The question Robby asks himself the most is "How long?" How long does he have to do this procedure, how long until the patient dies, how long has the bleed been occurring, how long can I keep this up?
How long until I kill myself?
It's the question that haunts every relationship he has, not even just the romantic ones. How long will this last? How long until I push you away? How long until you hate me? How long until you leave me? How long until you see the fundamental badness inside of myself that I cannot fix no matter how much I try?
Robby has gotten really fucking good at expediting the end of his relationships, of making the other person leave just so that the unbearable uncertainty ends. The person is gone, the worst is over. The waiting is the hardest part because he knows that no matter what, they will leave and he will be alone. That is a fact without question. He will always be left. If he hurries the ending along then he has some control over it.
But Jack is tricky. None of Robby's standard methods work with him. He pushes, Jack pushes back. He yells, Jack doesn't quaver. He's an absolute fucking bitch and Jack just looks at him with an arched eyebrow like he's asking "Are you done?" to a tantruming toddler. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.
He tries. He tries and tries and tries and he cannot make Jack leave; he cannot make Jack stop caring about him. It's terrifying because there is something fundamentally wrong with Robby, way down deep in the core of him. No one can withstand it. He's trying to do Jack a favor- trying to cut him loose so he can find someone, something else to make him happy because that happiness sure as shit can't be found within Robby.
He doesn't understand why Jack just won't go. Why he doesn't see that Robby is a millstone tied around his ankle, set to drag him to the bottom.
Robby destroys people, he eats up all the good intentions and kind words and leaves nothing but the bones in his wake. Look at his mother- Robby's desperation for her love led to her suicide. He suffocated her, smothering and selfish and endlessly needy for a woman already at the end of her rope. He doesn't want that to happen to Jack.
Jack has to live because the world needs him; he is fundamentally, unshakably good. He has so much to offer and such a wonderful future ahead of him. If he just left Robby, he could have that future. So why won't he leave?
When he has exhausted his bag of tricks and even invented several new ones and Jack still shows no sign of leaving, Robby takes the nuclear route. He'll leave instead. He'll get on his motorcycle and drive off some far, beautiful cliffside and that will be that. For once- just once- he'll flip the script of who's left and who's leaving. It will be better that way. He's really doing everyone a favor, you know. This is a mercy. Maybe the last bit of mercy remaining in his chest.
(At home, Jack makes a list. He catalogs their relationship, of everything Robby has ever given him. The physical: the med school pictures, lovingly framed. The jacket he wears every winter. The spare house key Robby copied when Jack lost his own set. The paint he bought for Jack's porch because Jack forgot his wallet. The books, the records, the ultra-tacky magnets Robby loved to get at flea markets and force Jack to put on his fridge, despite the fact that neither of them had been to Aruba or Morocco or St Petersburg, Florida. Jack's fridge was covered in glittery bits of kitsch because Robby thought it was funny and Jack put every one of them up. 20 years of birthday sticky-notes because Robby always forgot to buy him a card. A receipt for the take-out Robby bought last week.
He makes a list of the emotional: love, support, connection. Happiness, contentment, a hand held out to coax him on the right side of the rooftop railing. He writes down Robby's funniest jokes, as best as he can remember. Writes down all of Jack's favorite memories. Writes down all of the worst memories. Fear and anxiety and hopelessness and loneliness, right now. Even those are a gift. Even the current fear is one of the best parts of Robby, because if he fears losing him, it means he had him in the first place. And that means something. The pain that lives in his chest, aching and sore and ever-present, is the proof that he had Robby, once.
He backs up all of his photos and videos, makes sure he has one of Robby laughing. He wishes he had one of the way Robby's brow furrowed when concentrating or the stupid way he yawned or the little rumbling half-snores he let out while dead asleep. If Robby comes back, he'll take videos of all of it, just in case.
He doesn't want to forget Robby in the way he's started to forget his wife. He hasn't forgotten any of the big things with her, but the little things. The corner of her mouth did a funny thing when she scowled at him, but it's hazy now. Did it quirk up or down? He can't remember. He can't remember the exact timbre of her voice when she was mad. He never thought to record the bad moments and now he has nothing to remind him. He is so, so afraid.
He stares at the little cactus on a spring, a magnet for Sedona, Arizona, watching it wave back and forth and back and forth on the fridge. How long until he gets the news? How long until he forgets?
Is it worth it to keep living if he forgets? Memory is a tether; he fears that once he forgets the thin spot on the back of Robby's head that there will be nothing holding him here.
He listens to a voicemail Robby left him once, one where he's trying to tell Jack something, but he's laughing too hard to get the words out. What was he trying to say? He doesn't remember. He wishes he could remember. He finds a hoodie that Robby accidentally left and adds it to the list. It's his now; Robby can't have it back even if he wants it. If he's even alive to want anything. It's only fair.
Later, so much later, he has a woman at his house. He can't stand to be alone anymore. He doesn't form attachments to these women, but they're there to keep the silence at bay.
She looks at his fridge. "You've been to Greece?" she asks, excited to get any scrap of information on him. He doesn't offer much these days.
"I haven't. My friend thinks it's funny to buy them."
That's the day he goes to the roof.)
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