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Dennis is doing good for himself. A year ago, he would've never imagined he'd be here: choosing, out of all viable options, emergency medicine for his residency, finally living comfortably (and with someone he considered a sister, at that), and, well... experimenting this much. It'd been prompted by Trinity, of course, who took Dennis under her wings in more ways than one. She'd been extremely patient, especially considering it took him a couple of months to truly open up to her—and even longer to come out.
Not that she wasn't aware, of course; Dennis figured that, ever since he was a little kid, he'd never really been able to hide his sexuality well, be it due to his inability to relate to and form lasting friendships with boys, his disinterest in dating when he was old enough that his parents started asking him when he'd bring a girl home, or his scrawny, weak form. It's like it's always been written on his face. A city of a population of three-thousand doesn't really see past stereotypes and, in this case, Dennis really was exactly what the townsfolk always imagined.
"Queer", which is what Dennis put on his Tinder profile. The word, though historically charged, though glued in Dennis' memory as aversive after he'd frequently heard it used by classmates and adults alike to describe himself, felt less decisive than 'gay', something he couldn't yet bring himself to use to describe his sexuality.
"Tinder?" Trinity peeked at his phone, frowning and staring at him while waiting for an explanation. Dennis blinked, confused,
"You said I needed to get on the apps."
"Well, yeah. On Grindr, obviously."
"What's wrong with this one?" Dennis made a face, "I don't have that much storage on my phone, Trin."
"Tinder is totally dead. Besides, we're looking for hookups, right?" Dennis scrunched his nose, "Okay, don't act like a prude, you said that was what you wanted."
"It's not—I didn't say I want it, I just think it'd be better to have, like, some experience before... I don't know." He shrugged, "It's just the natural way of things, right?"
"You worry too much about what's right or wrong. Who cares?"
Dennis shot her a pointed look. I care, it spelled out.
Trinity rolled her eyes, "Well, then stop."
Dennis was trying. He went on a few dates (with guys he met on Tinder, thank you very much; he'd like to see their faces before meeting one-on-one), and most were enjoyable. Most got him a kiss at the end of the night, and even a hand job on a dingy restroom on a day he'd particularly drank a little more than usual. The guys would try to take him home and Dennis would vehemently deny: "The residency is just—yes, sorry, it's, like, totally crazy, and I have a longer shift tomorrow, so... yeah".
Trinity would always giggle when he'd come home before nine. She often told him he was wrong, that they weren't enjoyable if Dennis often left the dates bored, anxious and with no intention to see the guys again. Dennis still thought the dates were successful; he was just thankful anyone at all was willing to entertain his 27 year-old virgin ass for a night.
But she was right about one thing: though the dates were successful, he just wasn't having fun. Not really. Which, a few weeks later, he admitted to her.
That was when Trinity intruded.
"You listen to me," She held his jaw and lifted up her chin to try and seem intimidating, "We're going out every day off we have and we're wilding the fuck out."
And so it began. He got used to including 'clubbing' and 'bar hopping' on his planner to organize his study sessions—either that or he'd never graduate—, started to overthink what he looks like in the only pair of pants and going-out shirt he has, to worry his current haircut and usual hairstyle make him look stupid and not attractive at all. The environments also became familiar: tacky and dingy clubs, sticky counters and floors, the alcohol that burned his esophagus and the hands that grabbed him a little too roughly at times. He also learned a lot about himself, mostly that the hookups under those exact conditions were the only ones that, well... truly turned him on.
He figured that was the issue from the start: being taken out for dinner, having doors opened and chairs pulled for him, being 'romanced', though appropriate and 'right', made him bored, uninterested. But this—as foreign as it was, as scary as it was—made his heart race, his breath catch, and maybe Trinity was right all along. That was fun. In the dark, where his hand-me-downs were disguisable, where a kiss with little finesse and blowjobs given with clear inexperience could be forgotten once the alcohol wore off, where Dennis face wouldn't be remembered the next morning, Dennis felt safe to explore and to do as he pleased. His earlier insecurities faded quickly.
The increase in confidence was clear: he grew out his hair, changed his clothes, started approaching men first. Along with his months of experience at the ER, where he now knew his way around, where he stood his ground and the crazy rhythm didn't scare him as much, he felt, in all areas of his life, pretty pleased. He felt good about himself for maybe the first time. Ever.
He guessed people noticed. Trinity did, happy as ever, making sure to remind him often of the role she played in his change. At work, too, he noticed he was trusted, looked up to, praised, which wasn't his experience before. Now, his superiors respected him immensely, more than Dennis deserved, maybe.
Robby did, especially. It was frequent gossip, the fact that Dennis was Robby's new favorite. Dennis, though he'd deny when asked, knew it was true. He knew Robby favored him, chose Dennis to be alongside him on difficult cases pretty often, trusted his risky decisions, bantered with him like he never did with the girls. Inside, Dennis secretly preened. There was no one in recent memory he admired as much as he did Robby. And to look up to someone this much and have them trust you back, admire your work and dedication this much—Dennis felt incredibly reverent.
Until it started to backfire.
Once again in a corner, once again drunk in the dark, the scratch of a beard against his neck and callous fingers touching his waist made Dennis' mind wander for the first time. And, against his better judgement, it was Dr. Robby that came to mind—he pictured him in place of the nameless stranger, being the one to guide Dennis, to mouth against his neck. Dennis squeezed his eyes shut tightly and exhaled through his mouth shakily. Fuck. This isn't—No. Robby's voice is low, raspy, and if he whispered in Dennis' ear—Dennis shakes his head vehemently, though the stranger takes no notice. Shut up, shut up, shut up, he tells himself. And he's big, he's tall like the stranger working his way down his neck right now, Dennis would feel him all over just like this, would be touched and moved as Robby pleased. His hands are precise, he's observant, he'd make Dennis—
Dennis interrupted the stranger and gathered Trinity to go home early, then refused to face himself in the mirror the next morning. Much less Dr. Robby, who squeezed his shoulder as he passed him by and made Dennis swallow drily. Jesus Christ. Dennis is so fucked in the head.
He's not like this, he really isn't. And he's not even—it's not like he's horny, not like he hasn't gotten his fill every other day for the past couple of months. He's satisfied. He drinks, lets strangers have his way with him, goes home, forgets their faces the next morning. It's ideal. It's comfortable, and doesn't take that much work. Most times, he barely has to say a word. Doesn't have to put himself too out there, doesn't have to call anything what it is.
But this. Fuck.
The better part of their job, at least in this instance, is exactly the fact that Dennis doesn't have time to think, doesn't have time to kill and chat with coworkers or superiors alike. Often isn't in the headspace to let his mind wander when Robby inevitably talks to him, because work is not just work, there are obviously lives at stake, people who depend on Dennis having a good head on his shoulders. And yet. Those intrusive thoughts.
It doesn't help that Robby talks to him a lot. Even when it's not strictly necessary, even when Dennis is enjoying a five-minute break to munch on an unhealthy snack or when he's getting his backpack from his locker. Robby is just often there, and often with a kind hand on Dennis' shoulder, a gentle smile on his lips as he leaves.
Jesus Christ. His good-natured, overworked 54 year-old boss.
It becomes a little bit of an issue. He starts to wonder if he needs psychiatric intervention, because such an amount of obsessive thoughts is at least one of the criteria for OCD in the DSM-V. And this isn't—Dennis has never been into older men, he'd never been into someone like this at all. If that's what it is. A crush? Fuck, a crush on his fucking boss. Maybe the pendulum swung too far and now that's who Dennis is: someone who gets this turned on over fantasizing about doing something... wrong.
It's a nightmare, as one could guess. He'd never restrained from touching himself this often, and now he did it because he knew Robby would come to mind and he'd feel guilty, terrible. Much less had he ever had this much interest in hands, glasses, grey hairs spread throughout a beard, crinkles beside eyes—and praise, praise, praise. Robby gives it to him so easily, always has, and now Dennis flushes for the wrong reasons every time.
He’s going insane. So, when Robby’s birthday comes around and he begrudgingly accepts to have a few drinks with everyone to celebrate, Dennis tries and fails to hide his nervousness. His thoughts go array, ridiculous, impossible—Robby would never, ever. But what if, what if.
Dennis slaps his own face quickly before walking into the bar with Trinity and Mel ahead. He'll go in and go home in two hours, tops.
Robby, though still speaking in that easygoing manner of his, looks tired. It’s been one hell of a week, Dennis himself knows he won’t get back up for a while once he finally goes home and buries himself in bed. He’s leaning against the bar while talking to Dana and Jesse, and Dennis approaches quietly, resting his elbows on the counter to ask for a drink, accidentally elbowing Robby while waiting and pulling his arm back quickly. Robby turns,
“Whitaker.” He raises his glass, “You came with the girls?”
“Yeah.” Dennis smiles, “Took ‘em quite a while, so.”
“Put some respect on my girls, Whitaker, it’s not easy getting dolled up in the downstairs restroom. They’re miracle workers.” Dana pointed at him.
Dennis lifts up his hands in surrender, motion interrupted by his drink being served. Jesse whistles as he takes the first sip.
“You gettin’ down today, Whitaker? Didn’t know you drank."
Dennis smiles without showing his teeth, “I drink.”
That's when Trinity chooses to swing by, wrapping her arms around Dennis' shoulders and kissing his cheek, smearing her lipstick around. Dennis scrunches up his nose but holds her hands on his chest, "Does Huckleberry drink? Oh, you don't know the half of it."
"Oh!" Jesse laughs, "Please, do tell."
"Do not." Dennis insists, laughing nervously. His superiors are going to think he's a mess—which, yes. But. They don't have to know about it.
"We nearly carried him half-conscious back to the Pitt last week. He goes crazy!" Trinity tells them anyway. Dennis makes a noise from his throat and pinches her hand. She pinches him back.
"Half-conscious?" Robby asks, side-eyeing them, and Dennis rushes to explain,
"That's such an exaggeration!" Dennis tells him, "It wasn't like that at all, sir."
It was. It really was. The amount of vomit he had to scrape away from his clothes the next day and pictures Trinity took of his face looking purplish were proof of it.
"It honestly was exactly like that. Thought I'd have to watch him get his stomach pumped at fucking 4AM on a weekday." She sighs, "My little Huckleberry. I'm so proud."
While Dana and Jesse laugh and comment on the absurdity of the situation, Robby watches him for a second before shaking his head and averting his gaze with a smile. Probably thinking Dennis is being young and reckless, probably noticing how their ages contrast when Dennis acts his age. Dennis wonders if Robby would find that a turn-on.
He flushes and lets go of Trinity's hands to down the rest of his drink.
God.
He needs an intervention.
Sadly, it really doesn't take much to get Dennis buzzing. Soon enough, the girls carry him to the small dance floor, making a bigger fuss than the club clearly comports. Dana and Princess join them afterwards, which motivates the girls to celebrate even more. Dennis catches sight of Robby a few times, and two of those times he accidentally makes eye contact while Robby talks to the rest of the crew. Overwhelmed, Dennis tries to hide in the crowd as best as he can. This is embarrassing. But he's sweaty, drunker, dizzy and laughing quietly by himself by the time he gets away from them, happy about being gifted a cigarette—from a stranger, no less!—after such a long day. Fucking finally.
His fingertips are tingling by the time he goes through the back door to claim a spot on the smoker's lounge. He lights it up and takes a hit like he hasn't done in a while.
"Fuck." He murmurs. That's good. That's really good. He rests his head against the wall and lets it roll over, closing his eyes. Thankfully, the icy breeze helps him cool down a little bit. It feels like the first time his mind has stopped racing dramatically since he woke up; hell, maybe since the week of his shifts began. He feels it now, the cervical pain hitting like a needle going through his back, the burning of his soles, the sting behind his eyelids. God, he'll finish this one and get an Uber. He's done. He's halfway to drifting off standing upright when a voice calls to him.
"Tryin' to burn a hole through your clothes?"
Dennis opens his eyes and stands up straight, "What—" He finds Robby by his side, then looks down at his own hand, watching his cigarette dangle dangerously, "Dr. Robby, hey, I just—I was just..." He swallows, "Sorry."
Robby smiles, mirroring Dennis and resting against the wall by his side, "About what, kid?"
Dennis shakes his head, "Uh, just—I don't know." He lowers his head and side-eyes Robby nervously. Fuck. He sounds like the same loser he was when they first met right now, "Maybe—that I haven't told you happy birthday, so." Robby chuckles, "Happy birthday, sir."
He nods in acknowledgement, "Thank you."
"Uh," Dennis thinks, "You—I can't really pay for another drink, but," He offers his by now unlit cigarette, "D'you wanna take a hit, or."
"Shouldn't." He says, but he does look tempted.
"It's a gift. It's your birthday."
Robby chuckles, head rolling away from Dennis against the wall, "My gift? You tryin' to kill me?"
The cigarette is probably less dangerous than the places Dennis' mind goes to when he thinks about the kind of gift he'd give Robby if he could, so. He can feel how flushed he is at the thought. Shut up, "No, sir. Just—wanted it to be a good night. For you."
Robby watches him, eyes flickering down for a second before he blinks, "It's a good night." Then he adds, "You can drop the 'sir'."
"You can drop the surname, then." Dennis tells him, relighting his cigarette after it was so vehemently denied by the other.
"Is that a new habit, Dennis?"
Dennis secretly preens, then thinks to answer his question, "No. Not really. Wasn't such a big deal to start smoking young back home. I just did, I guess. I have no recollection, really."
"You know," Robby starts with comicality, "Don't know if you've heard, but it's not great for you."
Dennis laughs, "Working at the ER hasn't been great for my health either, I still show up 7AM sharp." He side-eyes Robby, "Every day."
"Well, damn." Robby laughs, scratching his beard. Dennis notices it's been well-trimmed, "Hasn't it? You seem..." He gestures, "Well-accustomed."
"I guess I am." He shrugs. He did grow used to the length of his shifts, usually made longer by circumstances outside of his control, the adrenaline rush in the early morning, the way his needs go over his head until he slows down and notices that oh, shit, I haven't eaten a single thing in hours. But the back pain, the wear on his shoes, the cuts and bruises he can't remember getting, the uniform changes, the difficult shifts, the recurring nightmares featuring patients he'd lost long ago, the exhaustion. Just a bone-deep exhaustion. That, he had a hard time getting used to. "Just takes a tool on you. Can't really have much of... a life, really."
"Can't you?" Robby says with a smile. He's playful today. He is, these days, different than the Dr. Robby that Dennis met that first day, "Dr. Santos seemed to—"
Dennis rolls his eyes, suppressing a smile, "That's not what I meant. I can't, like, eat proper meals and exercise, or whatever."
"You're not eating? That's why you're getting plastered."
"I'm not—Not that often." Dennis insists, "I'm not getting batshit drunk every weekend." He's getting batshit drunk every weekend.
Robby shrugs in that annoying manner of his, "You could be. You're young. You're... enjoying your life in a big city."
"I'm not irresponsible." He makes sure to highlight, frequently worried Robby's opinion of him will suddenly change.
"Didn't say so." Robby shakes his head, "You work hard, you've been doing it for a while. You deserve to have some fun."
Dennis feels his cheeks flush, "Thank you. Uh, you do, too."
Robby laughs, "No, no, that's behind me."
Having fun? "That's not how it works."
"No, I'm—" He gestures at the building behind them, "—clearly too old for any of this. I should be at home getting ready for bed, not embarrassing myself out this late." He smiles at Dennis, sweet.
"It's not embarrassing." Dennis frowns, responding quickly, then stumbling over his words, "Nothing—about you. I mean, about this."
Robby maintains their eye contact. Dennis is back to sweating at this point. Dennis wavers slightly and keeps his eyes and hand occupied as he takes a last drag.
"Anyway, I've been keeping you." Robby says while looking at the ground, "You got stuck with the old boss, forgive me."
Dennis shakes his head, "Not at all." Dennis should invite him to go back inside then say he's tired, request the Uber, go home, "You're good company."
Well.
Robby's eyebrows work for a second, as if he's uncertain on how to react to such a statement. He settles on sighing quietly and chuckling, "Don't know if I've ever heard that one before."
Dennis stares, "Oh. But—you are, I mean." Dennis looks away, paying great attention to his own worn-out shoes, "You know I think you're—great, so."
"As your attending physician."
Dennis looks at him, "No. Just as you are."
What the fuck. Dennis' ears burn, and he clenches his fists into his clothes to wipe the sweat from his hands.
"That was weird. Sorry." Dennis can't help but blurt out, laughing nervously, "You're right, I should stop drinking."
Robby is staring at him impassively. Dennis watches his throat bob and his gaze dart down for a second before he looks away.
What if, Dennis thinks, stomach in knots.
"Thank you, Whitaker." Robby sends a tight-lipped smile his way, stepping forward like he's about to head back inside.
"Dennis." He reminds him quietly.
Robby stops and shakes his head, crossing his arms, "Let's stick with what we're used to, OK?"
Dennis steps forward, too, hands still twisted in his own clothes, "Sorry, did I—Was it what I said? I'm sorry, I'm really sorry—"
Robby smiles, though his posture is closed-off like it tends to be in front of most other hospital staff, "Not at all. Let's just... go back." He foregoes finishing his sentence with what he truly meant to say, nodding at Dennis like he should be able to finish it himself, "Alright?"
"I don't understand."
Robby bows his head and murmurs, "I just don't want you to say or do anything you'll regret."
Dennis frowns, "I'm not that drunk, I haven't—" He stops. Was what he said that bad? "Have I done something wrong?"
"You haven't. And that's good, right?" Robby is whispering again, "That's good. Let's keep it that way, that's all."
And then it hits Dennis: that while Dennis was feeding a ridiculous desire, straight, old-fashioned Robby was dealing with unwanted attention from a much younger subordinate. On his birthday, no less. After a whole fucking shift. Dennis is shameless. He was just embarrassing himself again.
Dennis' shoulders are tense, "Have I—I'm so sorry that I made you uncomfortable, sir, that wasn't—"
Robby smiles, looking around them before squeezing Dennis' arm gently, "I'm not uncomfortable,"
Dennis' shoulders drop, and his eyes slowly drift down to watch Robby's hand caress his arm gently. Dennis swallows.
"Just careful. OK?" He lets go of Dennis' arm, "Just making sure we're careful."
We.
Dennis catches Robby's wrist before his arm falls to his side. It's impulsive, he has no idea what to do now. Again, it's not like he usually needs to do much of the talking, the convincing. And this is insane, this is a stupid idea, but—
Fuck. What if?
Robby looks at Dennis' hand on his wrist pointedly, "Remember what we talked about?" He's still gentle, voice low, "You worked hard, didn't you? You've been working hard. Let's not jeopardize that, alright?"
"What do you mean by this?" Maybe it's not ridiculous to wonder—
Robby shakes his head decidedly. He won't say what Dennis wants to hear, "This job is already exhausting enough as it is. I just don't think we should make it more difficult."
Dennis tilts his head, "Am I making it difficult?"
Robby swallows, raising his eyebrows pointedly, "You don't make it easy, no." He whispers.
Dennis freezes. His grip is still tight on Robby's wrist, but his hands are sweating profusely now, his stomach in knots again—though his dizziness is gone. He's sober, ridiculously awake and alert, torn between what it is that he's really feeling. Is he happy? Nervous? Scared? All of the above?
He guesses it depends. What does Robby mean? Is he attracted to Dennis? Sexually attracted? Would he like to have Dennis for a night then forget it ever happened, be one of the men Dennis also forgets about? Or is it something else, something like... Dennis can't really say, can't really imagine, because what would Robby see in him?
Dennis is going insane.
Dennis pulls on Robby's wrist gently, as if pulling him closer. Robby shakes his head, but still he takes a halfstep forward. Dennis stares up at him with wide eyes, stunned, apprehensive.
"I wouldn't tell a soul." Dennis whispers, looking back and forth between his eyes. He watches Robby close his eyes,
"Did you listen to any of what I said?"
"You know I wouldn't. You know." Dennis ignores what Robby said and nods to himself, "And I—Fuck, I've been driving myself crazy for weeks—"
"Because you're desperate. This is a mirage. Because you see me often, and I take care of things for you, and we've—formed a bond after going to hell and back together at that fucking hospital, but this isn't ideal for you, Dennis. None of this is ideal."
Dennis closes his mouth and makes a face.
"I'm 55 years old, Dennis. That's not what you want."
"But I do. Just once." Dennis begs pathetically, "Just tonight."
Robby's eyebrows furrow like that was painful for him to hear or deny.
"Jesus, Dennis."
"I'll never bring it up again. Please, just once, I just want to know."
"And then what?" Robby asks firmly, "You'll still see me every day. You'll have to think about—"
"I already do. I already think about what it'd be like all the fucking time." Dennis whispers in a rush, then feels the blood rush to his face. God, this is hell. But if that's his only chance, then... "I just need you to help me get out of my head this once. Then I'll get over it, I will."
He doesn't tell Robby that it's his first time feeling anything remotely like this for someone, significant attraction that doesn't fade after the alcohol leaves his system, that it's the first time that he cares enough to know what whoever he's involved with (or wishes to be) truly thinks of him, that he's confused, overwhelmed, and that Robby is the one who can make it better, he always does.
But Dennis still thinks to add: "If you'll have me. Of course."
Robby scrubs his hands down his face then holds his own nape, murmuring something Dennis can't hear well until he leans closer.
"You're something else, Dennis. Jesus."
Dennis reaches forward to pull him closer by his jacket, and Robby stares down at his hand. He holds Dennis' wrist gently, "Is that a yes?" Dennis whispers.
Robby swallows, "Fuck." He whispers back, "Of course. Fuck."
The official story is that Dennis is way too wasted and Robby will help get him home. He came with his car, it makes perfect sense. Trinity will sleep over at Mel's to spend some time with Becca, anyway. Robby will say he's thankful but tired, that he's too old to stay out this long past his bedtime, and he'll leave while offering Dennis a water bottle.
The puzzle fits. No one asks too many questions. Trinity coos at Dennis and lets him go.
In the car, Dennis feels like he's going to die. Your idea, he tells himself. Your great fucking idea. He exhales when Robby gets in, shutting the door after himself and staring at Dennis with a frown.
"I can do just that. I can take you home and let you sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk."
"You're... something," Robby says while leaning forward to catch Dennis' eyes, "Definitely way too nervous. We don't have to do anything."
For some unknown reason, Robby is also into him. By some miracle, this is truly, really happening. Dennis will not fuck this up. He'll countdown from three and turn his mind off.
"Dennis?"
3, 2, 1.
He grabs Robby's jacket with a fist and leans forward to attach his mouth to his neck. He feels Robby's muscles go rigid and feels the way his breath catches. Dennis mouths against the salty skin, sweaty from the heat in the bar and tangy with his cologne, the same one Dennis smells on him during procedures to which Dennis has to pay good attention. Dennis slides his tongue against the skin up to the back of his ear and feels Robby's beard scratch the side of his face. Dennis shudders. That's Dr. Robby under his hands. Fuck.
He bites gently, smoothing his hands down Robby's front. It's an uncomfortable position for him, and his muscles, tortured by the long day they had at work, protest, but Dennis insists. He leaves gentle kisses and a bite to his earlobe, letting his hands wander but noticing, suddenly, that Robby's hands aren't on him.
Dennis pulls back, still close enough that their noses brush. Robby has his eyes closed.
"Robby?"
"Michael."
Dennis blinks, nodding, "Michael. Is everything OK?"
Michael opens his eyes, sighing once his and Dennis' eyes meet, "Yeah." Dennis touches the side of his face and Michael's eyelids flutter, "Yes."
"And you wanna do this?"
"Yes." Michael answers quickly.
"Turn your brain off, then." Dennis whispers, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb, "I just did."
Michael smiles, finally, and Dennis caresses his lips with his thumb, this time. Dennis feels overwhelmed, heart in his throat; he's never felt like this, never felt so devoted to exploring someone like this, "Easier said than done."
"I know." Dennis presses kisses against the side of his cheek; Michael closes his eyes again. Dennis notices Michael's hands are on his own lap, fingers twisted, "You can touch me. Can I touch you?"
"Of course." But Michael's hands don't move, "At home, alright?"
Dennis leaves one last kiss on his cheek and goes back to his own seat, smiling. This is really happening. Fuck.
Michael's home seems tidy, if not a little dusty and untouched. Dennis would like to explore more, of course, beyond the few photographs and many books on his shelves, beyond the dull colors and empty walls, but right now, he's a little more worried about getting Michael in bed. On a surface. Anywhere.
Michael takes off Dennis' coat for him, which is sweet, but Dennis' brain registers as 'hot'. As soon as his shoes are off, Dennis goes to hold Michael's hand, wishing for him to look at him.
Michael does. Curiously, he seems bashful, an emotion Dennis has never seen on him. Dennis smiles, tilting his head and getting up on his tip-toes to kiss his cheek again. Michael predictably closes his eyes,
"Let me get you some water."
"Uh-huh. Later." Dennis pulls on his hand, leading him to the couch. Michael sits down as instructed, quiet. Dennis relinquishes on the feeling of leading instead of being led for maybe the first time ever.
He holds Michael's face between his hands and tilts it up. God, he's handsome. With his own mouth half-open, Dennis strokes his beard, runs his fingers through his hair, maps the shape of his eyebrows. As a result, Michael is the reddest Dennis has ever seen him, face warm under his fingertips.
Cute, Dennis thinks, lowering himself to sit on his lap. Michael welcomes it, his hands placed by Dennis on Dennis' thighs.
Michael stares at him unabashedly—at his own hands on Dennis' thighs, at Dennis' waist, chest, arms, face—, eyebrows furrowed like he's disoriented. Dennis bites the inside of his cheek, face flushed mirroring Michael's. Is Michael—turned on at all?
Dennis adjusts himself on his lap and, OK, yes. Yes, he is. Michael sucks in a breath and grips Dennis' thighs. Dennis hugs his neck and nuzzles his face into the side of Michael's.
"You with me?" He murmurs in Michael's ear. Michael sighs, nuzzling back.
"In my head. Sorry."
"What're you thinking about?" Dennis plays with his hair, breathing in his scent again.
Michael swallows drily, "That I don't deserve this." He whispers.
Dennis pulls back, frowning, "This?"
Michael shrugs, "I don't know." He caresses Dennis' thigh with his thumb, "A good thing."
Ah. He knows Michael struggles; has known it since that very first day, has seen it first-hand. He knows his coping mechanisms and overall core beliefs about himself and reality are twisted, knows he won't ever give himself the credit he deserves, but this, he didn't know: he didn't know Michael self-sabotaged to this extent, to the point of denying someone who's pleading, begging for him and who he wants back. Dennis preens, though, thankful Michael shared something like that with him instead of just shying away. He notices their similar thought processes and cups Michael's face again, "Forget that, then. Do I deserve to get what I want?"
Michael sighs, nodding, mouthing an "Of course you do."
"So give it to me." He insists, "And it's your gift. You won't let me give it to you? It'll make me happy."
Michael gives a half-smile, "My gift?"
"Yeah." Dennis pecks his lips, "Happy birthday. Let me make you feel good."
Michael initiates the kiss. It's so, so much sweeter than Dennis ever expected. Michael's hands are warm, careful, and hesitant, and his lips are slow, mindful. Dennis makes a noise from his throat as Michael's tongue traces his lips, slides against Dennis' own. Dennis grips his hair and grinds down, stomach tight when Michael groans, deep from his throat.
Dennis doesn't think at all: he doesn't overthink how he looks, what he's doing, what he sounds like, what tomorrow will be like. He worries exclusively about how good he can make Michael feel, how good Michael can make him feel.
For this reason, and maybe because of the adrenaline—or the traces of alcohol in his bloodstream—, Dennis loses his inhibitions completely.
"Feels good." He murmurs against Michael's mouth, "And big. Are you?"
Michael kisses him deeply, letting his hands hold Dennis' hips and guide him to grind down again. This time, Michael uses his feet for leverage and grinds up. Dennis' mouth hangs open,
"Fuck." He gets a hand between their bodies to palm Michael over his pants, "Knew it." He kisses the side of Michael's mouth, "I knew it."
Michael lowers his head to mouth between Dennis' neck and shoulder, nuzzling with his nose to get his shirt out of the way and sucking, biting the skin once he gets access to it. Dennis palms him at the same time, shuddering at the added force of the bite.
"Gonna make me feel so good." Dennis whispers, letting his head roll to the side so Michael can have a better access to his neck. Michael's beard scratches against his skin, fuck, "Gonna let me suck you off?"
Michael arms wrap around Dennis, one holding his waist under his shirt to guide his movements and the other holding his hair to hold him in place. His tongue is hot against Dennis' skin, and Dennis preens,
"Please. Please, let me suck you off. Want it so bad. Been dreamin' of it." He slurs, "Michael, please."
"Clothes off." Michael huffs out. Dennis clumsily pulls away to pull off his own shirt hastily, getting up to unbutton and slide off his jeans. He undoes the button and zipper slowly, staring at Michael from under his lashes, with a confidence he'd taken out of God-knows-where. Michael drops his head to the headrest and squeezes himself. Once Dennis' jeans pool at his feet, Michael groans at the sight of Dennis' tented boxers and accompanying wet spot, "Fuck, baby."
Dennis squeezes his eyes closed and palms himself at the nickname but, soon enough, Michael is interrupting him to pull him closer by the hips.
"C'mere." Michael kisses his hipbone, his navel, squeezing his ass and looking up at him. Dennis tangles his fingers in Michael's hair and lets his mouth hang open, "Kneel down."
Dennis rushes, dropping to his knees. His hands fly to Michael's zipper, and Michael's hands steady him. Dennis looks up in question.
"You've done this before?"
Dennis, if possible, flushes even further, "Yeah." Two times, he doesn't say, but he figures Michael has an idea that he is, all-in-all, not as experienced. Michael nods.
"Tap if you want to stop."
"I won't."
Michael laughs suddenly, then, scrubbing a hand down his face, "You're too much." He watches Dennis unbutton his jeans with shaky fingers and brushes a few of Dennis' sweaty curls behind his ear, "Dirty. You've always had this mouth on you?"
Dennis flashes him a nervous smile, "I don't know what I'm saying. Sorry. I'm not usually like this."
"Not a complaint."
Dennis stares as they pull down Michael's jeans together, swallowing at the sight of his hairy thighs and boxers. When Michael tries to take off his boxers as well, Dennis stops him, "No." With his mouth hanging open, he leans closer and buries his face in Michael's boxers.
Michael grips the overgrown curls on Dennis' nape tight, hips straining to hold back from bucking up, "Dennis—Fuck."
Dennis lets out his tongue, tracing the shape of Michael's cock, searching for the tip to close his lips around and suck. Michael bucks up this time,
"Sorry. Sorry, baby." Michael groans, watching Dennis nuzzle against his boxers and sneak a hand down to grind against.
"You smell so good." Dennis slurs, hips bucking toward his own hand.
"Jesus." Michael squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, grabbing a fist of Dennis' hair and lifting his head up. Dennis whines, a high sound from his throat, and Michael used his free hand to free his cock, stroking himself quickly, "Mouth open. Let me put it in."
Dennis' mouth wraps around his cock perfectly. Michael watches with half-lidded eyes, biting the inside of his mouth when it twitches inside Dennis' mouth. Dennis is careful, clearly less experienced than he'd claim, so Michael lets him set his rhythm. He chokes around the girth a couple of times, pulling back to breathe and look at Michael, waiting for praise.
Dennis knows he must look ruined already: flushed as he's been all night, eyes watery, lips red, hair a mess; anyone who looked at him would know exactly what he'd done. Michael cups his face in his hand, breathless, "Perfect, baby. That's perfect."
Dennis closes his eyes and leans into the touch, hands still working on Michael's cock.
"Just perfect, aren't you?" Dennis swallows him down again, bobbing his head up and down, going further down this time.
Dennis keeps the rhythm for longer than he thought he'd be able to, accepting it gladly when Michael's hips grind against his mouth and Dennis has to take his cock deeper. He wants, needs Michael all over, deep inside. Dennis is still grinding against his own hand when his nose gets deep enough in Michael's pubic hair and he inhales, hips stuttering.
"Hands here, baby." Michael tells him showing his own thigh, making Dennis hum, upset. Still, he puts his other hand—the one not helping Dennis suck his cock—on Michael's thigh, caressing and scratching the skin in protest. He squeezes his own thighs together, humming again; he needs to come, "What's wrong?"
At the same time, Michael puts his leg between Dennis', pushing his shin forward to motivate Dennis to hump against it. Dennis hums a sad noise.
"Is that what you need?" Michael sighs at the sight of Dennis humping against his shin and knee clumsily, rhythm of his mouth over Michael's cock faltering. Michael lifts Dennis' off his cock with a hand on his jaw, clenching his teeth at the sight of the tears flowing down his face, "Come first, baby. Take what you need."
Dennis, embarrassed, grinds against his leg slowly, sobbing quietly. Michael wipes his tears with his thumbs and coos.
Once Dennis is close enough, his hips stutter and a long moan comes out of his mouth, his voice raspy and sweet. Michael feels Dennis' warm cum seep through his boxers and groans. He pulls Dennis up and close by his arm, kissing him once he's back in his lap. Dennis melts into him, kissing him messily, unrushed, "Was that good, baby?"
Dennis rests his forehead against Michael's, swallowing and nodding. Michael cups his face with both hands, pecking his lips. Dennis clears his throat before speaking up, "So good. Thank you." He clears his throat once again, "Now you."
His hands go back to Michael's cock, stroking gently. Michael places his hand above Dennis' and guides him to show him how he likes it. Dennis mirrors him perfectly, making Michael sigh and throw his head back. Dennis peppers kisses on his neck.
When Michael comes, Dennis moans quietly, watching the cum flow over and trickle down his hand. He brings it up to his lips and tastes him, feeling his own spent cock twist at the taste. Michael groans at the sight, accepting it gladly when Dennis kisses him so they'll share it.
After they both come down, Dennis lets go of Michael's lips to hide his face in his neck, body relaxing completely. He's exhausted. Michael kisses his hair and holds him close.
"We gotta clean you up." Michael murmurs, though he's just as close to passing out. Dennis whines, "C'mon."
He lays a half-asleep Dennis on the couch and goes to gather a towel and some clothes for Dennis to sleep in. Michael takes off his soiled boxers and cleans him up while Dennis murmurs with his eyes closed.
"I'm so embarrassed. Can't believe I said any of that." Dennis giggles with an arm over his eyes, voice slurred, "What the fuck."
"Makes two of us." Michael smiles while tugging his own pair of boxers over Dennis' legs with little to no help from him. When he's done, he taps Dennis' thigh, "Sleep here. I'll drive you home tomorrow morning."
"On the couch?"
Michael pinches him, "Of course not."
"Where are you sleeping?"
Michael is quiet for a second, "Wherever you prefer."
"Bed." Dennis reassures him, "'M getting more than I bargained for. We settled on having sex and never talking about it again, now we're cuddling."
"Who said anything about cuddling?" Michael snorts, "You're an HR nightmare, anyone's ever told you that?"
"Says the boss."
Michael sighs and sends Dennis a pointed look.
"I'm just kidding." Dennis smiles while caressing Michael's side, "Brains off today. We'll spiral tomorrow." Michael chuckles, "Deal?"
"Shit. Deal, I guess."
In bed, when Dennis is sprawled over his side with his head on Michael's chest, Michael breaks the deal and spirals on his own. Curling Dennis' hair on his fingers, he nuzzles closer and wonder when was the last time he allowed himself this. He thought he'd cry at the first touch of Dennis' lips to his skin. Dennis: so brilliant, so young, so smart, tending to Michael carefully like he was anything of the sort. Michael shakes his head slowly; shouldn't Dennis be smart enough to notice there's nothing for him here? Nothing good, nothing that lasts, nothing of substance—Michael is sucked dry. Why would Dennis beg for this?
For Michael, beyond the ethical fuck-up, this is an embarrassing slip. A midlife crisis of which he thought he was above. Jesus, Jack would kill him if he knew. Dennis is in his twenties. Dennis is his student. He'll see him every day for the next three years. This can't ever happen again—
"What the...?" Dennis slurs, trying to get away from Michael suddenly. Michael stops, realizing he was anxiously tapping his fingers against Dennis' back. Dennis opens his eyes blearily, "Robby..."
Michael sighs and guides Dennis' head back to his chest, running his fingers through his hair, "Sorry. I'm sorry."
Dennis sighs, humming sleepily.
"I was just thinking of a song." He lies.
Dennis hums again, "Then stop."
Michael smiles into his hair, "Uh-huh." He sighs. Might as well indulge himself while he can, "It's Michael, by the way. Deal?"
"Uh-huh." Dennis nuzzles closer, "Deal."