Robby is so depressed some days that he does not leave bed. He will spend an entire 24 hours with his head beneath the pillow, not eating, not drinking, hardly allowing himself a breath as he dips between unsatisfying sleep and meaningless wakefulness that never quite becomes true consciousness—that is unless Dennis is there.
When Dennis is there, he gently props Robby up with his back against the headboard (cushioned by good, firm pillows) and feeds him slices of banana, spoonfuls of applesauce, and sips of Ensure through a straw. He changes his T-shirt and mops up the sweat from beneath his arms and across his chest, and he holds the plastic urinal for Robby to trickle piss into. "Great job," Dennis whispers as he flips the lid shut.
He would never tell anyone this, but he rather likes taking care of Robby. He adopts a sort of childishness when he's like this. An infantile willingness to move as Dennis sees best, a trustingness that he will take care of everything. Robby is his charge, though not like a patient is. There's an affection here, a desire for comfort and growth that is too heartfelt to be classified as professional. There's something parental to it.
He's probably imagining it, but he thinks Robby might feel it too. A fragile form of affection turn his eyes from a dull, greyish shade of brown to a hue warm and sparkling. He leans into Dennis while he combs his hair, he suckles on the skin of the fingers that feed him banana. They are Robby's first meaningful, independent movements in days, and they are movements that bring him closer to Dennis.
One morning, after five days of depression have elapsed, he settles his head onto Dennis' lap and, voice hoarse, whispers a confession. "I'm scared that you'll leave once I get better. That you'll think I don't need this. Need you."
"I won't leave. I want to take care of you." Beneath Dennis' fingers, Robby's hair is feeling longer. He caresses the strands, curling around the shell of his ear, then down his jaw, moving slowly along until they brush his dry lips. Dennis means to bring his fingers up to brush the bridge of his nose, but Robby shifts his head, opening his lips, and takes Dennis' thumb into his mouth. His eyes flicker shut. He sucks his thumb, and he looks the most peaceful that Dennis has seen in days.
