Work Text:
“The sharks in the water will teach you to swim
The thorns on the roses will thicken your skin
People might hurt you and break promises
But, darling, I promise you this
You'll be okay, kid.”
Robby is beside himself, his sweetheart is so cold.
“Come on, baby, let’s get you in. You’re freezing.”
He is; Dennis is three shades paler than he should be, and he doesn’t argue with the way Robby fusses over him. Usually, Dennis would be up in arms about it: a bite, a deflection, a sharp little don’t baby me, Robby, under his breath. But now he just folds into his chest, pliant in Robby’s arms as he’s hauled to his feet and half-carried over the threshold. Water trails in behind them, soaking into the old wood floors, dripping off Dennis’ sleeves, his hair, the hem of his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He looks so very young and yes, Robby knows he’s not yet thirty, but he has never been so small, so fragile before. Dennis is shaking like a little pup.
Robby gets him to the couch and Dennis just crumples into the cushions, hunched in on himself like he’s trying to disappear between them. His hands are clenched tight in his soaked shirt again, knuckles white. He looks sick enough that Robby considers giving those lungs a listen to. But instead, when he disappears down the hall, he comes back with an armful of mismatched towels, one of Jack’s old hoodies, a quilt that smells like it should have gone into the washer yesterday, and a vial of the eucalyptus oil Jack swears helps him sleep. It doesn’t, but it’s the thought. Robby starts with his hair, gently pressing a towel to it, blotting instead of rubbing at first, not wanting to be too rough with their little lover in this state. But water soaks through it immediately. “It’s okay,” Robby coos, even though he has no idea if it is. “I’m here, Den. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. We just gotta get you warm and dry.”
Dennis just starts crying harder, his face pressed into his hands, his shoulders shaking so violently as he hiccups with his sobs.
That face ends up buried in Robby’s chest again, like he just doesn’t know what else to do with himself. “Oh, bubbeleh. You’re alright. Shush.” Robby tugs the quilt around him tighter, pulling the hoodie over his head and guiding his arms through like he’s dressing a child. Dennis lets it happen, the only resistance he puts up is when his face needs to be lifted a little from Robby’s chest.
His face is so raw when Robby sees it, Dennis is chomping down so hard on his bottom lip that the flesh is white and the rest of him is bright red; his eyelashes clumpy with tears. “Oh, my love.”
Robby reaches for the remote with one hand, not really thinking about it — just needing something to fill the space, anything to get his sweet boy to calm down. The TV flickers on, and the news is already mid-segment. Jack likes to listen to it when he gets home to get himself sleepy, while Robby only unwinds with his tablet, games, music, and books. “…—continuing coverage tonight on the viral release from the anonymous artist known only as Ink—” Robby isn’t paying attention. He knows about the Ink uploads, surely every Covington fan does at this point and yes, he has a few choice words for the exploitation that is so rife in the entertainment industry, especially when it comes to children. But his focus is on Dennis. “…a second track uploaded tonight has sparked widespread conversation about exploitation within the music industry, particularly regarding underage performers—”
Dennis goes stiff as a board under Robby’s gentle ministrations.
“…lyrics referencing ages sixteen and twenty-seven have led many to reexamine past interviews and footage involving the band Covington and its frontman—”
He starts sobbing harder this time. His grip tightens in Robby’s robe, nails digging through the fabric. He’s wailing, open-mouthed and distraught. Robby’s heart drops straight into his stomach. “No, no. Honey, what’s wrong?” He grabs the remote and fumbles to lower the volume, but he doesn’t turn it off — doesn’t think to. Maybe it’s too loud? “Hey, don’t hide from me. Bubbeleh, please.” Robby tries to coax him up just enough to see his face again, but Dennis shakes his head violently, burying himself deeper instead. He presses a kiss into Dennis’ wet hair.
On the screen, the newscaster keeps talking. “…fans and critics alike are calling it a watershed moment—” Robby mutes it.
He shifts them both further back into the couch, pulling Dennis fully into his lap, quilt tucked tight around him like a warm little cocoon. “Jack’ll be home soon,” He croons, softer now, mostly to himself, even though he’s sure Dennis has a favorite partner. “He’ll know what to do, yeah? He’s good at this stuff.” Better than me. “Until then, it’s just me and you, motek.” He adjusts the quilt again, making sure Dennis is completely covered, completely held in his grip. Eventually, though, he also reaches blindly for the coffee table to grab a box of tissues and presses them into Dennis’ hand. But when his sweetheart doesn’t move to do anything with them, Robby just does it himself — wiping at his cheeks and his nose, wishing he’d splurged for the ones with lotion built in.
Then, he tries to get him to drink something — water first, then juice when that doesn’t take — but Dennis barely manages a sip before turning his face away again. Food is worse; the suggestion alone makes him shake his head weakly, lips pressed tight like he might be sick. Robby just can’t stand it, he’s so worried.
But Robby doesn’t push, just keeps holding him. Dennis eventually goes limp. His body softens, sinking fully into Robby’s chest, his grip loosening completely. He’s out; managed to cry himself to sleep. “There you go. That’s it.” It isn’t.
“Rob?” Jack calls, a little after seven, as he rounds the corner into their living room.
Robby’s slumped on the couch, his big arms locked tight around a bundled shape that doesn’t move. The TV casts a dim, blue light glow across them both, muted on the news and the room is a mess of damp towels, crumpled tissues, and the faint, unmistakable smell of wet dog and mildew. Dennis, their beating heart, is limp in Robby’s arms. He’s curled up, his face turned in, pressed against Robby’s chest. His hair is still a little damp at the ends. Jack winces, fuck. Something went down. He just knows it.
“What happened?!”
Robby looks up like he’s been pulled out of a trance. His eyes are red-rimmed, unfocused, like he hasn’t blinked in a good long while. His hand is still rubbing up and down Dennis’ back. He’s probably been doing it for hours. “I honestly don’t know. He just showed up, absolutely drenched and freezing, and wouldn’t stop crying, Jack, even in his sleep. I don’t—” Robby clearly feels close to tears himself, and Jack gets it, just the sight of Dennis being so upset, still so fragile in his arms. It’s almost too much for him as well.
Jack crouches in front of them, nearly toppling when his leg throws him off balance, but he corrects, one hand immediately coming up to Dennis’ swollen face. “Hey, sweetheart…” He grunts, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. “Denny, look at me.” Jesus, he’s cold. Dennis flinches faintly at the touch, a groan escaping him even now, even unconscious. “We’re not staying out here,” Jack decides, already sliding one arm under Dennis’ knees, the other around his back. “He’s freezing and you’re both going to bed, Mikey. You did good. But I got him, I got both of you.”
Dennis doesn’t wake up. He just oozes into Jack like a candle melt. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Jack coos, adjusting his hold, “Time for bed, sweetheart.”
Robby pushes himself up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s trying to wake himself up. He doesn’t need to bother, Jack’s tucking him in next.
When Jack settles him in the bed, Dennis curls up immediately, even in his sleep.
Jack strips off the damp hoodie that's clinging to him still and the wet warm shirt underneath. Robby hovers for half a second, fretting in his natural state, then jumps in — grabbing dry clothes, another blanket, and the heating pad from wherever they last stuffed it. Jack pulls one of his old thermal shirts over Dennis’ head, guiding his arms through, then layers a soft hoodie over that, trapping the heat. Robby piles blankets on top, tucking them in tight around their boy.
Then, Jack climbs into the bed, pausing to yank off his leg and roll off his liner, stripping off his clothes to pull Dennis against him, chest to chest this time. “C’mere, sweetness.” Dennis just yawns and buries his flushed face weakly into Jack’s chest, burrowing. Robby hesitates only a second before climbing in on the other side, pressing close, boxing Dennis in between them, adding his warmth to the cocoon. “We’re here, motek. You’re okay.”
Jack reaches down, clicks the heating pad to a higher setting, and shifts it carefully along Dennis’ side, making sure it’s not too hot — just enough to help. He would have preferred a hot water bottle, but one look at Robby is enough to know that neither of them is comfortable with leaving him for that long.
When Dennis wakes up, he’s warm and he grabs his composure with both hands and drags it over himself like a weighted blanket. He must have terrified them last night. Jack is drooling, mouth parted and arm still draped over Dennis’ curled body. While Robby is sleeping on his side, instead of his back for once, and Dennis has been sleeping on his belly like a pillow. Very gently, slowly, he starts to move. He doesn’t want to wake them up. He slips Jack’s arm off him first, slow enough not to wake him, guiding it back toward the mattress, even though it slips through his hold with a PLOP. He doesn’t stir though. Robby is harder, whining and trying to stop Dennis with small clumsy shifts, fingers curling like he’s trying to hold him even in sleep. He’s really done a number on them both, he didn’t mean to, but that’s what it is. He has the habit of most children raised like he was; that they are the center of the universe.
He sits up and the room spins, but he ignores it.
You’re fine. He chides himself. Stop being stupid.
He stands and ambles towards the kitchen. He wants to do something for them, anything, to remind them that he’s good, he’s worth keeping around and he’s fine.
Dennis grabs his provisions from the fridge and starts throwing them together the best he can. Eggs. Spinach. Cheese. Leftover roasted vegetables. He moves, acts, like nothing happened. He just resolutely cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking them sharply. Then grabs a pan from under the stove and puts it in the cranked burner with a pad of butter. It melts with a soft sizzle as everything hits the heat. The individual mini frittatas come together beautifully: golden edges, perfectly set center, just the right amount of cheese, even for Robby — the cheese fiend, even though he can’t tolerate dairy well. Dennis makes sure to grab a few Lactaid tablets out of the cabinet above the panini press. He plates his creations and adds a little garnish to make them look fancy. He makes four more and balances two plates in his hands as he heads back towards the bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot. “Wakey wakey.” He pastes a smile on his face.
But Jack is already awake. He’s sitting up slightly, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes tracking Dennis the second he walks in. Robby is slower, blinking blearily as he pushes himself up on his elbows. “Frittatas,” Dennis announces. “Used some of the leftovers to make ‘em. Didn’t want to open anything new." Jack and Robby just stare at him. So Dennis tilts his head and pouts. “What? Don’t feel like frittatas?” He reaches for a fork, presses it into Robby’s hand with a little flourish. “Just try it!” But Robby doesn’t take a bite, and Jack won’t look away from Dennis’ face.
“We need to talk, Denny.” Jack rolls his neck to crack it, opening his arms. “C’mere, sweet thing.”
“Why? I’m fine. Yeah, it was a rough night, but it’s not what you think.”
“You’re not okay, sweetheart,” Robby sits up fully now, setting the plate aside without touching it. “You were shaking so hard in my arms, I thought you were gonna pass out. You wouldn’t eat, you wouldn’t drink, and you were crying in your sleep, Dennis. None of that is okay.”
“Come here,” Jack repeats, a lot less gentle about it. But Dennis doesn’t move. “You don’t have to be okay right now and you don’t gotta put on a show, angel. We’re not buying it anyway.”
Dennis tries so hard to keep up his façade, but it falls to pieces anyway. The plates sit forgotten on the bed as he buries his face into Jack’s chest. Robby’s arms come around both of them to gently sway them to and fro. “I can’t,” Dennis chokes out. “I can’t tell you, even though you both deserve to know, because you love it, you — you love them. I can’t — I won’t, fuck.”
Robby frowns, brows knitting together in confusion as he presses a kiss to Dennis’ curls. “Love who, baby?”
Dennis lets out a wet, hysterical little laugh. “Covington, it’ll ruin everything and I can’t be the one to do it.”
“Covington? The band? What are you talking about? Ruin what? You’re not making any sense, motek.”
“I don’t want it to be ruined,” Dennis hiccups, absolutely distraught. He can’t breathe. He can feel his entire life crumbling around him, slipping like sand through his fingers. He’s losing everything. He’s losing the only men who have ever loved him like this, ever made him feel safe. He’s going to be alone, the way Jules always said he would be. No one wants you, Ink God, they just want your voice. “I don’t want that to be what you hear when you hear me, I don’t, I don’t want you thinking about that every time. Fuck, I worked so hard on those albums,” He snarls through his tears, scrubbing at his eyes with closed fists. “Even if I hate them, even if they sound wrong and I can hear every second of — of him in them, I still, I still — they’re mine! They’re my childhood! They’re my songs!”
“What are you saying?” Jack presses and Dennis gives.
He’s always given, even when there was nothing to give. “I’m Ink.”
The words are like a black hole. They swallow up every bit of Dennis Whitaker and leave only Ink behind.
Robby shakes his head, eyes welling up, horrified. “…You’re… Oh, sweetheart.” He sounds so disappointed. Dennis feels sick. He wants to go, he has to go; he’s ruined everything again. He needs to go live on a fucking farm in the middle of nowhere, where nobody has ever heard of Covington or Ink. He only comes back to himself as Jack’s thumb gently caresses his rosebud lips. He must hate him too.
“Look at me, Den.”
“I’m so sorry I ruined everything.” It’s all he can think about, all he can manage.
But Robby hisses through his teeth, incensed. “Is that what this is? Is that what you think? Oh, Dennis, no.”
Dennis can’t help but wail. “I thought you’d hear him every time you heard me. I thought I’d ruin it for you.”
“You haven’t ruined anything.” Robby snarls, “That man hurt you.” He sounds furious. It’s enough to make Dennis reach for him. He used to bury his face into his stuffed animals when he was a kid, letting them absorb his tears and Dennis presses his face hard into Robby’s belly this time, curling up — with his other hand he reaches blindly, finding Jack by instinct, gripping his wrist.
“I just wanted him to love me. I was sixteen. I thought it was — I thought it was a fucking dream, I thought I’d made it, I thought…” He was so naive and stupid, so desperate to be wanted as himself, but he didn’t even want himself then. He wanted to get high and forget. His stomach aches, “Wait, wait,” He blurts. “I know I’m all fucked up inside, I know that, I know I am, but that’s not — that’s not why I’m in love with you, okay?” His whole body shakes harder. “You guys make me feel safe,” He whispers, pulling back just enough to look between them, eyes wide and wrecked. “Both of you. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck-up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I understand if you want to break up, I do, I get it, I’m—” He wheezes, “I’m so messed up. So messed up.” He really is. He’s just pieces of a person, the worst ones.
But Robby grabs his face with both hands the moment Dennis tries to go — tries to get away, tries to ruin this before it can ruin him — Robby’s touch isn’t rough, but it’s urgent, forcing him to stay put. “Where the hell did you get that idea? We are not breaking up with you, please tell me you know that, motek.”
When all Dennis can do is keen. Jack cuts him off. “Listen to me,” He growls. “You were sixteen, Dennis. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should’ve—”
“No.” Jack won’t even tolerate him saying it.
“Baby, that’s not you being messed up,” Robby coos softly, protectively, with a look in his eyes that Dennis has never seen before. “That’s something that happened to you, those are two very different things. You are not at fault for the actions of that fucking shitstain.”
Dennis shakes his head weakly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “But I stayed, I wrote those albums. I kept going back.”
“Yes, I know,” Robby says, not letting him spiral off with it. “You were sixteen and he made you think that was normal. It wasn’t.”
Dennis lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to lie to you both, that wasn’t fair to either of you.”
“You didn’t lie,” Jack corrects, seething. “You weren’t ready and believe me, no one is ever going to hurt you like that again.”
Dennis snorts, looking between them and realizing that he kind of believes it. “You can’t promise that.”
“No, we absolutely fucking can.”
“Slow down
Deep breath
Don't let the monsters scare you to death
They'll try to tear you apart
But know that you're perfect the way that you are.”