of saliva followed after it. Dennis licked it off his bottom lip. He turned to look at Robby for further instruction, only to find Robby watching his mouth with apt attention. 

“Circle around your nipple,” Robby’s voice seemed deeper, rougher. A flutter shot through Dennis’ stomach. The idea that this was turning Robby on just as much as it was turning himself on was enough to make him want it all that much more. Maybe, just maybe, Robby would reach a breaking point. Maybe, if Dennis played his cards right, Robby would get off the damn chair and touch Dennis himself. 

Dennis grazed his left nipple with his spit-ridden finger. The lamp light illuminated it, casting a sharp glow where a bead of spit lay at the peak. He could feel himself getting harder, wetter. He hadn’t even taken his pants off yet. 

“Focus, Dennis.” Robby said softly, “Don’t let your mind wander.”

“Right.” He whispered back. He should close his eyes, to stop them from distractedly flicking across Robby’s bedroom, across Robby, but he felt too vulnerable to do so. He kept them half-shut instead, pinprick focus on his chest, where his finger circled his nipple. He took his right hand to his mouth and got it wet, too. 

“Good. Slow.” 

Dennis flushed at the praise. He could see that his blush had begun to cover his chest. Cold air grazed over the wet tips and lines of spit he had dribbled across his areola. His nipples were fully hard, almost too sensitive. 

“Pinch one.” As Robby spoke, he sat up in his chair. In Dennis’ peripheral, he saw him adjust his dick as he sat back down. He swung his head over to look at him. 

“Focus,” Robby reminded him. His voice was teasing, sing-songy. He smirked down at Dennis. Without turning back to himself, Dennis pinched his left nipple, arching slightly at its sensitivity. 

“Too much?”

Dennis shook his head, biting at his bottom lip. It wasn’t enough, really. His brain felt slow and sluggish, only one need on his mind. 

“Take off your pants. Leave your underwear,” Robby said, as if reading his mind. 

Dennis nodded hurriedly, lifting up his butt to slide his sweats off. He kicked them to the end of the bed. With them, his briefs had fallen a little. His hip bones and happy trail hit the cool air. He’d soaked through the cloth at his crotch, sending a chill straight to his clit. 

“Touch your cock.”

Dennis’ entire body shuddered. 

“My what?”

“Your clit. Your cock. What do you call it?”

Dennis’ mouth hung open, his breathing shallow. He didn’t call it much of anything, lately. But the word, the validation that came with it, sent waves of arousal through his stomach. His voice came out small and high, “Cock is good.” 

Robby nodded, watching him closely. “Touch your cock, Dennis.” 

Without much pressure, reminding himself to be slow, focused, good, he grazed two fingers over his bulge. His cock slipped between his fingers, and a pleasant, rough slide of wet fabric against his hood sent a shock up his spine. 

“That’s all,” Robby stopped him, just as it was getting good. Dennis retracted his hand but whimpered at the loss, squeezing his legs together involuntarily. “Feels good?”

“Yeah,” Dennis replied, breathlessly. Obviously. 

“Touch your legs. Inside your thighs.”

“Robby,” Dennis protested, squirming against the sheets. Who gives a fuck about my thighs, he wanted to say. 

“Do it,” Robby said. Dennis huffed, turning to look at him with his head still on the pillow. He lifted his knees up, arching his back just a little to grind his ass into the mattress. The pressure was limited, not nearly enough of what he needed. Robby watched his every movement, brow furrowed and jaw set. Dennis let his hands run against the soft skin on the back of his thighs. It did almost nothing for him, but the way Robby’s eyes followed the movement made his stomach curl. He was clenching the arms of the desk chair, Whitaker realized. He glanced down at his dick, which had formed a solid, jutting line in his jeans. Jeans, the man was still wearing his jeans. 

“You want to jerk off.” Whitaker said, less of a question and more of a statement. 

It seemed to take Robby a moment to hear him, “Not about me. Focus.” 

“I want you to,” Dennis said. He was still feeling up his legs, staring at Robby’s hands. He had felt Robby’s grip on his shoulders, on his waist. He could practically feel the way Robby would grab at his thighs, spreading them open. 

This seemed to break something in Robby. “Take your underwear off.” 

He got out of the chair. Dennis thought, Finally, as Robby came around to the end of the bed. He wasted no time in shedding his briefs, shivering as the wet fabric clung to him. Robby grabbed Dennis’ ankles — his fingers could wrap all the way around — and turned him so he was positioned diagonally, feet on the edge of the mattress. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it beneath Dennis’ head. Dennis’ knees were still propped up, exposing his hole.

“Knees apart,” Robby directed, standing between Dennis’ legs. Dennis hesitated. “Knees apart,” Robby said again. 

Slowly, Dennis dropped his knees flat to the bed. Robby, once again, grabbed his ankles, planting his feet to the corner edges. Dennis had a good foothold here. He adjusted his hips experimentally. 

“Comfortable?” Robby asked, a distinct rasp to his voice. Standing up, his erection was more prominent, straining pitifully against his zipper. Robby had his arms crossed across his chest, as if he was restraining himself.

Dennis smirked, “Are you?” 

“Get your fingers wet,” Robby ignored him. 

Dennis did as he was told, looking up at Robby as he stuck two of his right fingers into his mouth. He gathered up as much spit as he could, before resting them against his bottom lip, awaiting further instruction. 

“Touch yourself, just like you did when you had your underwear on.” 

“Why don’t you do it?” Whitaker prodded. He was using a lot of self-restraint himself. Robby had told him to keep it slow, keep his focus, but that was with the goal of coming apart on his own fingers. But if he could get Robby’s fingers in him, could come from Robby’s touch instead of his voice, Dennis could be patient. 

“Whitaker,” Robby said firmly, sounding very much like Dr. Robinavitch.

“Fine,” Dennis mumbled, chanting Next time, next time, next time in his mind. 

He dragged his fingers through his folds slowly, coating them in his spit. Then, just as he had done before, slid his cock between his pointer and middle finger, pinching slightly. He groaned, continuing to slide his fingers back and forth and pressing his head into Robby’s pillow.

“Yeah?” Robby said, voice raspy again. 

“Yeah,” Dennis said to the pillow. It, too, smelled overwhelmingly of Robby. 

“Give me your hand,” Robby said. Whitaker held out his slick fingers. “Your clean hand.”

Robby held it between his hands, pressing two of his own fingers to Dennis’ middle joint. His fingers were dry and coarse, and significantly larger than Dennis’ own. He swirled them against the mound of knuckle. “This is your cock,” he said, “You feel that?” 

Dennis was feeling it. His heartbeat was in his dick, his real dick. It was the most intimate thing Robby had done all night and he was treating Dennis like a medical diagram. He felt hot all over. 

Dennis hummed, lost for words. Robby dropped his hand and Whitaker swore he’d never wash it again, hospital rules be damned. 

“Try that same circular motion,” he said, as if jerking off Dennis’ hand wasn’t the oddest, most sensual experience of his life, “Got it?”

Dennis repeated the motion Robby had shown him. It was effective, because Robby was a good, experienced teacher, or because Dennis was still reeling from the touch, he didn’t know. He tensed his stomach and shuddered. 

“Get your other fingers wet,” Robby instructed, quietly. “You don’t have to stop.”

But Dennis could barely hear him. Working on auto-pilot, he stuck his left hand to his mouth and sloppily coated them. Whitaker was pretty certain of what came next. Inserting his fingers was the easy part; the hard part was trying to make himself come from his fingers alone. But, now, Dennis was more turned on than he ever remembered being before. Even beginning testosterone hadn’t had the effect that Robby did on him. The man towered over him, still entirely clothed, still as authoritative and controlling as ever. 

“One finger. Slow.” 

Whitaker obeyed. Still rubbing his cock, he inserted one finger into himself. He was tight; he hadn’t bothered attempting to finger himself for months, and the added upwards pressure made his dick even more sensitive. 

He looked up at Robby, waiting for his next command, but Robby looked distracted. His eyes were glued to the spot where Whitaker’s finger was disappearing inside of him. The muscles in his jaw were twitching. For a moment, Dennis believed he could find his way to orgasm just like this, quietly watching Robby watch him. He felt pleasantly exposed. Desired. Even if Robby wasn’t willing to act on it just yet, his want was written clear across his face, his body language, just as much as Whitaker’s was written across his. 

“Move.”

Dennis moved. It was slow, even with just the one finger, but it gave him a chance to appreciate his own wet heat, the spongy texture of his walls, to imagine what Robby would do if he knew that Dennis felt this good inside. 

The room fell into silence as Dennis worked to open himself up. His focus was continuously drifting from Robby, to his own body, and he felt like he was spiraling down an endless tunnel of want. When he began to get too needy, to move a little too quickly, Robby shot him a look, and Dennis was reminded to take it slow. 

After a moment, Robby said, “Ready for another?” 

Dennis didn’t bother replying, instantly switching from his pointer finger to his middle and ring finger. The stretch from the two alone was immediately more pleasurable, feeling himself widen to accommodate the thickness. 

“Like this,” Robby said, and Dennis looked up at him with hazy eyes. He moved his middle fingers like a scissor. “Place your thumb on top and grind your cock against it.” 

Dennis pumped his fingers, spreading them as he did so. 

“Get more spit.” Robby’s voice was becoming more and more demanding and unhinged. 

Dennis kept pumping, speeding up. Robby didn’t tell him to stop. 

“What does it feel like?” Robby murmured. Dennis whimpered. “What does it feel like, Dennis?”

“Feels good,” Dennis said. His mouth was dry. His cunt was making obscene squelching noises. “It’s so warm.” 

Robby inhaled sharply, “What else?”

“‘S tight,” Whitaker said, not feeling very eloquent. Find out for yourself, he thought. “Hurts, a little.”

“Too much?” Robby placed his hands on Dennis’ knees, spreading him apart. Unconsciously, Dennis had begun to squeeze his legs together. His hands felt heavy, stable, against his legs. 

He whined, “No, it’s good.”

Robby hummed, “You getting stretched out?” Dennis nodded, clenching his eyes shut. “Curl your fingers up, towards your belly.” 

It took a frustrating amount of maneuvering for Dennis to find what he was looking for. He was getting overwhelmingly hot, sweaty, and overstimulated, The pressure he was applying to his cock was beginning to feel like too much of the same, like treading water. His mind was wandering again, wondering why Robby refused to just help him himself, with his own two hands and thick fingers, wondering what they would look like in the morning, or on their next shift. If Robby would let Dennis get him off, after this was over. If there would be a next time at all. 

“You’re doing good, Dennis. Keep trying,” Robby assured him, rubbing Dennis’ leg soothingly. 

“I want–” Dennis cut himself off, squirming against the mattress. Tears were beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. 

Robby hushed him, “You’re going to get there. Focus.” 

And sure enough, Dennis found it. In his struggle, he had stretched himself open enough to allow his fingers deeper, and it only took one more desperate curl of his knuckles for his mind to go blank. White, hot excitement shot through his spine, settling in the base of his pelvic bone. He hit that spot again, and the feeling only grew sharper. 

“Good,” Robby breathed out, “Keep going.” 

Again, and again, Dennis thrust his fingers inside of his soaking wet cunt. Tiny, high-pitched huffs barely escaped his mouth. 

“C’mon, kid,” Robby said, almost to himself, “You gonna come for me?” 

It was enough to make Dennis’ body give way. Months of waiting, of anticipation and touching and sexual frustration, flooded out of him. He arched his back off the bed, fingers still stuck, curled rigidly, inside of him, heartbeat pulsing through his clit. A slick spurt of cum pumped out of him, dripping around his knuckles, through his folds, and onto his thighs. Of all the sensations, Whitaker’s mind latched on to Robby’s hand on his leg. He gripped him so tightly, holding his legs apart so he could take in the full view. Dennis felt his nails digging into his skin. 

A minute passed before Dennis found his breath. He felt entirely worn down. He struggled to move his hand out from between his thighs, wrist sore and aching. His thighs shook involuntarily, numb below the hips. Robby ran soothing hands over his shins. 

“Good?” Robby said, observing Dennis closely. Dennis watched him back, through barely-open eyes. 

“Good,” Dennis replied, as sarcastic as he could muster. He let out a deep breath. 

Robby smirked down at him, patting his leg, “Give me a second. I’ll grab a rag.” He disappeared into the bathroom. He was gone for a long moment. Dennis spaced out, looking up at the ceiling. It was good. Better than good. It was, undeniably, the best orgasm he had ever had. Still, something squirmed inside of him. He had wanted more. Robby, noticeably, had wanted more. And yet. 

Robby returned. He tossed Whitaker one rag, which he used to wipe the sweat from his hair and the back of his neck. Robby, to Dennis’ complete embarrassment, knelt between Dennis’ legs and began to wipe the cum from him. 

Dennis hissed. His cock was a hot ball of nerves, and it didn’t help that Robby was grazing it with the rag. “You don’t have to do that,” he protested, flushing. 

“Shh. I’m just cleaning you up.” But Robby was taking his time, too much time to be simply cleaning up. 

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” Dennis asked. He surprised himself with the question, and regretted it as soon as Robby stilled. “You touch me all day, but now you don’t want to?” 

“Why do you think that?”

“Because you don’t.” Dennis replied, as if it were obvious. “I’m laying naked in your bed, and you’re hard in a desk chair, or, I’m naked in your bed, and you’re standing across the room. I could get you off, if you wanted.”

“You enjoyed yourself.” 

“That’s not my point.” Dennis sat up, suddenly embarrassed to be naked at all. Robby was leaning on the edge of the bed, and from here, the difference in their size seemed astronomically larger than it had before. Whitaker could picture his body being engulfed by Robby’s. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Robby laughed through his nose, “Plenty.”

“So, next time, you’ll let me get you off? I know I’m a little inexperienced, and young, and this is…” He trailed off, not wanting to remind Robby of the ethical complications, “But I’d be repaying the favor, and you’d be teaching me, which you apparently like.”

He shook his head, “You give a mouse a cookie…” Robby’s tongue darted out and wet his lips, “Next time. Sure.”

“Great,” Dennis released his held breath. “Next time.”

“Do you want a ride back home?”

“Oh,” Dennis’ stomach sank. “No. That’s okay. I’m not too far. I’ll just..” He trailed off, assessing the mess of clothes he had made on Robby’s floor. 

“Kid, you’re welcome to stay the night,” Robby said knowingly. He began to pick Whitaker’s clothes up, folding them together. “I’ll throw these in the wash, yeah?”

Dennis sighed. “Please, thank you.” 

Robby hesitated, making brief eye contact with Dennis before shaking his head and wandering back to the bathroom. As he left, Dennis caught only the tail end of what he muttered, “Manners.” 

When Robby returned, he was dressed down in flannel pajama bottoms and a wrinkled t-shirt. “Here,” he said, tossing Dennis fresh pajamas. They were soft, worn-in. Dennis unfurled the shirt and read Pitt, Class of 1994, printed in faded collegiate letters. 

Dennis huffed, “I wasn’t even born in ‘94.” He threw it over his head. The sleeves came down past his elbows. It smelled like Robby, like Robby’s detergent, like his cologne and body wash. Dennis wondered if he could get away with shoving into his backpack, before Robby inevitably kicked him out in the morning. 

Robby rubbed his hands over his face, peaking out at Dennis between his fingers, “You need to stop saying shit like that if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.” He tucked himself into the sheets, facing away. 

Dennis bit his lip, “What does that mean?” 

“Goodnight, Dennis.” 

“Goodnight, sir.” 

In the darkness, Dennis heard Dr. Robby sigh and shake his head against the pillow.